Journey Home Chapter Eighteen

Raeanne was going to hate her.

            Rachel Moray paused long enough to brush a lock of silver blond hair from her eyes and to shush the horse she had appropriated.  She touched its dark mane, whispered a word to it;  then leaned back and took a deep breath.  It had been a mean trick; leaving the other woman with her wounded son and daughters to care for, but Rachel knew those most welcome burdens would protect the younger woman – Raeanne would never leave her children alone.  She would see them to the safety of the inn, which was not far away, and she would survive.

            She, on the other hand, had decided to find her family, though she knew Verity’s anger would be nearly the equal of Raeanne’s.  But then, her child knew her of long acquaintance and understood her fierce devotion to the man they called ‘Father’.  Mingo was in danger, as was Danny.

            They needed her.

            So, for that matter did Adam Fox.  She could see Copperhead’s eldest son standing by the wagon, acting bravely while literally holding himself together.  The wound on his forehead was still angry, and the barrister looked pale and haggard.  Like his father – like all the men of the Cherokee she knew – Adam’s honor bound him to do what he was doing.

            Even if it meant his death.

            Gently speaking to her mount, Rachel urged the animal forward.  She had returned to the place where she and Adam parted, and then used the skills her husband had taught her to determine which way his captors had taken him.  They were headed still farther north.  If Hawk had a connection with the Shawanoese, that made sense.  The renegade’s party was headed for the Ohio river that bordered the two states.  Like many natives, the Shawano who refused to leave their tribal lands had hidden in the hills.  The anger engendered by their displacement would have drawn them to Hawk as surely as a moth to the candle. 

            Together, what might they not accomplish?

            Rachel wondered momentarily what it was she thought she could accomplish.  She was an old woman – nearing seventy.  Her strength was gone.  If it came to a fight, she would prove a liability, perhaps even a hindrance to her husband.  But she did not intend to use might of arms.  She had her heart and head, and Mingo had often remarked she could be quite a sneak if she wanted.

            Dear Mingo…

            “Providence protect him,” she breathed.

            They had been through so much in their marriage – John Gerard’s hatred, the white man’s prejudice, being hounded through Europe and beyond.  But there was not a moment, not a second of it she would have traded.  And if it ended here, with her trying to save her husband and her son from the machinations of a madman….

            Then so be it.           

            Halting the horse, Rachel dismounted and knelt to examine the ground.  There had been quite a disturbance.  Someone had been strapped down, their feet and hands tied to stakes, which were still jammed into the earth.  She read the tracks and, with a start, recognized a particular set of prints.  They were Danny’s.  Her son had a fine pair of English boots that his father had purchased for him, and which he refused to part with though they were decades old.  Danny had had them resoled many times and the prints had a distinctive look –  one a mother could not miss.  Rachel rose, shaken.  Had Danny been bound, or had his father?  The tracks leading away seemed to indicate both had been present, though there were other markings as well.  Mostly native.  But there was no sign of a struggle. 

            Convincing herself that her men had won the day, Rachel remounted and set off in the direction Danny had taken, heading deeper into the woods.  She didn’t know where she was going or what she would find.  But she knew one thing.

            Mingo would be there at the end. 

~

           John Johnston was indignant.  Bound and gagged, he had been roughly handled and brusquely spirited some distance away from Hawk’s camp.  The day was waning.  Night’s purple fingers masked the sun like a child at play.  The rising tide of the natives’ anger rose  higher with the setting of the sun.  He could hear them singing and shouting; calling for the white man’s blood.

            As his gag was removed, John turned on the native in the elegant dark suit who had led the way.  “What do you think you are doing?  I need to speak to those men!   Someone must put an end to this – ”

            “Someone will,” the man answered.  His demeanor was calm; his face unmovable as the stone surrounding the glade they occupied.  “It will not be you, white man.”

            John was confused.  The man had saved his life, but his words were icy as the chill spring morning.  “Who are you?  Why have you brought me here?” he demanded. 

            “Who I am does not matter.  You are here, so you are not there.”
            “What does that mean?”

            “Hawk means to use you, white man!  Do you not see?”  The native’s voice rose in pitch, showing his frustration at last.  “He would use you to make a case against all white men, to justify this war he means to wage.  To kill all who are not of the People.”

            “Are you of the People?” John retorted.  “You seem well-educated in the white man’s ways.  I have seen enough to know.  Was it your father who was white?”

            The native’s jaw tightened.  “My mother.”

            “So you have been a part of both worlds.  I work to bring them together!  Let me talk to Hawk’s men – ”

            “No.  It is too late for talking.”
            John felt a hand grip his vitals.  “Too late?  Dear God, what is it you plan to do?”

            The man gestured and half a dozen warriors responded, coming to his side.  John recognized them.  They had all been in the companion of the hatchet-faced old Cherokee. 

            “Where is your leader?” he asked.

            The native sneered.  “It is Watowah who is led.  By me.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “How could you, white man?  You do not know the Indian.”

            “Sir…please….”  John drew a breath, seeking to calm himself.  “What may I call you?”

            Again his face was unreadable.  “Runs Deep.  That is who I am now.”

            “Runs Deep.”  Truer words had not been spoken, he thought, there were deep waters here.  “I do know the Indian.  I have lived and worked with him for nearly twenty years.”

            “You know nothing!”  Runs Deep made a dismissive gesture with his hand.  “Watowah is old, as is his anger.  It blinds him.  We,” he looked to his men, “joined him, telling him we wished the death of the white man Boone and his old enemy Cara-Mingo, our brother, and that we would aid him in his cause.  We do not share it, but we use it – and him – for our own.”  Runs Deep paused. 

“You deceive him.”

Runs Deep was silent a moment.  “Yes. That is a talent I have learned from my mother’s people.”

             “To what end?”

            “My chief – not Watowah – heard rumors of Hawk’s return.  He sent out runners to find the truth.  Once we knew the renegade was back, someone had to watch him.”

            “And you volunteered.”

            Runs Deep nodded.  “We did.”

            “Do your people know?”

            The native shook his head.  “We are traitors to them.  Renegades, even as Hawk.  We joined the Wyandot.  Aided him.  Grew close so he would not suspect.”  Runs Deep’s face showed what it had cost him.  “Tonight it ends.”

            John didn’t like the sound of that.  “There are hundreds of men here….”

            The native nodded.  “Hundreds more are on their way.”

            He shook his head.  “It will be a slaughter!  Take me back, let me speak to them!  Perhaps I can prevent this….”

            Runs Deep drew closer to him.  His mouth was as straight as a knife’s edge.  “Who says I want to stop it?”

             John shook his head.  “Surely you have been taught, it is more blessed to forgive than to seek vengeance.”

            “I have been taught by experience that might will only listen – and bend – to greater might.”  The man’s fingers formed into a fist.  “I have watched while men like my father were brutalized and beaten, destroyed while seeking the white path of peace.  White men know only war, and we will not stop until the path runs red with their blood.”

            “Then why stop him?  Isn’t that what Hawk wants?”

            “Hawk is a madman seeking to resurrect the bones of his dead son by killing those he holds responsible.  He is not fit to lead.”

            John swallowed hard.  He didn’t know who this man was, but he sensed a deeper motive.  “And what would your father say to that?”

            Runs Deep trembled, though whether with pain or rage he did not know.  “He would condemn me.”

            As the native turned, John dared to reach out and catch his sleeve.  “What of the lawyer, Adam Fox?  He is in the middle of all of this, through no fault of his own.  You cannot simply condemn him to die in the midst of this noble battle with all the others.”

            His words had a curious effect.  Runs Deep froze.  A strangled sound escaped his lips.  He pivoted sharply and, in a step, caught John by the lapels of his tattered coat.  “What did you say?  What is the man’s name?”

            “Adam.  Adam Fox.  Why?  Do you know him?”  Runs Deep continued to stare at him for several heartbeats, then released him.  John glanced at the native’s men and saw reflected in their faces some of their leader’s horror.  A moment later John asked again, “Do you know Adam Fox?”

            The native ran a hand across his face.  At last, as if the effort was almost too much, he nodded.

            “I should.  He is my brother.” 

~ 

            Raeanne Johnston dropped into a chair in the Wild Wood Inn, exhausted.  There was nothing she could do about Rachel’s disappearance – the older woman had made her choice – but still she couldn’t help feeling guilty that she had not seen it coming.

            It was just the sort of reckless thing she would have done if the children had not been with her.

            Rachel’s daughter was upset, but it was obvious this sort of worry was something she had grown accustomed to.  They could only wait and hope for the best, and live with the expectation that one day soon everyone they loved would come walking through the door of the inn hale and hearty.

            For now, she had to deal with the walking wounded.

            Stephen had awakened as they arrived and had insisted, in spite of his broken leg, on making his own way out of the wagon.  The effort exhausted him.  She could only pray it had not caused him more injury.  He  was sitting now in a chair in front of the fire, staring at the flames.  Her eldest son had taken on the role of both surrogate father to his siblings and, in a way, husband to her.  With John gone so much, Stephen had been forced to be the man of the house at far too young an age.  He internalized everything and took responsibility for everybody’s failures.  Even if he and Robinson had not been close, what had happened would have nearly destroyed him.  And they were close.  With four sisters between, Stephen had waited a long time for a brother.  To lose him now….  No.  She wouldn’t think that.  Not yet. 

            She couldn’t let Stephen think it either.

            Rising, Raeanne crossed to her boy and knelt before him.  He was ghostly pale and obviously in pain.  Of course, that meant she was in pain as well.

            “You must rest,” she told him quietly.

            “I need to go,” Stephen responded.  “I need to look for Robinson.”

            “You have to take care of yourself.”

            His gray eyes flicked to hers and then away again.  “I’m nothing.”

            Rachel hesitated.  Then she decided to speak her mind.  “Stephen.  Wallowing in self-pity will do nothing to aid your brother or anyone else.  You father would be ashamed.”

            He was shocked by her strong words.  “Ma…”

            “I mean it.  The young man I know and love would not be sitting here moping, or dreaming of daring deeds he cannot do just to salve his own conscience.  He would be thinking of what he could do to help his family.”

            “Ma, I lost him.  I should have – ”

            “Maybe you should have,” she answered softly, “but maybe you couldn’t.”  Raeanne paused and a rueful smile parted her lips.  “You are not the only stubborn Johnston male in the family.”

            For the first time since he had been rescued, a slight smile lifted the corner of one of Stephen’s pale lips.  It was fleeting.  “But Ma.  Robinson….”

            “Is in the Lord’s hands,” she said, placing her own on his arm.  “As is your father.  As are we all.”

            “It’s not that easy for me, Ma,” Stephen answered, his voice trembling with barely controlled emotion.

            Raeanne rose to her feet.  She glanced at the door, wondering where in the world the other two men she loved were, then she gently kissed Stephen on the head and whispered, “And what makes you think it is for me?” 

~

            “Your brother?”  John Johnston sized up the native before him.  Yes, he could see it, in the shape of his face, in the tilt of Runs Deep’s head and even, perhaps, in his eyes.  But the way he held himself, the anger that oozed out of every pore, the cry for revenge – these Adam Fox had no part of.  “And you didn’t know him?”

            “I have not seen Adohi for many, many years.  I was a child when I chose to return to the People.  He was at school.”

            “Adohi?  That is his Cherokee name?”

            “Yes.”

            “But he was given a white name.  Were you as well?”

            Runs Deep glared at him.  “I was born with a white man’s name, I chose to be Cherokee.”

            “May I ask what it is?”

            The native scowled.  “Tobias.  Tobias Fox.”

            John thought for a moment.  “I know the meaning of that.  ‘God is good’,” he said softly.

            “God has not been so good to my people,” Runs Deep snarled.  “We must make a stand.  If we do not, we will be driven into the sea.”

            “But you work to stop Hawk.”  John paused.  “Don’t you?”

            Runs Deep’s basalt eyes fixed him.  “We will put an end to him and his madness.  Then we will raise an army and drive the white men from our shores.”
            “You can’t desire that much death.  That much destruction.  Good people will die along with the bad.”

            “Are you a good man, John Johnston?  How clean are your hands?  How many of the People have you helped off their lands?”

            “It was necessary for their survival.  Please, you know you cannot win.  Look at Tecumseh.  He was smart, gifted even, and yet he could not triumph.  It is sad to say, but no one cares about the Indian.  They will squash you like insects.  You will have accomplished nothing.  Runs Deep, if you fight, you will die.”

            Runs Deep shrugged.  “Then we die.  Better death than to live as animals.”

            “And your brother as well?”  John asked, his voice sharp with disapproval.  “He walks among white men.  There is still time to change your mind.  Send runners out.  Call off this insanity!  Let me go talk to those Hawk has gathered here.  Many know of me.  They will listen to me and go home – ”

            “It is too late for talking.  We must whet our swords and not our tongues.”  Runs Deep glanced at his men.  Most were nodding their agreement.  Then with a gesture he ordered, “Bind him so he cannot follow, but do not harm him.  We may have need of him yet.”

            John opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when a gag was thrust between his teeth and tied tightly behind his head.  Then he was led outside to a tree and bound to it.  One native, stoic faced, remained behind to keep watch.  The others, along with Runs Deep departed without giving him the slightest backwards glance.

            And so were let loose the dogs of war.

~

           Rachel halted and dismounted.  She had ridden swiftly through the trees – recklessly even – and had reached the bend of the river.  It was a familiar place.  A mile or so ahead lay the hidden waterfall where Israel Boone had made his home when she and Mingo had first returned to the United States.  She wondered if his tribe lived there still or if, like so many others, they had been forced to move on out of fear and need.

            As Rachel approached the area, she noticed more and more moccasin prints on the ground.  The natives wearing them seemed to be traveling in bands of a dozen or more.  Far in the distance she could hear someone speaking.  Hawk must have called them all to some sort of gathering.  A war council, no doubt.  It was hard to imagine a madman like Hawk inspiring so many natives of diverse tribes, but then these men were desperate, and the renegade Wyandot promised them something they desperately needed.

Hope.

Fearful lest her horse give her away by a nervous whinny or neigh now that she was this close, Rachel looked for a place to tether it where it would remain safe until her return.  A great sycamore loomed above a nearby stream, its mighty roots thrust out of the bank.  In a pool of shadows beneath its broad branches was a smaller tree perfect for hitching.  The animal was a liver chestnut; its coat a deep, dark brownish gray.  Hopefully with the night approaching it would go unseen.  There was plenty of grass there for it to feed, and water. 

“You rest here, girl,” Rachel said softly, patting the horse’s soft nose.  “Be well.”

She turned away and then halted.  Puzzled by what she heard, Rachel turned back.  For a second she thought the animal had replied, but that was nonsense.

Wasn’t it?

Then she heard it again.  A soft sound.  A sigh.

A child’s voice.

“Ma?  Ma, is that you?”

For a second she was transported back to when her own son had been small.  But Danny was a man now, with little ones of his own. 

Who was this?

“I hear you,” she answered.  “I don’t know where you are.  Call again.”  Rachel drew a breath and held it.  Dear God, she thought, let there be no one else around to hear!

“Ma?  I’m here.  Where are you?”

Rachel started as a familiar childish form emerged from the sycamore, rubbing his eyes and stretching.  The boy’s raven-black hair was disheveled.  His clothing ruined.  He was covered with scratches and bruised from one end to the other.  But he was alive.

Robinson Johnston was alive!

Rachel moved forward.  She knelt, and caught the small boy in her arms.  Her tears of joy rained on his cheeks.  As he struck them away, Robinson looked up and declared, “You’re not my ma.”

“No, but I can take you to her.  Dear boy!  How good it is to see you.”

“Mrs. Moray?”

At first Rachel thought he was speaking her name.  Then she realized there was something more.  Robinson’s tone was wary.  “What is it?” she asked.

He pointed behind her.  “I think we better hide…”

Rachel looked.  What she saw made her take the boy in her arms and duck with him into the musky interior of the sycamore.  From within the safety of the tree’s dark womb they watched a company of men advance.  Literally dozens of armed warriors poured from the trees and crossed the narrow glade to walk along the stream’s edge.  At their head was a handsome native in his late thirties dressed in a tailor-made blue suit.  He held himself like a king; his aspect noble but determined. 

“What do you think it means?” Robinson asked as he settled deeper into her arms.

Rachel’s voice broke as she answered.

“I think it means we are at war.”