Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fire Dancer sat on the edge of his sleeping platform and stared at his portrait, overwhelmed by suffocating sadness. Mack-en-zie . His wife, his heart was gone. Now he had nothing left of her but the picture. He wished desperately that she'd painted her own face despite the Shawnee taboo against it. Now he would have to rely on his memory and he feared his memory would fade over the years.
"This man said he was sorry," Fire Dancer said to her picture. He touched the streak of red ochre paint that was her hair. "If this man had been given choice, he would not have killed your father. This man had no choice."
She didn't answer.
Fire Dancer got up off the bed and kicked a wooden bucket out of his way. He hopped when he stubbed his toe. He hated being here inside his wigwam now . . . now that she was gone.
In the first hours after Mackenzie left yesterday morning, Fire Dancer had considered going after her. He had taken her captive once. He thought of doing it again. But after having her come to his arms willingly, he couldn't bring himself to force her into coming home. She no longer wanted him, no longer loved him. He had to accept fate as fate was.
"Fire Dancer?" Gentle Bear called in Shawnee. "Are you home, brother? I come with important news."
Fire Dancer wiped at the moisture that gathered in the corners of his eyes. He reached for his bow hanging from a rafter and dropped his leg through it. "Come in, friend. This man but tightens his bowstring."
Gentle Bear walked in and glanced at the bow, unconvinced.
Fire Dancer set aside the bow. "What news do you bring?"
"A messenger comes from the French fort."
"Ah?"
"The commander asks that we send men immediately."
Gentle Bear's tone tapped Fire Dancer's attention. "Men?"
"Our orders are to attack a fort tomorrow at dawn, along with others from the north."
Fire Dancer felt an eerie flash of premonition. Something told him he already knew where the Shawnee warriors were bound. "Which fort? There are many forts within a day's running distance."
"We attack Fort Bel-va-dere, friend."
Fire Dancer studied the toes of his quilled moccasins for a moment, then glanced up with resolve. "Let us go, then."
"You're willing to fight?" Gentle Bear took a step forward toward his friend. "Fire Dancer, Okonsa is dead. Many of his men were killed in that skirmish. If you approached council again, you could easily persuade them that we must break our ties with the French. We never agreed to fight their war for them."
Fire Dancer grabbed his quiver and began to count the number of arrows it held. "Council agreed we would ally with the French. If they fight." He lifted one shoulder to shrug the same way Mackenzie always had. "This man fights."
Gentle Bear gave a humorless laugh. "You sound as if you do not care if you live or die, Fire Dancer."
"I do not."
Mackenzie kept her head down so no one would see her tears. It was noon, the day after they'd left the Shawnee village. The further Mackenzie got from the village, the less sure she was of her decision. Finally, after days, her numbness was wearing off.
Fire Dancer had murdered her father. Well, perhaps murder was too harsh a word. Killed him . . . albeit in self-defense. She was angry with him not just for committing such a crime, but for not telling her.
She told herself she hated Fire Dancer. She had clung to that emotion for nearly a week. Now, suddenly, it was melting away like the icicles that dripped from the tree branches in the noonday sun. Beneath the anger, and the hurt, and the pain, she feared she still loved him. She hated herself for betraying her father's memory, but she couldn't help it. Her body, her mind, her heart ached for her husband.
"Someone approaches!" Robert Red Shirt startled Mackenzie from her thoughts. "Stand here."
Mackenzie drew her hunting knife from its sheath and halted beside Josh's horse. Mary peered over the bags packed on the mount, her eyes wide with apprehension. Josh, his musket in hand, turned his back on the women to protect the rear.
"Wait here for this man." Robert Red Shirt darted off the elk path they had been following south, into the thick of the forest.
Fear of the unknown made the hair prickle on the back of Mackenzie's neck. Her senses were alert and on edge, her muscles tense. She heard the chatter of a flying squirrel that had ventured from his tree hollow. She smelled the wet moss where the snow had melted in the sunshine, and the scent of a buck nearby. She could taste the cold mountain air on the tip of her tongue.
"Do you see anything?" Mackenzie whispered to Josh.
Mary slid her hand over the horse's neck to take Mackenzie's. "It could not be soldiers," she whispered. "We would have heard them many hours ago."
Mackenzie flashed a smile of reassurance. "You are right. The manake , they are so clumsy in the woods." It was not until she had completed her sentence that she realized she had said it in Shawnee and not English.
Mackenzie's cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. She had left the Shawnee life behind. She was one of the English-speaking manake once more and she had no right to speak of her own kind in such a derogatory way.
"It is all right," Robert called from the forest. A moment later he appeared with a trapper at his side, laden with muskrat furs. "This is Ebeneezer."
The older man with a grizzled gray beard nodded. "Ye scared me half to death. I thought you was Indians." He eyed Mary carefully. "Where ye headed?"
"South to the Chesapeake," Mackenzie said as she returned her knife to its sheath.
The old man's laugh sounded more like a cackle. He was missing his two upper, front teeth. "You best high tail it out of these parts. The French and the Indians is crawlin' all over the place. The mid-winter thaw musta brought 'em out. Word is, there's gonna be fightin'."
Mackenzie glanced at Josh. "How far is Belvadere from here?"
Josh walked to her side, his musket resting on his shoulder. "I was thinking the same thing. I don't want to get caught out here with you women in the middle of a battle. Robert?"
Robert Red Shirt chewed on a twig as he squinted and stared up at the sun. "Turn a little further east and we could reach the fort by dark if we hurry."
Josh looked to Mackenzie. "What do you think?"
"I say we turn southeast and get our tails moving." She grabbed up the reins of Josh's horse, weighed down with her paintings. Indian attack? The trapper's words didn't scare her as much as she knew they should have. She was just thankful to have something to think about other than Fire Dancer. "Let's go, Mary. We've still got a long day ahead."
Mackenzie's second arrival at Fort Belvadere was nothing like the first. Although less than six months had passed since she, her father, and Josh had made their journey from the Chesapeake, it seemed like six centuries. Mackenzie felt none of the eager anticipation of her first arrival. Today she felt numb—and sad.
The gates were thrown open when Josh announced his identity to the guard on duty. As the small party traipsed across the muddy compound, Harry appeared.
"Mackenzie?" he shouted from the walkway of the partially re-constructed main building. "Mackenzie Daniels." He ran through the snow and mud in his stocking feet, his arms outstretched.
Harry had lost weight since she last saw him and his military jacket hung loose and wrinkled on his frame. His red beard, left untrimmed, had grown as wild as a tangled vine.
Mackenzie laughed. "Harry. Have you lost what little sense you ever had?"
He grabbed her in his arms and lifted her off the ground in a suffocating bear hug. "I'll be damned. I'll be Goddamned straight to hell. You did it, boy. You brought her home."
Josh, embarrassed by the attention, dropped his arm casually over his new wife's shoulders. "Told you she was alive."
As Harry released her, Mackenzie glanced gratefully over her shoulder at Josh. She was so glad he hadn't spilled her entire story of the past months here in the middle of the compound with half the fort looking on from the palisade. She wanted to tell Harry what had happened, but privately, in her own words.
She gave Harry's beard a tug. "What ails you? Can you not find a razor between these walls?"
"You haven't changed a bit, Mackenzie. I swear by all that's holy, you're prettier than you were when you left. Come into my quarters and share a drink with me." He called over his shoulder. "Get your animals settled and you join us, too, Josh. You and your friend and Mary."
Josh tipped his hat and led the animals away.
Harry steered Mackenzie toward the log building. He shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "I just can't believe,"—his voice cracked—"it's you, sweetheart. Can't believe it."
"You really won't believe it when I tell you my tale," she said with hint of irony in her tone. Truth was, she could hardly believe it.
"So tell me. I've got no place to be and a hind of venison roasting on the spit."
Mackenzie slipped her arm through his and gave him a pat on his shoulder. "Save any of that Madeira?"
He winked. "Just for you. Just in case."
Inside Harry's private quarters Mackenzie sat on a stool by the hearth to warm herself and dry her damp clothing. She shared a glass of the wine and related to Harry the entire story of what had happened to her since the night she disappeared over the fort wall in Fire Dancer's arms. She recounted the tale, fact for fact, without a single tear or even an inflection of emotion . . . until she confessed she was pregnant.
Then the tears flowed so that she couldn't stop them.
"Ah, sweetheart." Harry rose clumsily from his chair to offer her his handkerchief. "Don't cry, Mackenzie. I don't know what the hell to do with a woman who cries."
"I'm sorry," Mackenzie sniffed. "I . . . I haven't told anyone. Not even—" she hiccuped softly "—Mary and Josh. I . . . just . . . just couldn't."
Harry knelt in front of her as she dabbed at her eyes.
"I . . . I don't know what I'm going to do. Go . . . go home to the tavern, I guess. Run the business with Josh, I—" she paused for a hiccup "—guess."
Harry ran his hand through his hair, a look of helplessness on his face. "You . . . you could marry me. I'll have the child, half redskin or not. With my older brother being dead, I'll inherit all of my father's lands. Hell, with enough money, a man can legitimatize Satan himself."
She looked up from the balled handkerchief, the seriousness of his offer sinking in. "Marry . . . marry you?" she asked in disbelief. Then she laughed, though she didn't know why. It wasn't funny.
He clasped her hand. His was so much larger than Fire Dancer's. Fleshier.
"A man makes an honest marriage proposal on his knees and you laugh?"
She took Harry's hand and brought it to her cheek. His offer was an answer to her problem. And she loved Harry. But when she lifted her head and her gaze met his, she knew she couldn't accept his offer. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair to Harry. Because, though she loved him, she could never be in love with him. Not like she was in love with Fire Dancer . . . even now after all that had transpired.
"Thank you," she whispered with a sniff. "But I can't." She released his hand. "I can't, Harry. I got myself into this problem. I have to deal with it myself."
He rose from his knees and walked away to refill his glass. Mackenzie could tell by his silence that he was hurt . . . disappointed, and it surprised her. Had Harry had feelings for her all this years and she had not known it?
She rose. "Harry—"
He raised his hand, his back still to her. "It's all right, dear. I understand."
She sighed and gave him a pat as she walked past him. "Thank you. I'm going to turn in for the night. I'm exhausted."
"O'Donaho will find you a place to bunk down." Harry's voice sounded small. "Good night, sweetheart."
" 'Night." Mackenzie left Harry's quarters, her heart heavy.
The first musket shot cracked and Mackenzie bolted upright on the camp cot. Redcoat manake , was her first thought. Come to attack the village . Then she felt the coarse, moth-eaten wool of the army blanket flung over her and she realized she was no longer home, in the Shawnee village. She was at Fort Belvadere . . . and it was under attack.
Mackenzie leaped out of bed. It had been so cold in the small storage room that she'd slept with all her clothes on. Even her moccasins. She grabbed her knife sheath from the floor and strapped it around her waist on her way out the door.
Mackenzie spotted Harry pulling up his breeches as he raced down the hallway with Private O'Donaho attempting to catch up. "Get inside and bar the door," he ordered.
"Who's attacking? The French?" Mackenzie followed him. Be damned if she was going to hide in a storage closet and wait to be burned out.
"I don't know," Harry hollered over his shoulder. He took the ladder up through the ceiling to the palisade, two rungs at a time. "Damn it. Didn't I tell you to find cover, Mackenzie?"
She scrambled up the ladder, her unbraided hair flying loose over her back. "I'm not one of your soldiers. You can't order me to do anything."
A musket ball ricocheted by and Mackenzie, Major Albertson, and Private O'Donaho all ducked at the same time. The lead ball hit the wall behind them, shattering wood and mud plaster.
Up on the palisade the air was already thick with blue musket smoke and stank of the black powder of the cannon on the walls.
"Archer! I want details!" Harry shouted, crawling along the wall toward one of his officers. "Who is it? Who's attacking us?"
A flaming arrow shot over the palisade and embedded in the wall behind them. The young private yanked it out and extinguished the fire with the sole of his boot.
"Indians, sir," said Lieutenant Archer. He had to be new. Mackenzie didn't recognize him.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Obviously, it's Indians. Are you addlepated, Archer? I can see that it's Indians. What Indians?"
Archer paled. "I don't know sir. Just Indians."
As Mackenzie sat on the log plank floor, a strange feeling came over her. Musket balls ricocheted all around her. The cannons boomed and flaming arrows soared through the air. Soldiers ran in every direction, carrying fresh ammunition and buckets of water to put out the fires.
"Fire Dancer," she whispered.
"What?" Harry had been talking to his officer, but stopped in mid-sentence. "What did you say?"
"It's Fire Dancer."
"He followed you here?"
She felt numb. "No. He thinks I'm headed for home, but it's him, all right." She rested her hand on her belly that was now slightly rounded. "I feel him."
Harry looked at her strangely and then patted her hand. "Best you get inside then, eh?"
She pushed herself off the rough floor. "No."
Harry tried to grab her arm and pull her down but she swayed out of his reach. "Get the hell down, Mackenzie! You'll be killed."
She walked like a sleepwalker along the palisade wall. Like a sleep walker coming out of a deep sleep. Suddenly everything was clear to her.
Muskets cracked in the air and soldiers put out their arms to stop her, but she pushed them aside. Harry and the private followed, running as they crouched below the top of the jagged wall.
"Mackenzie!" Harry shouted. "Get down!"
Mackenzie stopped abruptly. She was above the front gates. "He's here," she whispered.
She carefully turned over an empty water bucket and stepped up on it so that she had a better view of the scene below. It was a beautiful morning, cold and crisp. The sun had just peeked over the forest horizon.
"Fire Dancer," she called.
Indians raced below. Some Shawnee, others from tribes further north that she didn't recognize by sight.
"Fire Dancer of the Thunder Sky," she repeated, her voice clear and strong.
The arrows ceased to fly.
The British soldiers inside the fort stopped firing to stare at Mackenzie with fascination.
"Fire Dancer."
The Indians below shouted to one another. They ceased firing their ancient fire locks and wheel locks.
"Mack-en-zie?"
He appeared below as if by magic. Dressed in a tunic and the leggings she had repaired recently, he carried a musket on each shoulder and two knives on his belt. He held a bow in his hand. His hair blew; long and free over his shoulders in the morning breeze.
"Why are you here?" He looked shocked. Afraid. Relieved.
Suddenly, everyone was listening to her, redmen and white.
"Fate," she said simply.
Fire Dancer lowered his bow. "This man does not understand."
"Nor this woman. All I know is that fate caused our paths to cross once and now they cross again. It has to be for some purpose. You and I both know that nothing happens without purpose."
Gentle Bear stood near Fire Dancer and translated softly to the Indians around them.
"And what is the purpose now, Mack-en-zie."
His black-eyed gaze penetrated her heart . . . her soul. "The purpose is two-fold. We meet again so that this woman can tell you of her love."
There was a collective gasp from both sides of the wall.
"And to tell you that your men must lay down their arms and walk away from this place."
Another gasp. A few whispers.
"This battle is not yours, Fire Dancer, nor is it yours." She pointed to the redmen below who stared up at the white woman with obvious interest and confusion.
"If the French and the British are bound on fighting each other, then you must let them fight. To enter into the dispute will only mean lost lives for the Shawnee, the Lenape, the Huron, the Onieda and the Onadaga."
Fire Dancer handed his bow to Gentle Bear. "And tell me, wife, why do you say these words now? Now, after you have left my side, to join the white manake again?"
"Because someone must stop you and make you think, Prince of the Shawnee. Because someone must tell you that you have the courage to know when to fight and when to lay down your weapons. Because someone must build a path between the redmen and the white for the child I will bear you."
For a moment Fire Dancer could form no reply. He just stared at her with wonder in his eyes. Then he shifted his gaze from Mackenzie on the wall above him, to the men that stood at his side.
"Brothers," he said in English. There were whispers as men translated what he said into the various languages. "This man has long thought on this matter, and it is only now that I find the courage to speak up. To insist. The Shawnee of my village will not fight for the French against the British. We will not fight the French for the redcoats." He stood proudly, the breeze ruffling his blue-black hair. "This man will return to his village and try to make peace with his neighbors, both red and white."
Once again his black-eyed gaze was all for Mackenzie. "This man will take his wife home, if she will go." He lifted his hand.
Mackenzie turned away and scrambled down the ladder behind her. "What the hell are you doing?" Harry asked, following her.
She raced down the ladder and out into the compound. "Open the gates," she ordered. "Let me out."
"Mackenzie!"
None of the soldiers made a move to open the gate.
She spun around. "Tell them to let me out. My husband leads the Indians. They will not attack. I swear it."
Harry stared into her eyes for a long moment, then with a sigh, gave a flick of his wrist. "Open the gates. Let her out and close them."
As she heard the creak of the iron hinges, she caught a glimpse of Mary and Josh standing on the palisade. She smiled and waved.
They waved back.
Mackenzie lifted her chin and walked proudly through the gates. They closed behind her with a resounding finality. She knew she had stepped from one world to another, never to return again.
Fire Dancer appeared before her, and she ran toward him, her arms outstretched. "Fire Dancer," she whispered, almost too emotional to speak.
"Mack-en-zie."
He clasped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground in his embrace. "This man loves you."
"How much?" Mackenzie asked. The white clouds spun overhead in the blue sky as he twirled her.
"As much as this man loves the child his kitehi carries."
And then she laughed and their mouths met in a kiss of forgiveness . . . a kiss of promise for the future.