Journey Home Chapter Nineteen

            Daniel Boone shifted.  He was uneasy, both with the fatigue in his ancient bones and with what he was witnessing.  Not since Mingo’s brother had used the man called Preacher to rouse the Creeks had he seen such a gathering.  There were hundreds of natives from at least half a dozen tribes.  A few of them he knew.  They were good men; men who owned land and farmed it.  Men he called ‘neighbor’. 

            Hawk’s madness was infectious.

            His granddaughter Bekah was close by.  Maybe twenty feet away.  She had stayed with him instead of going with her father to find Curious Dent.  Dan wasn’t sure why, though it seemed to him that she was mighty interested in what Hawk had to say.

            A sudden shift in the shadows told him Israel had returned.  Dan looked and saw that Dent was with him.  “You find anythin’?” Dan asked his son.

            Israel glanced at Bekah before answering.  Then he said, “I found Sunalei.”

            “Is she – ”

            “She’s bein’ held not far from here.  There’s only two men watchin’ her.  I think I can free her, but….”

            Dan’s hazel eyes followed his son’s.  “You don’t want Bekah to know.”

            “I’m afraid she’ll go off half-cocked,” Israel admitted with a wry grin.  “You ain’t seen a real flash in the pan until you’ve seen that girl of mine mad.  She’d tear through those warriors to save her ma.  The problem is, she’s a mite – ”

            “Reckless?  Like her Pa used to be.”  Dan asked.  As Israel’s cheeks flushed, he added, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

            Israel nodded, and then looked toward the rocky platform where Hawk stood, addressing the Indian nations.  Adam Fox was clearly visible, standing beside the renegade.  “What do you think’s goin’ on, Pa?”
            “Hawk’s waitin’ for somethin’.  Or some one.”

            Israel was silent for a moment.  “You think we can really do anythin’, Pa, against all these men?  You think we can stop them?”

            “I seen worse odds,” Dan answered with his usual grin.  “But not much worse.”

            His son’s hand came down on his shoulder.  “You think Mingo’s here?  The odds used to always be better when he was around.”

            Dan had been thinking that himself.  “I imagine he is.  Danny, too.  The good Lord brought us here together, and I think he means for us to leave the same way.  Mingo and me, we been together so many years, I don’t know how we’d get on apart.”

            Israel lifted his hand.  A slow smile spread across his tanned and freckled face.  “You got a plan, Pa, don’t you?”

            Dan pushed his cap back and winked.

            “Ain’t I always?” 

~

Adam Fox looked out over the sea of dark faces.  They were waiting for John Johnston to appear; waiting to hear the white man’s words that would have the power either to diffuse the powder-keg Hawk had created, or to ignite it.  The renegade Wyandot had made his role clear.  Adam was to use his considerable talent with words to see that the latter happened.

            Or Sunalei would die.

            His mind should have been occupied with thinking of a way out of what was obviously a no-win situation; of figuring out how to defend and prosecute the Indian agent at the same time.  Instead, Adam found himself thinking of his childhood – of the time before their mixed heritage had torn him and his brother and sisters apart.

            They had come in pairs like bookends.  He and Sunalei.  Tobias and Talia.  There had been others, but they had only lived for months or, in the case of one little sister, days.  He and Sunalei had been raised as natives, born in Chota to fly with the raven and run with the deer.  He longed for it still.  The love of nature and that special freedom natives knew ran deep within him, but he had chosen to forsake it for himself so that he might preserve it for all the People.  Talia had abandoned it as well.  She had been born with their Cherokee father’s copper hair and silt-brown eyes, but with the pale creamy complexion of their white mother.  Once Talia realized she could ‘pass’, she had turned her back on her Indian heritage.  Toby was the exact opposite.  His skin was nearly as dark as a full-blood’s, though his black hair tended to bronze in the sun.  The contrast between the two was startling.  Though twins, when they went to town, Toby could not miss the fact that his sister was accepted while he was not.  Once a white boy had knocked Toby down, thinking he was rescuing Talia from capture.  That was the day it had started. 

The beginning of the end of their family.

            Adam sighed.  He missed them – all of them.  And now the choice he must make promised a further separation.  If he could, he would find a way to save Sunalei and stop this war.  If he could not….   Tears welled in his eyes at the thought.  Adam struck them away, not because he thought them unmanly, but just to do something, anything. 

            He had never felt so impotent in his life.

            An exchange of sharp words caused Adam to pivot.  Storm clouds of rage had moved in to darken Hawk’s brow.  A deep growl like thunder rumbled in the renegade’s throat as his hand lashed out to strike the messenger standing beside him.  Obviously, the man had brought him some most unwelcome news.  In spite of the uncertain situation he found himself in, Adam had a hard time suppressing a smile when he found out what it was.

            John Johnston had escaped.

            Hawk’s head turned slowly, like a snake pacing its victim, until his obsidian eyes locked on him.  “You find something amusing, counselor?”

            Adam shook his head.  “The witness for the prosecution – and the defendant – have apparently fled…justice.  There’s nothing to do but declare a mistrial and go home.”

             “You think it would be so easy?” Hawk snarled as he approached him.

            “No.”  Adam didn’t flinch.  “But I could hope that it would be.  Hawk, you must see reason.  Even if these men follow you, it will be to the slaughter.  The United States army will be called out and you will be hunted down to the last man.  The world is not what it was forty-five years ago, or even twenty-five.  The only way the Indian can win is by fighting the white man with his own weapons – with words and the law.”

            Hawk continued to stare at him.  Then, unexpectedly he spit in his face.  “I did not expect the son of my enemy to be a coward.”

            Adam didn’t rise to the bait.  “I will be anything I need to be to prevent needless slaughter.”
            “Hawk!” a strident voice called out from the crowd.  “Where is the white man Johnston?  We wait to hear him speak.  You say his words will condemn him.  We want to hear them.”

            Both Adam and his captor pivoted.  As he wiped the spittle from his chin, Adam turned his attention to the crowd.  It rippled with a general murmur of approval as all eyes turned toward the Cherokee delegation – and the man in the dark blue suit with the piercing stare.  Next to him stood the old man Adam had taken to be their chief.  He looked, at best, ill at ease.

“Why do you keep him silent, Hawk?” the well-dressed man asked.  “Do you fear his words will condemn you?”

            “Runs Deep, you shame me!” the chief proclaimed.

            “Old man, you shame me with your petty griefs,” Runs Deep countered.  Then he lifted a hand and pointed at Hawk.  “As does this renegade Wyandot!  He has been cast out by his people and condemned for selfish acts.”  The Cherokee pivoted and spoke to the crowd.  “He does not care for you!  Hawk cares only for himself!  He would have you die, just so he can take vengeance on two old men who do not even have teeth enough to chew meat!”

            The crowd drew back, forming a circle around the Cherokee delegation.  Their voices were hushed, if they spoke at all.  Runs Deep’s words had challenged and shamed them. 

            “Do not listen to him!” Hawk cried.  “Take that Cherokee dog and silence him!”  Several of his men moved to obey, but others stopped them.  Not all of them were Cherokee.

            “No!  We will hear him speak,” one of the men said.  “Unless, Hawk, you are afraid.”

            Adam Fox stood riveted.  If he had been defending John Johnston and the white race, he could not have hoped for a better show.  Still, this sudden shift in the wind disturbed him.  All was not as it seemed.  Runs Deep did not have the look of a peacemaker.  He was a warrior.

            With whom, Adam wondered, was that war to be?

             Hawk’s lean form grew stiff.  He stood unmoving for several heartbeats, and then seemed to bend with this sudden shift of fortunes.  Lifting his hand, the Wyandot invited Runs Deep to take the stage.

            “Come.  Speak,” Hawk said, drawing back.  “I do not fear what you will say.”

            The well-dressed Cherokee hesitated, as if scenting a trap, but then he nodded and strode boldly forward.  Mounting the crude rock stair that led to the natural platform Runs Deep paused at the top, his keen eyes sweeping the area, ever alert to danger.  He had come alone to show that he was not afraid, but that did not mean he was a fool.  Boldly striding to the edge of the rocky dais, Runs Deep took a place at the front and then stood there without speaking.  As the voice of the crowd echoed around him, he turned and met Adam’s stare.

            Then he backhanded him, knocking Adam to the ground.

            “Why is this man here?” Runs Deep cried out, addressing the gathered men.  “He is no longer of the People.  His words mean nothing.  Why would Hawk need such a man?”

            “He brings the case for the People against the white man Johnston!” the renegade shouted.

            “ ‘Brings the case’.  Hawk speaks as if he is a white man,” Runs Deep sneered.  “We need no ‘case’.  We know what the white man has done.  He has killed our women and children.  He has taken our land and left us nothing!  Hawk knows this as well.  He knows he can use your anger – your righteous anger – to control you.  You are not warriors, ” he spat in disgust.  “You are puppets!”

            Adam shifted into a sitting position and stared into the crowd.  The men were listening, though it seemed they knew not who to believe.

            “Hawk will use this man and his city words to blind you to his true purpose.  This Wyandot will spend your lives to end his own pain.  He cares not how many of you die to avenge the death of his son.  He only wants to see it done.”

            “And what do you want?” someone shouted from the crowd.

            “I want an end to this insanity.  I want our People saved.”  Runs Deep was weary.  Adam could hear it in his voice.  “If I must spend my life tilting at windmills, I will see it done.”

            He had been half-listening to the Cherokee’s rhetoric.  The classical allusion brought him to sharp attention.  What was this?  A would-be native messiah quoting Cervantes?  And admitting he was seeking to accomplish the impossible, and maybe half-crazed to boot?

            Missing the allusion, the crowd exploded at Runs Deeps’ words.  War whoops and fierce battle cries shook the leaves above their heads.  The well-dressed man on the platform remained still as the lust of war rolled over and around him.  Then Runs Deep held up his hands and called for silence.

            “Do not listen to him!” Hawk pleaded with the crowd.  “We will fight!  We will win.  You and I!”

            “Old man, your days are over,” someone shouted.  These words were accompanied by a shower of dirt and stones that pelted the renegade Wyandot.  “He meant to use us, to betray us,” others shouted.  “Take him!”

            It never ceased to amaze him; the temper of crowds.  Like Jesus, hailed as Lord one moment and betrayed the next, the assembled natives were rabid now to crucify Hawk.  Somehow Adam doubted even he, with all of his persuasive powers, could stop them. 

            He didn’t have to.  Runs Deep did.

            The Cherokee moved forward.  He raised his hands and waited until the mob had quieted.  “Hawk is your brother,” he told them.  “One of the People, wronged by the white man as you have been.  Would you kill him?  No.  Hold him.  And if he pledges to take his place as one of us, then, let him die as one of us.”

             As Runs Deep spoke several of his men took the stage and captured Hawk. 

“You cannot do this!” the renegade growled.  “I have raised this army.  They are mine!”

            The well-dressed Cherokee approached his conquered enemy.  “Look at their faces, old man.  What do you see in them?  Some vague hope as you did before, or certainty?   This is bigger than you…or me.”

            Hawk scowled.  “What does that mean?”

            Runs Deep gestured and his men began to haul the old Wyandot away.  “If you live long enough, you will see.”

            Adam watched the exchange between the two men with mixed emotions.  The threat from Hawk was ended, it seemed.  But was Runs Deep a greater threat?

            “You must send these men away,” Adam dared to say.  “End this now.”

            The Cherokee was turned away from him; his elegantly-clothed form ramrod straight.  Adam watched his shoulders lift and fall, as if with a great, heartfelt sigh.  All about them a chorus of angry, desperate voices cried out for an answer, for Runs Deep to direct them; for him to order them to march.  Now.  Now they would kill the white man.  Now they would drive him out. 

Now. 

            The Cherokee pivoted to meet his stare.  “You were not to have been here,” he said.

            “What?  What do you mean?”

            Runs Deep glanced at the mob.  Looking back, his lips parted in a rueful smile.  “Those are not windmills, my Lord, they are giants.”

             The quote was wrong.  It was Cervantes again, but in reverse.  In Don Quixote, Sancho Panza told his master that the enemy he feared was not real – that there were no giants, except in his imagination.  Then, like a blade slipped between his ribs, it stabbed him.  Memory.  The memory of the small dark-skinned boy who had been Sancho to his Don Quixote.  The boy Adam had once, long ago, called di-na-da-nv-tli.

Brother.

            “Toby?” Adam asked, incredulous.  “What is this?  How can you betray everything you were raised to believe in?  How can you betray the People?”

            Tobias Fox turned and looked at the crowd.  “I have not betrayed them, brother.  I have saved them.  Tonight, when the moon rises high above the trees, you will see.”  His brother turned then and signaled one of his men.  “Take him away.  Hold him until we gather again tonight.”

            “No, Toby, you can’t do this.  It’s madness!” Adam shouted as his arms were bound and he was hauled away.

            His brother did not look at him.  In the middle of the natural dais, he stood tall. 

            “For if he like a madman lived’,” Toby said, quoting Cervantes again., “‘at least he like a wise one died.” 

~      

            Bekah Boone stood at the back of the group of angry, muttering natives.  Dressed as she was, no one noticed her.  Besides, the natives’ gaze was riveted on the handsome Cherokee who had claimed the stage.  Her eyes were riveted on him too.  Runs Deep’s words fed the fire within her.  Though she was three quarters, in her heart Bekah was all Indian.  She hated the white man.  She hated him for what he had done to her mother’s people; for what he had done to her father who had dared to love an Indian woman. 

            For what the white man had caused her to do.

            No.  That was not right.  She had not understood then.  She had trusted when she should have been wary, as a child was wont to do.  Her innocence had ended that day, even as its death cost her brother’s life.

            Bekah had not had the courage to tell her parents.  She did not have it now.  But if she joined with this man who spoke; if she followed him and destroyed the white man, then Squire might rest in peace at last.

            Bekah started as someone touched her arm.  The hand was white and ancient.  It took her by the elbow and drew her back into the trees, away from the exhilaration of what might be.  Her reaction to the old man’s touch as she broke away was so violent, it brought a low whistle from her grandfather. 

“You’re skittish as a filly in spring, Bekah,” Daniel Boone declared.

            “Do not touch me!”

              Her grandfather released her.  Then he held up both of his hands.  “I don’t know what the charge is, but I surrender.”

            Bekah’s jaw was tight.  She hated him.  She hated the fact that his son, Israel, was white and that he was her father.

            She hated herself.

            After a moment, the old man asked, “You thinking about joinin’ up?”

            Bekah was startled.  Was she so transparent?  “Perhaps,” she replied.

            “You know that young buck on the stage?”

            “Young?” she asked, spinning around.  Then she realized anyone under sixty would be young to the old man.  “No.  But his words speak to my heart.”

            Daniel Boone nodded his head.  “Mine too.”

            “What?”

            The old man was silent for a moment.  “We didn’t mean it.  We didn’t think.  It was just land, you see.  We all wanted land.  If you think the man who owns the land before you is your equal, well, then it’s mighty hard to say he don’t have a right to it.  So, you turn him into something less that you are.  It was greed, plain and simple.”  The old man looked ineffably sad.  “It still is.”

            “Are you saying these men have a right to strike back, to take back what is theirs?”

            “They got every right,” Dan answered, rising to his feet.  “What they ain’t got is a chance.”

            “The People are strong!”

            “The People are few, Bekah.  Yes, they’re strong, but the white man is stronger.  All of these men,” her grandfather gestured toward the crowd, “all of them will be dead in a fortnight if they don’t back down and go home.”

            “That is not the People’s way.  It is the way of a coward.”

            He shook his head.  “When I was a young man, I would have agreed with you.  Now I know.  If you run away there’s always the chance to fight another day.  Choose a battle you can win, Bekah.”

            The war woman tossed her head back and planted her painted hands on her hips.  “I can win any battle I choose.”

             Unexpectedly, the old man laughed.  “If you ain’t the spittin’ image of your grandma.”

            His words disarmed her.  “I…I wish I had known her.”

            “She was white,” he said softly.  “You hate whites.”

            Hearing it on the old man’s lips was hard.  “Do you say there is not reason?”

            “I say there are men to hate and men to love.  It don’t matter what color their skin is.  Now, what’s say you and me head out to save one that’s a bit of both worlds.”

            Bekah frowned.  “What do you mean?”

            Dan nodded toward the platform.  “Seems to me there’s a young lawyer who needs rescuin’.”