Chapter Seven
Pain seared through Deborah's mind, clouding her thoughts. As she struggled to climb from the depths of unconsciousness, she became aware that she was being carried again, but this time it was not by Tshingee. This man was shorter, with rolls of sour, sweaty flesh at his middle. It took all of her concentration to not struggle as she became fully awake, but Deborah's inherent desire to survive forced her to remain limp.
The man carrying her was so short that her hair swept the ground as he hurried through the forest. Deborah lifted her eyelashes, but it made her so dizzy swinging upside down that she had to squeeze them shut again to ward off the blackness that threatened her. It was nearly dark now. The mournful cry of a woods owl in the distance echoed hauntingly in the dense foliage.
Where is Tshingee? Deborah wondered frantically. Had her situation not been so desperate, she might have laughed at herself. A few hours ago she would never have believed that she could yearn for her captor's presence. But at least Tshingee was an enemy she was familiar with. She knew what he wanted of her . . . and she knew no harm would come to her as long as she obeyed him. But this man—she listened to the footsteps in front and behind her—these men, she did not know. Where had they come from? Where were they taking her?
Were they Tshingee's men? Had he sent them to retrieve her because of what had happened in the river? She doubted it. The tongue these redmen spoke did not sound to her like Tshingee's words with their soft inflections. These men barked back and forth in their strange language, their voices harsh and without rhythm.
Time lost all meaning to Deborah as darkness settled upon the forest. Hanging upside down like this made her head spin and her stomach churn. Her ear ached where the Indian had hit her. Is this God's punishment for my refusal to follow my father's wishes and marry Thomas, she wondered. No, she reasoned, trying to keep her mind sharp. I don't care what Celia says, our God is not so unjust.
But how long can they run like this? The savage was still moving so swiftly that if she didn't keep her jaw clenched, her teeth clattered unnaturally.
Well after dark, the man who carried Deborah dropped her without warning. Falling into a pile of prickly pears, she lay still for a minute, waiting for the earth to stop spinning beneath her. She could feel the red man's presence; she could still smell his sour, hanging flesh. A hand reached out and poked her none-to-gently.
Deborah's eyes flew open. An arm's length from her a red man squatted, studying her. It was the man with the mask painted on his face who had hit her, only now, much of the paint had worn off, running in streaks down his face. His face was round, his jowls heavy and sagging. He grinned, baring broken, black teeth.
Deborah's first instinct was to scramble to her feet and run, but the instant she moved, the savage caught her arm in his iron grip.
"Assieds-toi, putain!" he barked.
Deborah's temper flared. Her French wasn't good, but what she had picked up from her young tutor was a string of foreign curses. "Call me a whore will you, you stinking son of a bitch!" She raised her fist threateningly and the red man fell back onto the ground, rolling with laughter.
"Que me voulez-vous?" she demanded.
"Que veut False Face?" He whipped out a hand, catching a hunk of her tangled hair. "He wants the white whore woman to shut her mouth before he shut it for her!"
Deborah grimaced with pain, leaning back to escape his grip. "Let got!" She kicked him with a bare foot and he released her, chuckling when she nearly fell over backwards. "Silence, putain blanche!" he threatened, slipping a knife from his belt. "Silence, or this man will cut your gorge pre'cieuse." He pressed the blade to her throat for emphasis and hot tears formed in Deborah's eyes as she nodded in acknowledgment.
She gulped, drawing her legs back under her shift. Her gaze remained locked with his. I'll keep quiet, she thought, but when Tshingee comes and sees what you've done to me, he'll slit your throat!
Deborah didn't know why she was so certain Tshingee would come for her. But as her captive tugged her hands behind her back and lashed them with a strip of leather, her tears dried. I have to be strong, she told herself. I have to save myself until he comes for me. Only hours before, Tshingee had been her captor . . . and now she prayed he would be her savior.
When Tshingee first returned to the camp sight and found Deborah gone, he thought she had fled. But upon investigation of the area, he realized it was not so. Nothing had been touched in the camp since he'd gone. The leather tunic and moccasins he had given her lay in the same place she'd left them. His Deborah would not have been so foolish as to go into the forest without the moccasins and certainly not at sunset.
On the far bank, Tshingee discovered evidence that someone had been dragged from the water . . . someone unconscious. He murmured an English curse beneath his breath. His Deborah had been under his care; she had trusted him. Someone had taken her . . . and it was not the white men who pursued them. A chilling shiver trickled down his spine as he observed the bent branches and soft indentations of moccasins in the humus near the bank.
The day's light was fading fast when Tshingee noticed a strange smudge of color on a sycamore leaf. He knelt, picking the leaf. He smelled the smudge, then tasted it.
Tshingee's blood turned to ice. Mohawks from the north! A Mohawk raiding party had taken his Deborah. Mohawks, the eaters of men . . .
Deborah observed the harsh-tongued redskins through heavy-lidded eyes. She was too frightened to go to sleep, yet she was so weary she could barely think. There were five men in all, counting her captor.
They lit no campfire so it was difficult for her to see them in the darkness, but still she watched. False Face was involved in an argument with a tall man wearing red breeches and a cocked hat over a head of long black hair. This man seemed to be the leader; he was the one who had sent two men from the camp earlier—to stand guard, she supposed.
The only man left was a solemn redman in a leather loincloth carrying an ancient matchlock musket and a silver-gilded powder horn. Around his middle he wore a leather belt strung with a dozen or so dried disks. Deborah didn't know what they were, but she assumed they were some sort of prized possessions. When he approached, she dropped her eyelids, hoping he would think she was asleep.
"Jolie," he murmured, catching a lock of her hair.
She lifted her dark lashes. "Could I have some water, I'm thirsty. Eau potable?"
He crouched in front of her, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. His thin, solemn face was freshly painted in hues of blue and brown. "Mon frère, False Face, say you are his," he said thoughtfully. "But perhaps Laughing Man will challenge him, non?"
"Water, please," she repeated.
The Mohawk lifted his water skin that hung around his neck and offered it to her. "And what does the putain whore give Laughing Man in return for this gift of eau potable?"
She grasped the water skin and brought it to her mouth. "Nothing!" she replied as the water bubbled from the leather neck, moistening her lips.
The Mohawk snatched the water bag from her hands. "Then you will have nothing, ma chère."
Deborah trembled, her eyes fixed on the hideously painted face. He was unsmiling. "I suppose I'm not so thirsty, after all," she said quietly.
Laughing Man took a long pull of the water, letting some of it dribble down his chin. Deborah watched, her tongue darting out to moisten her parched lips. Realizing he was just tantalizing her, she squeezed her eyes shut, leaning back against a tree trunk. For several moments he remained crouched there, then he stood and walked away. Like the others, he moved silently. Only the whoosh of air that brushed her cheeks told her he was gone.
Feeling she was safe, at least for the time being, Deborah wriggled, trying to make herself more comfortable. Her hands were tied behind her so tightly at the wrists that her arms tingled from lack of circulation. Forcing herself to relax, a portion of the painful pinpricks subsided.
She was sleepy now . . . and cold. It was the third week in September and her thin embroidered shift did little to ward off the autumn air that crept along the ground. Another week and the chill that had settled on the forest tonight would be prevalent through the day.
Deborah couldn't help wondering if she'd still be alive in a week. She knew the thought was gruesome—certainly unladylike in Celia's opinion— but it was a distinct possibility. She was positive these men were not of Tshingee's tribe. Charlie MacCloud had once told her that there were more Indian tribes in the Colonies and to the west of them than there were countries in the rest of the world. Whoever these redskins were, they were unfriendly.
What purpose did they have in capturing her? They were all under the impression she was a whore. Would they take her back to their home to serve as one, or would they trade her to some other tribe for muskets or trinkets?
Hot tears formed in her eyes again. Where are you, Tshingee? she pleaded silently. Please help, me . . . I'm so frightened.
Sometime well after midnight, Deborah drifted into a fitful sleep. She was startled awake when someone knocked her in the side with the toe of his moccasin.
Deborah thrashed out at her attacker, and laughter echoed in the camp, followed by a swift cuff to her head.
It was her captor. Her grasped her arm and yanked her to her feet. "Viens! We go."
Deborah stumbled. It was barely dawn. The orange and red rays of sunlight were just beginning to peak through the curtain of the forest. He didn't come for me, was her first thought as she became fully awake. Tshingee didn't come for me.
All five Indian braves were there, talking among themselves and strapping their assorted bags and weapons to their sides and around their necks. Seeing her on her feet, Laughing Man approached her and False Face.
Laughing Man ignored her presence, stepping up to her captor to speak. He spoke in the tongue of his own people, so she couldn't make out what he said.
False Face, his painted mask carefully restored, shook his head emphatically and began to tie her to a short tether.
Laughing Man barked several more sentences, lifting first the musket he carried, then the powder horn. Deborah's lower lip trembled. My God, she thought. They're bartering for me! She prayed her captor would not give her up. He was frightening, but not as frightening at the man with the solemn face.
Laughing Man stomped his foot, pointing first at her and then to himself. Finally, he untied the sinew belt around his waist and raised it high in the air. It was the belt Deborah had noticed the night before. The one with the dried disks.
She blinked, the bile suddenly rising in her throat. Her mouth was so dry that she couldn't swallow. Ears! They were dried human ears! She turned her face away in horror and the braves laughed in unison.
"This can't be happening," Deborah murmured. "It just can't be," she repeated beneath her breath. The sound of her own voice was soothing. Slowly she gained control of herself.
The two Mohawk braves argued back and forth for another minute or two, then Laughing Man stomped off, shouting over his shoulder.
Smug, Deborah's captor gave a final tug on her tether line and shoved her forward. "Presse-toi, putain! Walk!" he bellowed.
Deborah stumbled forward, obeying. What else could she do? A whimper escaped her lips, betraying her as she stumbled and went down on one knee. How long had it been since she'd had a drink of water or something to eat?
"Walk!" False Face commanded, dragging her to her feet. "Walk or this warrior will slit your whore's throat!"
Tshingee, Deborah cried out silently as she started forward again. Tshingee, where are you? Had they gotten him first? Was he dead somewhere on the trail? No, she refused to believe it, because if it was true, there was no hope left.
The sun rose in the September sky and the raiding party moved north at an undying pace. Midmorning the group stopped and the leader instructed a man whose head was shaven to go back the way they had come. The Mohawks spoke in their own tongue, so Deborah didn't understand what they were saying. All she knew was that suddenly they were wary. Something had happened to alarm them.
The brave with the bald head sprinted back down the path and the other men and Deborah moved north. Again, Laughing Man offered her water, but this time False Face knocked the water skin to the ground. Deborah's heart pounded wildly as she watched the precious liquid spill onto the ground and seep into the soil. The braves argued, their voices soft but threatening, but again, Laughing Man backed down. Deborah tried to retrieve the water skin but her captor gave her a vicious kick.
"Presse-toi!" he ordered. "Keep walking or die . . . "
Tshingee moved silently though the forest, his powerful legs pumping, his arms swinging without effort. The skin on his bare chest pricked with sensation as he listened to the sound of his own pounding heart and the sway of the trees in the morning breeze.
He had discovered the Mohawk camp well after midnight. His first impulse was to rush in and rescue his Red Bird. He had seen her through the darkness, her arms tied behind her, her body slumped over in restless sleep. But Tshingee knew that an attack without a plan would be deadly. There were five Mohawk braves, one Lenni Lenape. It if wasn't for Deborah, Tshingee knew he could overpower them by wit and a little good fortune. But Deborah's life was at stake and therefore his brother's. Tshingee would not rely on luck today to best his enemy. Patience followed by the element of surprise was the solution.
At dawn when the camp moved, Tshingee skirted the group, surveying their strengths and weaknesses. He had watched with trepidation as the two braves had fought over Deborah. It had taken all of his willpower to remain silent when her captor struck her, but Tshingee remained in control of his emotions. His Red Bird's eyes still snapped with a fire that could not be extinguished. She had been beaten and bruised, but not defeated.
Tshingee's chest swelled with pride as he slowed to a walk and sipped from his water skin. He had met few women in his life whose spirit was as strong as Deborah's. He could not help wondering if Suuklan could remain so strong under such circumstances. Suuklan was a young Lenni Lenape maiden in his village who he intended to make his wife in the spring. Suuklan was a beautiful woman, but she did not strike the embers of his heart . . . not the way Deborah did.
At the sound of footsteps on the deer trail, Tshingee stiffened, flattening his body against the rough bark of a grandfather pine tree. Sealing the neck of his water bag, he listened. One man approached. Tshingee smiled. So, the Mohawks had finally realized they were being followed.
Breathing easily, Tshingee's eyes drifted shut. He became one with the forest, as his grandfather had taught him. He cleared his mind of all but the sound of the soft, murmuring breeze and the smell of the musty foliage. Tshingee played the game so well that the shaven-haired Mohawk walked past him. With one swift movement Tshingee brought down the dull end of his hand axe against the back of the man's skull. The Mohawk slid to the ground, never knowing he had been hit.
Slipping his axe back into his belt, Tshingee stepped over the Mohawk raider and raced down the path. One dead marauder, he thought. Four to go . . .
"What is it? Why are we stopping?" Deborah panted.
False Face gripped her arm. "If you are not quiet, ma chèrie, I will not have to kill you. My comrades will do it for me."
Deborah looked up at the three other braves. The leader spoke, signaling a second brave. The brave nodded, barked an answer, and sprinted down the path they'd come.
"Where is the other man?" Deborah dared to whisper.
False Face rolled his eyes heavenward. "It is true, white women are as stupid as my brother Laughing Man says. Can you not see, our ami has not returned?"
"If Laughing Man is your brother, why does he argue with you over me?"
False Face smiled, his hideously painted face wrinkling in animation. "Mon frère likes white women. He owns seven."
"You want to give me up?" she whispered.
"Non—not at least until the price is higher."
The leader started through the woods and False Face pushed Deborah forward, giving her no chance to speak again. She had to muster all of her energy just to keep walking. Slowly the tether rope between her and False Face grew taut and she had to run to keep up with him. Now there was only she, the leader, and the two brothers, False Face and Laughing Man.
Tshingee leaped high from a tree limb, giving a hoot of victory as he came crashing down on the second Mohawk brave. The Mohawk whipped out his knife as he fell beneath his attacker's weight, but Tshingee moved too swiftly. The brave's eyes widened in terror as Tshingee twisted the man's arm and the knife plunged into his chest. A final twist and the Mohawk died, never getting a chance to call out a warning to his companions.
Rolling off the dead man, Tshingee wiped his bloody hand on a mound of moss. He whispered a prayer of thanks, combining it with a prayer that would send the Mohawk's spirit heavenward. He doubted any Mohawk could get as far as the gates of heaven, but he held that decision for the Holy Father.
Running easily along the path, Tshingee dove into the leaves as another Mohawk came racing around the bend in the old deer trail. Just before the brave passed Tshingee he stopped in midstep, his hand sliding to the knife on his belt.
Tshingee breathed deeply, watching the Mohawk. It was the man with the musket and silver power horn, the man who had tried to buy Deborah from her captor.
The moment the Mohawk walked past Tshingee, the Lenni Lenape brave bounded to his feet, his knife drawn.
Laughing Man snarled, his eyes growing wide in anticipation of the fight. The two men circled cautiously. Tshingee let him make the first move and then leaped, kicking his opponent in the mouth. Blood spewed from the Mohawk's nose, and in the confusion, Tshingee sank his knife into the man's chest.
Laughing Man fell forward in utter surprise, clutching the knife in his breast. He rolled onto his back and went limp.
Tshingee rested his foot on the man's chest and extracted his knife, wiping it on the Mohawk's breeches. The musket, the powder horn, and some of the ears on the belt told Tshingee that the raiding party had been busy.
In disgust Tshingee walked away, then on second thought, he returned to the motionless body and cut the belt of ears off the Mohawk's waist. Digging a shallow hole in the soft humus along the path, he buried the human remains. Satisfied, he started down the path again.
When Laughing Man did not return, the Mohawk leader grew nervous. Stopping near a trickling spring, he shouted at False Face and reached for Deborah's tether rope.
Deborah shrank back. "No! Leave me alone! Don't let him take me, False Face!"
The leader lifted his knife from his belt and raised it to False Face's throat. Begrudgingly, her captor handed the leather strap to his leader.
Just as the Mohawk leader gained possession of the white woman, an arrow whizzed through the air. Deborah screamed and the man fell backward, dragging her down on top of him. Screaming, she scrambled to get up, horrified by the lifeless eyes staring up at her. Crawling across the ground, she pushed herself to her feet to run, but False Face had caught the end of her tether strap.
He lifted her with one swift movement, raising his knife to her throat. Terrified, Deborah struggled. What was happening? Who was shooting at them?
Then he appeared and she ceased to struggle. "Tshingee!" Deborah cried out. "Help me!" She didn't know where he had come from or how he had found her but he had come to rescue her.
Tshingee held his bow, the string and arrow resting against his cheek, poised to shoot.
False Face's breath was hot and sour on Deborah's cheek. "Stop!" he shouted. "Or I kill the white whore."
Tshingee lowered the bow in a slow, fluid motion. His ebony eyes were fixed on the Mohawk's.
Deborah trembled. Never had she seen such wicked vengeful eyes. She almost felt sorry for False Face.
"Ne nipauwi, " Tshingee warned in Lenni Lenape. "Harm her and you will put a curse upon your family for years to come." He nearly smiled when he saw the Mohawk stiffen. They were a superstitious lot and he intended to play upon that. "Her father is a great chief among his people. He will hunt you down and take your women. He will spill your life's blood in the lap of your children."
"Enough!" False Face shouted. "You do not frighten this man!"
"Tshingee! Look out!" Deborah shouted. "Behind you!"
Tshingee spun around to find the man who had worn the belt of ears preying down upon him with a long, glistening knife. Dropping to the ground. the Lenni Lenape brave rolled, tripping his attacker with his feet. The Mohawk went down on one knee, slashing out at Tshingee. The man's entire chest was soaked with blood.
False Face dropped Deborah's tether and ran to his brother's aid.
"Tshingee!" she warned.
Tshingee looked to see False Face heading straight for him, a knife clutched in his teeth. Grasping the bleeding Mohawk by his hair, the Lenni Lenape brave managed to climb on top of him and plunge his knife into the man's chest. This time Laughing Man fell back, his eyes rolling back in his head in final surrender.
False Face screamed in a high-pitched cry of attack and hit Tshingee, knocking him off his brother. Over and over the two rolled, first one on top, then the other. Tshingee was a superior fighter, but the Mohawk's ability seemed to match the Lenni Lenape's.
The two struggled, first one gaining control, then the other, until Deborah began to doubt the outcome. Then suddenly Tshingee was on top and False Face's knife was in the leaves. False Face closed his eyes, murmuring a prayer.
Tshingee chuckled. "Have I bested you? Has this Lenni Lenape warrior beaten this Mohawk?"
The Mohawk's eyes flew open in surprise. Then he nodded ever so slightly.
"I think it is your lucky day, Man in the Mask." Tshingee loosened his grip on the Mohawk. "Because you fight well and because you did not harm my woman, I will set you free."
False Face stared in confusion at the Lenni Lenape brave. "You will let this man go?"
Tshingee's eyes narrowed. "Only if you swear to leave in peace, to return to your people in the north and tell them what a wise, skillful warrior Tshingee of the Wolf Clan is."
False Face nodded in understanding. "Will you tell your village what a wise and skillful warrior of the Mohawks you met in this forest?"
Tshingee smiled, rising slowly to his feet. "Go, before I change my mind."
False Face leaped to his feet. "Will you let this defeated man take his brother's body with him?" He nodded in the direction of Laughing Man's lifeless form.
Tshingee nodded. "Go."
Deborah watched in amazement as Tshingee allowed his enemy to lift his brother onto his shoulder and go in peace. The short, stocky Mohawk raised a hand in salute to the Lenni Lenape warrior and then turned and ran, disappearing into the forest.
Deborah stood for a moment, stunned, then suddenly she was running . . . running into the arms of her savage.