Chapter Twenty-two
Deborah crawled forward on her belly, the matchlock pistol held securely in her hand. Mary was right and Deborah's suspicions were confirmed. It was a Mohawk camp, and these were the same Mohawks who had raided Deliverance the day before.
A fire burned near the river's edge and the Mohawk braves danced in a circle around it, passing a small keg from one man to the next. They were dressed in an assortment of men and women's clothing mixed with their own hide and leather tunics and moccasins. A tall Mohawk wearing a cocked hat grabbed the keg and held it high over his head, letting the clear liquid pour into his open mouth. It was rum, stolen from the cellars of Deliverance, no doubt. The other braves laughed, clapping their hand rhythmically as they swayed faster, raising their knees high in a jaunty drunken dance of victory.
Just beyond the campfire three women were tied to a clump of saplings. A young yellow-haired girl lay on the ground, her gray homespun skirts pulled up to her knees, her head thrown back in a state of unconsciousness. The other two women huddled around her, trying to keep her warm by sharing their long cloaks.
One of the Mohawks pulled a small drum from a leather sack and began to pound on it, adding to the rhythm of the other braves' stomping feet. A warrior wearing a woman's shift over his leather tunic danced in frenzied circles laughing and clapping as he drew closer to the women tied to the trees. In one swift movement he yanked a steel-bladed knife from his moccasin; the sunlight reflected off the shiny metal flashing in the air. One of the captured women screamed and he burst into laughter. In another quick movement the Mohawk cut the ties that bound her to the tree and dragged her forward.
The young mulatto girl screamed, flailing her arms in an attempt to ward him off, but her captor only laughed harder. He hurled his knife into the air so that it stuck straight into the tree above the other women's heads. Then he took the mulatto girl's hands and pinned them behind her. Moving his hips suggestively against hers, he forced her to dance in his arms.
"Why are those ladies tied to the tree?" Mary whispered, lying in the snow beside Deborah.
"They were captured from Deliverance. Taken from their home."
Mary nodded. "More bad men. We cannot leave the ladies here. We have to help them."
Deborah looked at the little girl staring intently through the brush. "We can't help them. There are two of us, there are"—she glanced back at the encampment—"one, two, three . . . ten Mohawks. We have one pistol. They've got enough muskets and war hatchets to fight the entire county."
Mary chewed at her bottom lip. "It would not be right to leave those ladies."
"We can go on to the village, get Tshingee, and bring him back to help them."
Mary propped up her chin with her mitten-covered hands. "I think they would be gone . . . or dead. That lady with the gold hair is sick."
Deborah knew the child was right. But there was no way she could possibly rescue three women from ten Mohawks and still manage to get away safely with Mary. "No," Deborah said firmly. "Tshingee will be able to track them. The smartest thing for us to do is to go around the camp and get to the village as quickly as possible. Tshingee will bring back other braves and they will rescue the women."
Deborah glanced back at the Mohawk campfire. The men were dancing faster now, spinning and laughing as they shoved the mulatto girl from one warrior to the next. The girl screamed again and again as they pulled at her hair and clothing, but the men only laughed harder, fueled by her fear.
Deborah clasped Mary's arm. "I think we'd better go," she insisted.
"This brave thinks not . . ."
Deborah rolled onto her back in horror. Standing over her was a Mohawk brave. There were eleven warriors in the war party, not ten. How could she have been so stupid? She kept her hand beneath her cloak, her pistol hidden in the folds of the red wool.
The Mohawk swung his war club lazily. "You like the dance, no?" He chuckled. "My friends would be disappointed if you did not join us."
Deborah stared at the warrior above her. Though he was dressed in hides and wore his hair shaved save for a scalplock, his skin was lighter than the others. The remaining lock of hair that hung down his back was a chestnut brown. A half breed, she surmised. He spoke as well as Tshingee—an educated savage, which was even more dangerous.
"Get up!" the Mohawk ordered, swinging his club past her head. "Get up and come dance with me, white woman. It has been too long since I have held a woman between my legs." He glanced at Mary, who lay in the snow, her eyes wide with fright. "The child is quite pretty. She will bring a good price on the lakes."
"No!" Mary shouted. Before Deborah could stop her, Mary scrambled to her feet and took off running through the woods.
The Mohawk set out after her, cursing foully beneath his breath.
"No, Mary," Deborah shouted. "He'll kill you!"
The half-breed Mohawk swung his club, missing Mary's head by a fraction of an inch. The little girl tripped on a patch of ice and went down on one knee. To the Mohawk's astonishment, she whipped around, wielding a knife in her hands. Caught off guard, the warrior failed to move fast enough and Mary caught his sleeve with the tip of the kitchen knife. Slicing through the hide covering, the knife nicked his skin and blood immediately flowed to stain the leather.
In fury the warrior swung his war axe directly at Mary's head . . . just as Deborah pulled the trigger of the pistol clenched in her hands.
The Mohawk's eyes lit up in utter surprise, the axe falling uselessly to the ground. Mary screamed as the half-breed pitched forward, dead before he hit the snow.
Through the trees, Deborah could see the other Mohawk braves gathering weapons and heading in her direction. "Run!" she screamed, pulling Mary by her arm off the ground. "Run to the horse." She gave the little girl a shove in the right direction and Mary took off through the woods with Deborah following directly behind her.
Through the thick curtain of tree limbs and vines, Deborah could see Joshua standing, his ears pricked at attention. Behind her she could hear the warriors footsteps on the soggy ground. Then suddenly a hand clamped down over her mouth and she bit down on it, trying desperately to scream. The arm wrapped around Deborah's waist and lifted her from the ground. At the same moment a red man caught Mary, lifting her onto his shoulders.
"Tshingee," Deborah breathed.
"I should have known it would be you running through the forest dressed in red," he hissed, racing along the path.
She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, shaking in fear and shock. Before she could speak, he dropped her on Joshua's back and yanked Mary out of the arms of another Lenni Lenape brave, throwing her behind Deborah on the saddle. Tshingee gave the horse a slap on the backside and spun around to hurl a knife at a Mohawk brave descending upon them.
"Lachpi!" Tshingee shouted as his knife struck home in the Mohawk's chest. "Ride, Deborah!"
Deborah hung on tightly to Joshua's mane, trapping Mary securely between her arms as the horse shied and swerved right, descending into the woods. Pulling up on Joshua's reins, Deborah slowed him to a walk, turning him right. Behind her she could hear the masculine battle cry of her lover echoed by several other deep voices. A bloodcurdling scream rattled her composure as a warrior on one side or the other lost his life.
Skirting the warring men, Deborah rode toward the Mohawk encampment, set on releasing the captured women. Mary held tightly to Joshua's mane, her jaw set in determination. Cautiously Deborah rode into the camp from downstream. Luck was with her. All the Mohawks had abandoned the women prisoners to fight the Lenni Lenape.
At the sight of Deborah, the mulatto girl thrust out her hands, sobbing, her words nearly incoherent. "Miss Deborah!' she cried. "They got you too, Lord bless."
Deborah reined up on her horse and Mary squirmed from between her arms, slipping to the ground. The child raced across the muddy campsite, the kitchen knife Elizabeth had packed, still in her tiny hands. The mulatto girl thrust out her bound hands and Mary sawed at the sinew ties, releasing her.
Deborah leaped down off Joshua and ran to help Mary. "What's wrong with her?" Deborah asked, indicating the yellow-haired girl with a flip of her chin.
"Frightened near to death, I think," the mulatto answered, rubbing her raw wrists.
Mary sawed at the ties that bound the third woman, a redhead, while Deborah knelt, giving the blonde a harsh shake. "What's her name?"
"Gert," the mulatto answered.
"Gert! Gert!" Deborah shouted. "Wake up!" Grabbing a handful of melting snow, she rubbed it in the woman's face.
Gert choked and sputtered, thrashing to escape the bitter snow.
"Get up, Gert. If you mean to be spared, you've got to get ahold of yourself," Deborah insisted.
Gert's eyes flew open in fright.
"It's all right," Deborah murmured, pulling the woman to her feet. "You've got to stand. I think you're being rescued."
Behind them, in the forest, the women could hear the battle raging as the Lenni Lenape fought the Mohawk war party.
Coming to her feet as Mary cut the last leather strap, the woman threw her arms around Deborah. "Thank the Holy Mother, someone's come, but what are you doing here, Lady Deborah? Where's Master Hogarth?"
"Good God a'mighty!" screamed the mulatto girl. "Here comes more Injuns!"
Deborah turned to see Tshingee and six Lenni Lenape braves coming out of the forest and in their direction. "It's all right," she soothed, her own voice quivering. "They've come to rescue us. They're not the same Indians."
The redhead took a step back. "Redskin's a redskin," she murmured, crossing herself.
"No. I know these men. Don't be afraid. They won't harm you." Deborah turned her back on the women.
Tshingee was walking directly toward her, his stride long and purposefully. He was without a cloak, his bare arms swinging at his sides. He wore his hair free flowing across his shoulders; his bronze face was lined with fury. He had a small cut over one eyebrow, but other than that, he seemed unharmed.
"Tshingee!" Mary shouted, running toward her uncle. "My uncle! I knew you would come! I knew you wouldn't let the bad men hurt us!"
"Elke, Mary." Tshingee swung the child into his arms. "What is this?" He pulled the kitchen knife from her hand. "I think my brave little warrior needs a weapon more suited to her size." He dropped the knife to the ground and flung her in the air, catching her over his head.
Mary squealed in delight. "Again! Again!" she shouted, giggling.
Tshingee threw the little girl into the air a second, then a third time, then he placed her feet gently on the ground.
Deborah's eyes locked with his dark gaze as he stared over his niece's head. He squatted, taking Mary by the shoulders. "I am glad to see you, my fierce little kitten. You defended yourself well against the enemy. It is a day to be remembered."
"That bad man, he almost got me," Mary told her uncle. "But Deborah, she shot him and he fell, plunk up!"
Tshingee glanced up at Deborah. "Then our Deborah is a brave warrior too, is she not?"
Deborah took a step forward. "I have to speak to you." Her voice was barely a whisper. "Alone."
"I would say that you do." He gave Mary a pat on her bottom, handing her his water skin. "Could you fill it for me? I am very thirsty."
The child beamed. "Be right back."
Tshingee motioned with his hand, speaking to the other braves in his own tongue. The Lenni Lenape warriors scattered, blending into the trees. "How many Mohawks did you count?" Tshingee asked, keeping his emotions well under control.
"Eleven," Deborah responded evenly.
"There was twelve," the redhead offered cautiously. "But one got drunk this morning and fell in the river. Got washed away, may the devil take him."
"Then they are all dead." Tshingee's arm shot out to catch Deborah's. "I would speak to you. Now."
Deborah glanced back at the women. "It's all right," she assured them. "You must be hungry. Eat whatever you can find." She glanced around at the Mohawk camp. It looks like they stole plenty."
"You sure you're going to be all right, Lady Deborah?" The redhead eyed Tshingee suspiciously.
"I'll be fine," Deborah answered over her shoulder as Tshingee dragged her away by her wrist.
The moment they were out of earshot, Tshingee turned to face her. His face had a taut, wild look.
Deborah struggled to find her voice, dropping her gaze to the muddy ground. Slowly she lifted her lashes to find him staring intently at her. "John is dead," she said simply.
Tshingee stood stock-still, his facial expression unchanged. "I know."
"There was nothing I could do!" she choked. "The . . . the Mohawks, they raided Deliverance. They killed Tom's father, they burned the barns and murdered the servants."
"What had my brother to do with this?"
She hung her head. "Nothing."
"Then how did he die?"
Deborah wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "The men . . . they, they thought it was you, only I knew it wasn't you, but I couldn't stop them! They were drinking. A whole crowd. They went to MacClouds and they . . ." She squeezed her eyes shut. "They hanged him."
"What of my brother's wife?"
"Dead too." She opened her eyes. The pain on Tshingee's face made her want to put out her arms to him. All she wanted was to touch him, to hold him. But her arms remained at her sides. Tshingee held his body hostilely rigid. It was obvious to her that he wanted no comfort.
"Did they hang her too?" he asked bitterly.
"No." She shook her head. "It was by accident. I don't think they meant to kill her. But they were throwing sticks and things. A rock caught her in the temple. Killed her instantly."
Tshingee lowered his head, covering his eyes with his palm for a moment. "So you have brought my niece to me."
"Yes. I was so afraid they would hurt her."
"I thank you for saving my brother's daughter. It will mean much to Co-o-nah Aquewa."
"Tshingee, I'm so sorry." She stared at his finely sculptured bronze face, but he refused to meet her gaze.
Without another word, he brushed past her. "These women, they came from the plantation?"
"Yes." She ran after him. "We have to get them back home. Their families have probably given them up for dead."
"You can take the women back with you." Deborah grabbed his arm and he stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. "I'm not going back," she whispered.
"You're going." He snatched his hand from hers.
"But I can't. Not ever. I'm going back to the village with you. All I ever wanted was you, Tshingee," she declared.
He whipped around to face her. "And now that my brother is out of the way, you see no reason why you cannot have what you want, is that it, my Red Bird?"
"No! Of course not! I told you! I had nothing to do with the hanging. There was nothing I could do." She put out her hands, pleading. "Don't you think that if I could have saved him, I would have?"
"Your father, he initiated the action, did he not?"
Deborah's lower lip trembled. She had expected Tshingee to be angry, to take out his pain on her, but she'd never anticipated such hostility. "Yes, yes, he did. But I have no control over my father's actions! I was locked in my chamber when he went to Deliverance. I nearly broke my neck climbing out the second-story window to get there so I could tell them you weren't the one who raided the plantation."
"And what good did that do?" He shook his bronze fist at her. "Did it save my brother's life? Did it save his wife's?"
"No!" Deborah's voice trembled with emotion. "But it saved Mary's. They'd have killed her too!"
Tshingee turned away from her again and started across the Mohawk camp. "I have thanked you for that. Now pack yourself food and go. You found your way this far, you can find your way back."
Deborah stood, watching him walk away from her. A part of her ached to run after him, but a part of her willed her to stand her ground. It was cruel of him to blame her for John's death. And it made her angry. How could he have once proclaimed to love her so deeply and now accuse her of playing a part in his brother's hanging? Wiping her tears with the sleeve of her gown, she turned away, unable to bear watching him. Seeing Joshua grazing on a patch of brown grass, she walked toward him. How could the love she and Tshingee had shared have become tangled into such an ugly web of anger and resentment?
Heavyhearted, Deborah clasped Joshua's reins and led her horse forward. The women prisoners were pulling through the Mohawks' bags.
The red-haired woman took a bite from half a loaf of bread and thrust out her hand to Deborah. "The name's Anne. I didn't thank ye proper for rescuin' us."
"No need to thank me," Deborah responded quietly. "If it hadn't been for him"—she pointed to Tshingee standing near the river's edge—"I would have been tied up beside you . . . that or dead."
"If that doesn't beat all!" Ann shook her head, taking another bite of the bread. "Saved from one bunch of redskins by another bunch. They'll never believe it back at Deliverance."
"No, they'll never believe it, will they?" Deborah echoed.
"Say . . . you all right?" Ann studied Deborah's pale face. "You and that redskin have words?"
"I'm fine. Just tired." She ran a hand through her hair, pushing a lock behind her ears.
"How do ye know that redskin, anyway? He the one that kidnapped ye and brought ye back?"
"He was the one."
"Funny thing. Never heard of one bringing a woman back before. We thought you was long gone, beggin' your pardon."
Deborah glanced at the blond woman who had been unconscious. She was now sitting on the ground near the fire, a chunk of bread in her hand. "Is she going to be all right?" Deborah nodded in the woman's direction.
"Gert?" Anne turned her attention on the woman. "I dunno. She ain't said a word since they took us yesterday. I think the redskins thought she was touched in the head. Probably the only reason she didn't meet her maker the way the other two young ones did."
Deborah's eyes met Anne's. "Dead?"
Anne crossed herself and took another bite of her bread. "God rest their souls. Weren't pretty either."
"Their bodies?" Deborah scratched Joshua behind the ears.
"Gone. Threw 'em in the river."
Deborah sighed. "Well, do you think Gert can travel?"
"Gonna have to, ain't she?" Anne returned the half loaf of bread to the Mohawk bag she wore over her arm. "Who's takin' us back, the redskins?"
"No. I guess it will just be us."
Anne studied Deborah's face. "How'd ye get out in the middle of nowhere like this anyway? Did ye get separated from the menfolk? Where's the rest of the white rescue party?"
"It's a long story, Anne." Deborah looked toward the river bank.
Tshingee and his warriors stood in a clump, speaking in hushed tones. Occasionally, one of the braves raised his voice in protest. Mary stood at her uncle's side, brushing the deer hide cloak he wore with the palm of her hand. Some kind of decision was obviously being made.
"Get the other two ready," Deborah told Anne. She pushed Joshua's reins into the woman's hand. "We'll let Gert ride. We need to get moving upriver if we're to make any time before it gets dark."
"You're comin' with us, ain't ye?"
Deborah glanced at Tshingee, then back at Anne again. "Looks like I am," she answered quietly.
Taking Mary's doll from her pack, Deborah walked toward the Lenni Lenape men. She put out her arms, forcing a smile. "Mary," she called. "I have something for you."
Mary came running toward her immediately. "Eleke?" She took the doll in her arms. "But she's yours, I gave her to you."
"Yes, but I need you to take care of her for me." Deborah crouched on the ground so that she was eye level with the little girl. "Mary, I have to go now."
"Go?" Her face fell. "Go where? My uncle says we leave for the village before the sun begins to set."
"I'm not going to the village." Deborah glanced at the muddy snow at her feet, not wanting Mary to see the tears that welled in her eyes."
"Not going? But you said—"
She cut the child off. "My plans have changed. You have Tshingee now. He will take you to your grandmother."
Mary threw her arms around Deborah. "But I want you, Deborah! You said you would go!"
Deborah kissed Mary's soft cheek, smoothing her mussed hair. "I have to take these women back to their home."
"But then you'll come to the village. Won't you?"
"I don't think so, Mary." She stood, fighting back her tears.
"But I don't understand . . ." Fat tears rolled down Mary's cheeks as she clung to her doll.
"Go to your uncle. He's waiting for you." Deborah pointed to Tshingee, who stood with his hands on his hips, watching the exchange between Deborah and his niece.
"Mary, n'matunquam. Yuh, shimoitam!" Tshingee called, putting his hands out to her.
With a sob, Mary ran into her uncle's arms. Tshingee kissed the top of her head. His dark eyes met Deborah's for just an instant then he looked away.
Deborah forced herself to turn and walk back toward the women prisoners. Gert sat astride Joshua while Anne and the mulatto woman stood beside the horse, waiting for Deborah. Both woman carried leather bags that had belonged to the Mohawks.
"Never guess what we found," Gert told Deborah as Deborah picked up Joshua's reins and began to lead the horse out of the camp. "Found a gold watch, a whole bag o'silver, a ladies silver-handled toothbrush, and two gold snuffboxes. I don't think none of it belongs to the folks at Deliverance, so you think we can keep it?"
"I don't see why not," Deborah heard herself answer.
"You shore you know how to get back to Deliverance?" Anne asked, running to keep up with Deborah.
"Just follow the river."
For the next half an hour the women walked through the forest, always keeping the Migianac River on their left. Anne kept up a running commentary while the other women remained silent.
For the first mile, Deborah felt nothing but an overwhelming numbness. But the farther she walked, the more she began to think. What is there for me if I go back to Host's Wealth now? I can't marry Tom. There's not time to be shipped to England to be married before it's obvious I'm pregnant. How am I to save my child's life if I return to the Tidewater? Tshingee may not want me, but at least in the village, my baby will be safe. . . .
Deborah topped dead in her tracks.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Anne stared into the darkening forest. "Good God a'mighty! Don't tell me there's more Injuns!"
Deborah opened Anne's hand and pressed Joshua's reins into it.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not going back." Deborah pulled the flour sacks off Joshua's saddle and began to empty the contents on the ground. "Trade me, Anne. The Mohawk bag for the sacks. No need for you to carry it; just strap it back on the horse." Before the woman could speak, Deborah was pulling the leather bag off Anne's shoulder and emptying it on the ground.
"What're you doin', Lady Deborah? You ain't makin' sense. What do you mean you ain't goin' back? Where are you goin'?"
"With them." Deborah stuffed her own food and assorted items into the leather bag. "I'll take one blanket, but let Gert keep the other." Deborah motioned to the blonde, who was astride the horse and had the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
"Saints in hell! Ye ain't goin' with the Injuns, are ye?"
"Do me a favor, Anne. All of you. When you get back to Deliverance, don't tell them you've seen me. I don't care what you say, just don't tell them I had anything to do with your rescue. Tshingee, brother of John Wolf, rescued you from the Mohawks. Tell them you found this horse wandering in the woods."
"God sakes," the mulatto woman cried. "Yer not leavin' us, Miss Deborah. How are we gonna get home?"
"I told you. Follow the river. You'll hit the dock at Deliverance by tomorrow noon time if you hurry. When it gets dark, light a fire. It will keep the wolves away."
"Wolves!" Anne rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me there's wolves in this here woods."
Deborah swung her Mohawk pack onto her back, threading both arms through the strap. Tearing a strip of the flour sack, she made a belt around her waist. Tucking the pistol into the crude holster, she raised her hand. "Good luck, ladies. Do as I say and you'll be sleeping on feather ticking by tomorrow night." Giving Joshua a final farewell pat, she turned and walked away, leaving the other women staring with open mouths.