Into the Wilderness
Page 176
"Let us go," she said again.
"Elizabeth, lass," he said softly. "Ye can barely stand for weariness. Ye're covered wi' bruises that wad lay the toughest sodjer low. Ever' bone in your face shines through, and I'd wager it wad be no job worth mentionin' tae count your ribs, for bye I hae no door ye mean what ye say, for ye've the bluidy heart of a lion—"
She began to interrupt him, but he squeezed her shoulder again and lowered his voice another tone.
"What e'er it is ye've got behind ye these few days on the trail, lass, it has left scars for all tae see, and others festerin' deep inside—ye ne edna contradict me. I may be an auld man, but I'm no' yet blinn. Pay me mind, lass. Ye mun hae a day's rest, or there wilma be a wife for Nathaniel tae come hame tae."
All the reasons they must move on, now, immediately, were clear and ordered in Elizabeth's mind, but when she opened her mouth, something else entirely came out.
"I cannot let him die alone and without me," she said, looking between them. "I will not. Don't you understand, both of you? I am responsible."
"Elizabeth," Robbie said hoarsely. The tears in his eyes took her by surprise. Suddenly she was overcome by the urge to bury her face in his coat and weep until she was emptied of it all, all the weakness and doubt and softness inside of her. So she could get on with what she must do. She loved Robbie for his tears, but she could not indulge him, or herself.
Otter had been leaning against the wall, and he righted himself. "We'll walk till noon," he proposed. "And then make camp, if you'll agree to rest then, until tomorrow morning."
She could see it on their faces: this was the best she could hope for. And without them, she could not find her way to Canada. "You think he is being cared for?" she asked finally.
Otter nodded without hesitation. "Hen'en." Yes.
"Better by far wi’ the Kahnyen’keháka than wi' a Boston surgeon," Robbie confirmed.
"Until midday, then," she agreed. And Elizabeth walked out of the shelter and the camp without a backward glance, glad to have Treenie beside her again, and these good men at her back.
Chapter 39
Men, Elizabeth concluded, could be counted on to be childish and unreasonable at the most awkward times. They had been on the trail for almost a week, and now, less than two hours from the village where they hoped to find Nathaniel alive and well, they had decided to make camp where they stood. Without her approval and simply ignoring every argument she could muster. Her attempts at rational discussion were dismissed: Otter was tense and Robbie strangely uncommunicative. Elizabeth sat in front of the fire and brooded, cleaning her musket with a rough quickness that made Robbie wince openly.
"I could go on alone," she said when she could be still no longer. "I managed on my own in the bush for days, I'm sure I could manage two hours in terrain such as this."
There was no response. Surprised, Elizabeth looked up and saw Otter and Robbie approaching a man at the edge of their camp.
He was Kahnyen’keháka, and from the look of him, a scout. Of middle age, he was not overly tall but built as wide and strong as an oak. The man was dressed much as Otter was dressed, but he had more weapons on his person, and there was something else that made Elizabeth's irritation and preoccupation wither away immediately: his scalp was shaved clean with the exception of a long shank of hair knotted at his crown, gleaming blue—black in the twilight, and trailing an ornament of turkey feathers. From the belt around his waist there was another set of feathers, these strangely matted and dull in color: dark and lighter browns, one shot with dirty silver streaks, another much paler, with a definite curl to the ends. Seeing them clearly, Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry with fear. In her lap, the musket felt awkward and heavy and completely useless.
But he was Kahnyen’keháka, she reminded herself. A cousin of some kin to Otter, without a doubt. And neither Robbie nor Otter appeared frightened. She could hear only snatches of their conversation, on her side of the fire, but the tone was calm. She had no wish to come closer, and the scout apparently did not find her of interest in the least: with a glance that took in every detail of the camp and rested only very briefly on her face, the man turned and left them without another sound.
It took Elizabeth another minute to realize that this quiet and imposing stranger had accomplished something which had eluded her.
"What are you doing?" she asked Otter, although she could see for herself that he was breaking camp.
"The sachem sends word that they want us in the village now," he answered.
She stood, and watched them working for another few heartbeats. "They have been watching us?"
Otter grinned at her, and she saw now that his tension had been replaced by relief and anticipation. "All day," he confirmed.
Later, Elizabeth promised herself, she would apologize to these men for her irritability and lack of observation. But at the moment she could not find the words. A thought occurred to her, but she had to clear her throat several times before she could make herself produce the question.
"He is there?"
"Aye, lassie," said Robbie. "He is. Alive, and on the mend."
* * *
In the dark she had little sense of the village. First there were the fields with neat rows of young plants, and then a small corral, where a young boy stood sentry. Around him a number of dogs lifted themselves from the ground as if suspended by wires, propelled by a low growling. Treenie froze beside Elizabeth and met them with her own rumbling, the fur on her hackles rising. The boy spoke a short word and the village dogs collapsed again, their eyes keen and at odds with their obedience.
"Elizabeth, lass," he said softly. "Ye can barely stand for weariness. Ye're covered wi' bruises that wad lay the toughest sodjer low. Ever' bone in your face shines through, and I'd wager it wad be no job worth mentionin' tae count your ribs, for bye I hae no door ye mean what ye say, for ye've the bluidy heart of a lion—"
She began to interrupt him, but he squeezed her shoulder again and lowered his voice another tone.
"What e'er it is ye've got behind ye these few days on the trail, lass, it has left scars for all tae see, and others festerin' deep inside—ye ne edna contradict me. I may be an auld man, but I'm no' yet blinn. Pay me mind, lass. Ye mun hae a day's rest, or there wilma be a wife for Nathaniel tae come hame tae."
All the reasons they must move on, now, immediately, were clear and ordered in Elizabeth's mind, but when she opened her mouth, something else entirely came out.
"I cannot let him die alone and without me," she said, looking between them. "I will not. Don't you understand, both of you? I am responsible."
"Elizabeth," Robbie said hoarsely. The tears in his eyes took her by surprise. Suddenly she was overcome by the urge to bury her face in his coat and weep until she was emptied of it all, all the weakness and doubt and softness inside of her. So she could get on with what she must do. She loved Robbie for his tears, but she could not indulge him, or herself.
Otter had been leaning against the wall, and he righted himself. "We'll walk till noon," he proposed. "And then make camp, if you'll agree to rest then, until tomorrow morning."
She could see it on their faces: this was the best she could hope for. And without them, she could not find her way to Canada. "You think he is being cared for?" she asked finally.
Otter nodded without hesitation. "Hen'en." Yes.
"Better by far wi’ the Kahnyen’keháka than wi' a Boston surgeon," Robbie confirmed.
"Until midday, then," she agreed. And Elizabeth walked out of the shelter and the camp without a backward glance, glad to have Treenie beside her again, and these good men at her back.
Chapter 39
Men, Elizabeth concluded, could be counted on to be childish and unreasonable at the most awkward times. They had been on the trail for almost a week, and now, less than two hours from the village where they hoped to find Nathaniel alive and well, they had decided to make camp where they stood. Without her approval and simply ignoring every argument she could muster. Her attempts at rational discussion were dismissed: Otter was tense and Robbie strangely uncommunicative. Elizabeth sat in front of the fire and brooded, cleaning her musket with a rough quickness that made Robbie wince openly.
"I could go on alone," she said when she could be still no longer. "I managed on my own in the bush for days, I'm sure I could manage two hours in terrain such as this."
There was no response. Surprised, Elizabeth looked up and saw Otter and Robbie approaching a man at the edge of their camp.
He was Kahnyen’keháka, and from the look of him, a scout. Of middle age, he was not overly tall but built as wide and strong as an oak. The man was dressed much as Otter was dressed, but he had more weapons on his person, and there was something else that made Elizabeth's irritation and preoccupation wither away immediately: his scalp was shaved clean with the exception of a long shank of hair knotted at his crown, gleaming blue—black in the twilight, and trailing an ornament of turkey feathers. From the belt around his waist there was another set of feathers, these strangely matted and dull in color: dark and lighter browns, one shot with dirty silver streaks, another much paler, with a definite curl to the ends. Seeing them clearly, Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry with fear. In her lap, the musket felt awkward and heavy and completely useless.
But he was Kahnyen’keháka, she reminded herself. A cousin of some kin to Otter, without a doubt. And neither Robbie nor Otter appeared frightened. She could hear only snatches of their conversation, on her side of the fire, but the tone was calm. She had no wish to come closer, and the scout apparently did not find her of interest in the least: with a glance that took in every detail of the camp and rested only very briefly on her face, the man turned and left them without another sound.
It took Elizabeth another minute to realize that this quiet and imposing stranger had accomplished something which had eluded her.
"What are you doing?" she asked Otter, although she could see for herself that he was breaking camp.
"The sachem sends word that they want us in the village now," he answered.
She stood, and watched them working for another few heartbeats. "They have been watching us?"
Otter grinned at her, and she saw now that his tension had been replaced by relief and anticipation. "All day," he confirmed.
Later, Elizabeth promised herself, she would apologize to these men for her irritability and lack of observation. But at the moment she could not find the words. A thought occurred to her, but she had to clear her throat several times before she could make herself produce the question.
"He is there?"
"Aye, lassie," said Robbie. "He is. Alive, and on the mend."
* * *
In the dark she had little sense of the village. First there were the fields with neat rows of young plants, and then a small corral, where a young boy stood sentry. Around him a number of dogs lifted themselves from the ground as if suspended by wires, propelled by a low growling. Treenie froze beside Elizabeth and met them with her own rumbling, the fur on her hackles rising. The boy spoke a short word and the village dogs collapsed again, their eyes keen and at odds with their obedience.
