Spirited (9 page)

The leader spoke and her attacker answered; then he laughed and said something in a mocking voice to Isabella’s father.

It was then that she realized the chief was staring at the locket around her neck.

She touched it, murmured, “Oh, no.” It was the only likeness of her mother in the Colonies; she could not bear to part with it.

But he continued to gaze at it. Swallowing, she reached up and tried to untie the velvet ribbon. But she was shaking too hard. Her fingers kept slipping at the knot.

The tall man turned to her, his dark eyes somber, his manner very grave. His hands slid behind her neck. His gaze bored into her as he worked the ribbon, his fingers brushing her neck. They were calloused, and rough. She could feel his body heat. Smell smoke and herbs on his skin.

His breath wafted over her face as he finally untied the ribbon. He drew it away, cupping the locket in his palm, and handed it to the chief. The man examined it for a moment. Then he pried the two halves open and saw the miniature of her mother.

He raised a brow and showed it to the man, saying,
“Mahwah.”

“No, that’s my mother,” she said. “My mother. Not me.”

“Mahwah,”
the chief insisted, placing the locket around his neck as, with a gesture to the two younger men, he turned to leave. The two followed, each with his captive in tow.

“Sir, please, what is happening?” Isabella asked her rescuer. Was he still her rescuer? “Where are you taking us?”

He remained silent.

As they moved away from the hut, a yellow glow off to the right shone on the tall man’s face. He was young. Certainly not as young as she, but she would have thought him too young to hold such a position of authority in his village. But then, she was thinking by British standards. For all she knew, he had won his rank by assassinating the man who had held it before him.

They walked on a few more steps, and then her father murmured, “Oh, dear Lord.”

The man herded her to the left of another circular structure, and she saw what her father had seen: the villagers were thronged around a bonfire the height of three men, which blazed and crackled, smoke rising toward the moon. To the left of the fire but not so very far away, two tree-trunk posts stood upright. Piles of branches were heaped around them.

“Papa?” Isabella asked, her voice rising. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last minute. His face was haggard, his lids heavy. It was almost as if he had been drugged.

“Stay strong, Isabella,” he said. “All is not yet lost.”

“Oh, my God, Papa, do they mean to burn us?”

“Stay strong,” he said again. “Remember that you
have a Redeemer in Heaven, who awaits your Christian soul.”

The five of them walked toward the circle. A woman turned and saw them, and began to make a strange, unearthly cry with her mouth. The woman beside her joined in. Then a man.

A drum began to pound. Another.

I will not die this day
, Isabella told herself, shaking violently. I
will not. The tall man will save me a second time.

She looked over at him to reassure herself. But when he stared back at her, his face was hard as stone.

Chapter Seven

Silhouetted against the blazing fire, women broke from the circle and ran toward Isabella and her father. Isabella recognized the pretty woman who had taken her earbob as she raced up to Isabella and spat at her.

Isabella looked up at the tall man. His face was still hard.

“Please, sir,” she said softly. “Help us.”

He did not look at her as he said, “Silence.”

By the time the five reached the circle, they were surrounded by screaming women. The drumbeats were feverish. Men were chanting.

Her father was led to the first of the two posts. Two men threw ropes to the evil-looking man, who began to wrap her father to the post. He made no struggle, but stood resolutely, his chin raised, his eyes open and clear. He was British to the core, and Isabella was moved by his heroism. She resolved that if they were both to die tonight, she would prove as illustrious an example of British courage as he.

But tears trickled down her cheeks. She couldn’t imagine a worse fate than this.

Then the chief moved toward the prisoners and
spread forth his hands. He began to speak. The villagers immediately grew silent. A dog barked, yelped, made no more noise.

The tall man came up to Isabella. He gazed at her and said, “Oneko says, sell you to
les Français.”

“Sell us?” she whispered. “You cannot sell us. We’re not slaves!”

“He means as hostages,” her father said to her. “That would be an excellent thing, poppet.”

The man regarded her. “You are slaves. Now. Forever.” Then he looked back at his leader and listened.

Next, one of the warriors who had captured them spoke up. Another followed after. Her would-be ravisher strode to the piles of sticks, selected one, and carried it to the bonfire. As he railed in his native tongue, the tip of the stick ignited and a cheer rose up.

The pretty woman followed suit, grabbing a stick and holding it against the evil man’s until it, too, burned and smoked.

Another woman joined in, and then a man. And then the little boy who had hit Isabella with a switch. The pretty woman walked up to the tall man and held her torch out to him. She gestured to Isabella and then to the torch. She stood before him with her arm outstretched.

In a gesture of refusal, he crossed his arms over his chest.

The woman stomped her foot. She spoke again, tried to hand him the burning stick again.

Isabella blurted, “Forgive me, sir, I don’t speak your tongue. But we meant no harm. Please, please let us go.”

The tall man shook his head, his eyes hooded and piercing. “We cannot let you go. You will bring more white skins.”

“My father, Dr. Philip Stevens, is a great healer,” she said. “His only wish is to stop sickness. We were on our way to Fort William Henry to save the people there from a terrible plague.” She took a breath. “Let him go do his duty and I will stay as your hostage.”

“Isabella, no!” her father shouted. “Don’t even suggest such a thing.”

The evil-looking man spoke again. The tall man pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, but he was studying Isabella’s face very closely. It seemed to her that he was searching for something.

Then another woman stomped up to Isabella and showed her a rope. She turned and spoke to Oneko, who had been silent, and gestured that she would start tying Isabella to the stake.

Oneko unfolded his arms and said to Wusamequin in their language, “What does she speak of, this white captive?”

“Her father is a shaman,” Wusamequin told him. “He was on his way to heal the white skins of a plague. Her heart hurts that so many will die. She’s offered to stay as hostage if we’ll allow him to heal the sick ones, and then to return to us.”

Odina raised her fist. “Are you mad? They’ll bring soldiers back and finish the job they started thirteen moons ago.”

“Please, what is she saying?” the white woman—Isabella—asked him in her own tongue.

“That you will tell soldiers of us,” he replied. His Yangees was clumsy; he hadn’t spoken it in a long time. His people no longer counted any Yangee as welcome in their village.

“No.” She shook her head. “My father and I swear on our honor never to tell of you. Only let us conclude this mission of mercy.”

Mercy.
He remembered that word. Her people prayed to a god of goodness and mercy, and James Anderson had explained that word to him very carefully.

“Why show mercy to our enemies?” he flung at her. “Never has honor lived among your people. Not one Yangee speaks with a true heart.”

Her face hardened. She stood arrow-straight as she retorted, “You have never met
me
before.”

“Wusamequin,” Oneko said. “Come here. I will confer with you.” He hailed Sasious over as well. “My sons, I will talk a moment.

The two younger men obeyed, standing before Oneko as he spread his arms and addressed the People.

“We are no longer the friend of the Yangees,” he said. “But the Yangee war chiefs don’t know this. We haven’t broken our tomahawk and shown it to them. In matters of the past, today’s deaths avenged us.”

The villagers began to mutter angrily. Oneko cut them off, raising his hand.

“We have made tentative friends with
les Français.
We have not smoked the peace pipe, but selling this war chief to them would make their hearts rest easier with us.”

He turned to Sasious, who was glowering at the ground. “Listen, my son Sasious.
Les Français
will pay us well for a Yangee warrior. Since the white skins came, we have need of their wampum. Although wampum is nothing but useless beads, we must have it. The white skins trade with it. They pay for things among themselves with it. They don’t pay in food and weapons, as was our custom before the white skins came.”

“They pay in firewater,” Sasious spat. “They pay in the poisoning of our young men.”

Oneko held up a hand. “If we burn the grayhair, it will be the same as burning a deer or a tomahawk. A waste. I’ve seen in Wusamequin’s eyes that his honor has been restored by the deaths of the other Yangee soldiers today. Is that true, medicine man?”

Wusamequin was annoyed with Oneko. First he told him to bury the hatchet with Sasious, and now he was pitting him against the one man whose honor today had been blighted by Wusamequin himself. Sasious certainly needed no reminders that he, Wusamequin, had stopped him from taking advantage of a captive. But he answered, “My honor has been restored.”

“What of
our
honor?” Sasious demanded, his
voice rising. He balled a fist and held it over his head. “We have been destroyed as a people by the white skins! Our sources of food have been pillaged! Tribes of People all over this valley are starving, and why? Because of them!” He pointed at
Mahwah
and Stevens, who were speaking to one another. The girl was trying very hard not to cry.

“We are a strong people,” Oneko replied. “We will survive until we find a way to turn the tide. And then we will be rid of all of them.”

Sasious closed his eyes and shook his head. “That is a dream, Great Sachem. They are here, and here to stay.”

“The spirits will help us be rid of them,” Oneko insisted. “But not today.”

“You’re going to spare them, then.” Sasious glared at Wusamequin. “This is
your
doing. An evil spirit has entered our medicine man and weakened his heart.”

“Sasious,” Oneko said sharply. “I am still your sachem. I can still think for myself. And I am not
sparing
them.” He looked hard at both men. Sasious was seething. Wusamequin kept his own counsel and remained impassive.

“I’ll send scouts to look for a war chief of
les Français
, one who is able to pay us well for the Yangees. Because of the war, there are several such chiefs in these parts. I’ll give each scout a belt that will discuss the terms of selling the hostages. All this I will do within one moon’s time. If by then I haven’t found a suitable buyer, I’ll burn them both at the
stake.” He adjusted his blanket of office and raised his chin. “Does this satisfy you, Sasious?”

The man lowered his head and said, “Better, Sachem, if you burn the father and give the daughter to me.”

Clearly intrigued, Oneko cocked his head. “As your wife or your slave?”

Sasious sniffed with contempt. “My slave. Sasious does not marry white skin women.”

Oneko took that in, pondering a moment. He looked neither pleased nor displeased. Then he raised a brow as he turned to Wusamequin. “Do you agree to this, my son?”

Wusamequin couldn’t bear the prospect of Mahwah’s living in Sasious’s wigwam. He knew that the violent war chief would beat her, and take cruel advantage of her; soon all that was beautiful would be ground into dust.

He said, “The white skin woman fought bravely today. She was fierce when the women and children counted coup on her.”

Oneko chuckled. “She was a badger.”

“That means she’ll be a good slave,” Sasious replied. “She isn’t like most of the white skin women, weaker than an infant. She trekked well back to the village.”