Journey Home Chapter Twenty-four

            After all that had happened, the end of Hawk’s war seemed an anticlimax.  Mingo stood watching as the soldiers of the United States Army moved through the crowd of natives, disarming them and grouping them by tribe.  John Johnston had expressed his fear that the Wyandot, of all the tribes, would be mistreated and had gone to speak for them.  Daniel Boone had left as well to talk with Major Gray.  It seemed the commander of the army was reluctant to relinquish Hawk.  When challenged, Gray had pulled rank.  Mingo had watched the tall frontiersman walk off with the officer, knowing Daniel was only waiting for an opportunity to do the same.  The paper in Daniel’s pocket, signed by the governor of the state and the head of the War Department granting them specific rights to the renegade was, no doubt, clutched tightly in his friend’s aged hand.  A smile tickled the corner of Mingo’s lip.  Major Thomas Gray thought it was two old men he was dealing with.   

            Gray was young.  He’d learn.

            Mingo strained his neck, seeking to see past the dozens of native men and soldiers that blocked a clear view of the area before the platform.  He was looking for Danny.  He didn’t find him, but he did – with relief – see Adam and Sunalei moving through the soldiers and natives, supporting their brother between them.  After a moment, Mingo realized they were headed directly for him.  Neither Adam nor his sister looked pleased.

            Though obviously in pain, Runs Deep did – and he looked determined. 

            Curious Dent came walking up and greeted him with a nod.  Cincinnatus’ nephew had pulled a clay pipe out of his pocket and lit it.  He took a long draw on it and sent the smoke up in a ring into the air.  Then the tavernkeeper nodded toward the siblings.

            “I’d like to meet that Copperhead,” Dent said.  “That’s three fine young people he raised.”

            Mingo smiled.  “I think Copperhead would lay much of that credit at his wife’s feet, but you are right.  Adam, especially, is a remarkable young man.”

            Dent’s eyes narrowed.  “That younger one looks like he’s a man on a mission.”

            The trio had halted a few yards away.  Runs Deep, as seriously injured as he was, broke free of his siblings and, after taking a moment to gain his balance, approached them alone.

            “O-si-yo,” he breathed.

            “O-si-yo,” Mingo answered back.  It was all he could do not to reach out and steady the young man, but he restrained himself.  “What can I do for you?”

            “My chief…sends his greetings, Cara-Mingo…of the Tsalagi,” Runs Deep said, his voice barely more than a coarse whisper, “to his…father’s sister’s…son.”

            Mingo frowned.  “Your chief?”

            “You know him…well.  Chief Monlutha.”

            The name took him by surprise.  Monlutha, Menewa’s son had disappeared a year before.  Mingo, as everyone who knew Monlutha, had thought him dead.  “He lives?”

            Runs Deep winced with pain.  Then he nodded.  “Like the thunder, the rumor…of Hawk’s madness…rolled across the land.  Among our people…there was much interest…in his message.  Watowah rose up to…challenge the Peace Chief.”  He paused to gather strength.  “Many joined him.”

            Mingo thought he detected something in the young man’s eyes – shame, perhaps?  “And were you one of them?”

            “In the beginning,” Copperhead’s youngest son admitted.  “But not for long.  I had…taken the red path for…many years.  With Watowah and Hawk I saw….   I realized that path would lead…only to the People’s end.” 

            Runs Deep’s skin glistened with fever and he was shaking.  For fear he would fall, Mingo reached out a hand to steady the young man.  “Will you not sit?” he asked.  Sunalei, Mingo noticed, had started toward her younger brother, but Adam held her back.

            “I will…rest when my…mission is done.”

            “Your mission?”

            “Monlutha asks…that you, Cara-Mingo, return…to the People.  You can…bring peace.  You…who are of both worlds.”

            “You are of both worlds too,” Mingo reminded him softly.

            “But you are unstained.  And the wisdom of your years…is needed, Cara-Mingo.  Your…people call.”

            Mingo hesitated and then asked, “How did you know you would find me?  Did you have word that Daniel and I were in Kentucky?”

            “No one passes…without our knowledge.  And our chief…knew with Hawk, you would come.”

            “You traveled with Watowah because you knew he would lead you to Hawk?  Did you make the deal with the army, or did Monlutha?”

            Runs Deep paled.  “That was…my choice alone.”

            Mingo squeezed the young man’s shoulder.  “It was a wise, if reckless one.  You are your father’s son.” 

            Curious Dent had been listening carefully, puffing away on his pipe.  Now he spoke for the first time.  “What happened to that troublemaking Cherokee Watowah anyhow?”

            “He’s not been taken,” a new voice remarked as a small military wagon rolled up next to them.  It was Danny.  Beside his son, with a familiar lop-sided grin on his face, was Daniel Boone. 

            “Thanks for the ride, young’un,” Dan said as he dropped to the ground.  “Quite a boy you got there, Mingo.”

            “I take it you sorted things out with Major Gray,” Mingo asked, hiding his smile.

            Dan patted his pocket.  “We came to a mutual agreement.  Hawk’s tied up pretty as a package.  He’s ready and waiting for you and me to claim him and haul him to the capital.”

            Mingo’s eyes shot to Runs Deep.  The young man was no longer standing under his own power.  Adam and Sunalei had moved in to support him, even as Danny hopped down from the wagon and came to their side.   In spite of his deteriorating condition, Runs Deep refused to be moved. 

The child of the Cherokee awaited his answer.

            “If you will give me a moment, Daniel,” Mingo said, “I would like to see Runs Deep settled and on his way.”

            Dan nodded.  Then he turned to Curious Dent.  “What’s say you and me go find some coffee to go with that pipe?  With all these soldiers here, there’s bound to be a pound or two to spare.”  The pair started to walk off, but then the tall frontiersman turned back.  “Adam, you know where Is’rul went?” he called.
            Danny answered.  “I left him and Bekah behind the platform.  They were talking.”

            “I imagine they had a great deal to discuss,” Mingo said.

            Dan nodded.  “I’ll just leave them alone for a while then.  Come on, Dent.  These old bones are aching for something hot.  I’ll bring you a cup, Mingo.  You can down it before we go.”

            Mingo gave his friend a quick smile, but sobered instantly on returning to Runs Deep’s side.  Copperhead’s younger son was failing.  He was ashen now, and breathing hard.  As he approached, Adam shot him a hopeless look.

            “Toby refuses to go until – ”

            “Until he has my answer.”  Mingo reached out and again placed a hand on the young man’s arm.  “What could it be but ‘yes’?  My people call.  How can I fail to answer?  Until we know it is over, I will fight for them.”

            A shudder ran through the man before him.  “Seek out…Waiting Moon,” Runs Deep replied.  “He is…to be trusted, as are…any who are with him.”

            “I will, but only if you will do as your brother and sister say.  Let them take you to a place of safety where you can heal.”

            “There is…much to do – ”

            “Not for you,” Mingo insisted.  “But with the wisdom you have won this day, there will be much to do tomorrow… and beyond.”  He paused.  “Is it Runs Deep, or Tobias I should call you?”

            Though pale and trembling, the young man smiled.  “Toby will do.” 

~      

            An hour, or perhaps a little more had passed since Rachel Moray had stumbled upon the lost Johnston boy.  As the army of natives appeared and moved past their hiding place, she had pulled Robinson close, warning him to remain silent; praying that they would not be discovered.   It had taken the men no more than five minutes to clear the area, but she had kept the boy in their place of concealment, listening, ever fearful the natives would return – or worse, that were only the first wave.  When no more appeared, Rachel allowed the boy to climb out of the sycamore tree and followed him.

            Only to find her horse and supplies gone.

            At first it panicked her.  Rachel feared someone had discovered the animal and therefore, knew they were there.  Then she saw the animal’s tether had been broken and not cut.  Apparently the horse had panicked and run away, leaving them to travel on foot. 

For a while she and Robinson walked together, hand in hand, but it quickly became obvious that the boy was exhausted.  She offered to carry him and he manfully refused and so, in the end, they had been forced to stop again.

            No sooner had they stopped then Rachel heard the sound of tramping feet, not dozens this time, but hundreds.  Terrified, she sought a hollow in the land and threw the two of them into it.  Pulling leaves and bracken over their heads, not daring to breathe, she gathered Robinson close and waited for this new wave of warriors to pass.  It was only later, when she was able to examine the tracks, that she realized the men who had passed had not been native, but soldiers heading to war.

            Now Rachel leaned on the bole of a great weeping willow, holding the boy as he slept; her face turned in the direction her husband and son had gone.  All of her hopes and prayers ran before her, where she could not follow without risking the child’s life.  Her fingers caressed Robinson’s raven-black hair, brushing it gently from his forehead.  God had not failed to answer his mother’s prayers.  Hers, no doubt, would be treated the same.

            Leaning her head back, Rachel closed her eyes and tried to relax.  She needed sleep but, so far, it had eluded her.  She had nearly drifted off when a soft neighing brought her head up.  She listened.  After several heartbeats she heard it again.  The tone was familiar.  Slipping out from beneath Robinson’s sleeping form, Rachel gently laid him on the ground and rose to follow the sound.

            “Is that you, girl?” she asked.  Finding her lost horse would be a Godsend.  “Girl?”

            As she moved into the trees, Rachel heard a youthful voice call out to her.  Pivoting back, she could see Robinson through the leaves.  He had awakened and was sitting up rubbing his eyes.

            With a frown she started toward him, but at that moment something soft and warm touched her arm.  Thinking it her horse, Rachel turned back and found herself nearly nose to nose with a thick-set native with a face like a fencepost.  He held her horse’s reins in one hand.  In the other was her monogrammed saddlebag.  The native’s action indicated he wanted her to take it.

            Rachel did so – cautiously.  “Thank you,” she managed to say.

            “This is your horse?” he asked.

            Seeing no harm in admitting it, she answered, “Yes.”

            “You are Rachel Moray?”

            Rachel glanced at the saddlebag.  It had obviously been opened and her personal items rummaged through.  “Who are you?” she asked, backing away.

            The native sneered.  “I am Watowah.  Your husband’s enemy.”

            “Mrs. Moray?” a small voice called, reminding her of the child in her protection.  At that moment a native of gargantuan proportions appeared before her, followed by more dark-skinned men who ran past her, heading for the place where she had left him.

            “Robinson, run!” Rachel screamed.  “Run!  These men are evil!  Get away!”

            A rough hand caught her wrist.  It was quickly followed by another that was clamped tightly over her mouth and then her feet were lifted from the ground.  Rachel struggled for a moment, but quieted quickly.  The giant’s strength was far superior to hers.  She waited – and prayed that the boy had gotten away.

            Moments later one of Watowah’s men appeared, a small shirt in his hands – but no Robinson.

            “No matter,” the Cherokee renegade pronounced as he ordered her taken forward.  “We have what we need.  We will leave Cara-Mingo a message so he knows where to claim her.  And when he does –

            “He will die.”

~     

            Daniel Boone, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, walked back across the field where only minutes before hundreds of Indians and soldiers had stood eyeing one another, prepared to fight and die.  It was nothing more now than a bed of trampled grass now, dotted here and there with a feather or bead, and maybe a discarded army issued cup or knife.  Major Gray knew his business.  The soldier had rounded up the Indians and quartered them separately in the forest nearby.  Gray intended to dismiss them tribe by tribe, but only after he had given them time to sweat – and to watch the might of his force at work.  John Johnston had been there, making sure Major Gray understood the Indians had someone on their side.

            There had been very few Cherokee.  The ones captured were Chickamauga who had come with Watowah.  The renegade medicine man and his henchmen were missing and that troubled him.  Dan knew it had to trouble Mingo as well.  While the charlatan of a medicine man had disliked him, as he’d told his son Israel once upon a time, Watowah had to downright hate Mingo.  It had been Mingo who had seen to it that Nitashanta was able to restore the tribe’s water supply, thereby showing the medicine man for what he was, and Mingo who had kept Watowah from killing Dan himself.  Mingo’s actions alone had cost Watowah his home, his power and prestige.

            If there was one thing Dan had learned during his long life, it was that settlers didn’t hold a candle to Indians when it came to holding grudges.

            On his way back from his meeting with Gray, Dan had asked after Israel again.  It was beginning to trouble him that both his son and granddaughter had gone missing.  If Mingo still didn’t know anything, he was going to have to head out and search for them himself.  There was no way he could take off with Hawk without first knowing his family was safe.

            Then again, with the US army so nearby, what could have gone wrong?

            Dan found his old friend sitting on the stair that led up to the platform where Hawk had spoken only a little more than an hour before.  Mingo looked bone-weary and forlorn. Stopping in front of him, Dan held out the promised mug of coffee and asked with a grin, “You missin’ your boy too?”

              It took a moment for his old friend to look up.  “Danny has taken Copperhead’s children to the Wild Wood Inn.  The army needs the wagon back before their departure tomorrow.  It will be a hard journey in so short a time, but Danny should return by morning.”  Mingo rose to his feet.  “Is Israel missing?”

            “And Bekah.”

            Mingo frowned.  “Do you think something is wrong?”

            Dan offered the coffee again, and this time Mingo took it.  “Nope.  But I’m gonna see to that for certain before we start out.”

            Mingo took a sip and then fell silent.

            “I know that look,” Dan said.  “What’s wrong?”

            “I cannot go with you, Daniel.”

            Dan’s green eyes narrowed.  “Can’t, or won’t?”

            His old friend sighed.  “A bit of both.”

            “This have to do with Watowah?”

            Mingo looked surprised.  “Why would you think that?”

            “We got us one skunk in the bag.  The other’s still on the loose.”

            “Watowah is Cherokee, Daniel.  He is my concern.”

            “You responsible for all the Cherokee in Kentucky now, Mingo, no matter what group they hail from?”

            He pursed his lips.  “In a way.  Monlutha has asked for my help.”

            “Monlutha?”  Dan grinned.  “Menewa’s boy’s still alive?”

            “Yes.  Runs Deep…Tobias is his agent.  The Cherokee nation, Daniel, walks on extremely thin ice.  A man like Watowah, on the lose, could do great damage.”

            “So could a man like Hawk.  Come with me, Mingo.  Let’s see him put away, and then I’ll go with you to look for your Cherokee renegade.”

            Mingo shook his head.  “I feel it in my bones, Daniel.  There is no time to waste.  I must go, now.”

            “Frankfort is north, Mingo.  You know which way Watowah is headed?”

            “The Cherokee are south, Daniel.”

            For a moment, neither of them said anything.  Then Dan nodded toward his friend’s hand, “Your coffee’s getting cold, Mingo.  Drink up.”

            “Daniel….”

            Dan took a sip of his own, spit out the crushed beans that had made their way in to the cup, and then tossed the remainder in the grass.  “I ain’t never been good a sayin’ goodbye.”

            “Who says it is ‘goodbye’?”

            He hadn’t mentioned it to anybody, but in his bones, Dan knew his life was drawing to a close.  For some time now he had been working a certain piece of cherry, turning it into a box fit for a man’s final repose.  Dan didn’t know when or where it would come, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be long.  Other than leaving behind those he loved, he had little regret.  He’d won the race and taken the prize.

            “Daniel?”

             The tall frontiersman thought of a thousand things to say, but they were either too little or too much.  So, instead, he asked, “When do you leave?”

            Mingo nodded toward a brace of trees.  Waiting Moon, Runs Deep’s first lieutenant, waited beneath them.  Behind him were a half-dozen mounted men and two empty horses.

            “I see.  Well, good luck, Mingo.  Give old Watowah a kick in his buckskin britches for me.”

             As if sensing the impending tide of emotion he was trying to outrun, Mingo nodded his head.  “Look up in when you come to Frankfort.  You will see him flying over the capital.”

            Dan laughed.  “Later, Mingo.”

            And then he watched his friend walk away. 

~    

            From a distance John Johnston had watched the two old friends part.  Mingo mounted a horse and rode off with the Cherokee contingent, while Daniel Boone, with his chin resting on his chest, walked slowly toward the makeshift jail where the renegade Wyandot was housed.  It had taken all of John’s considerable skill, but he had finally convinced Major Gray to detain none but Hawk’s immediate circle.  The loss of honor and face the Indians had suffered at the army’s hands was more than enough of a punishment.  The defeated natives would return home, but they would never again take up arms or dream of a land made free of the white man.

            Now, an hour later, just as the sun broke the morning with a pale purple sky, he was finally headed for a length of bedding given him by one of Gray’s men.  Most of the soldiers were less than sympathetic, but that was all right.  John was used to being considered an Indian sympathizer, and had grown immune to the looks of hatred and the words of condemnation.  One of the men, though, had approached him with thanks.  The soldier’s name was Hosea Walters.  He had kin among the Wyandot and was grateful for John’s efforts on their behalf.  Before the young man left he had given him the bedroll, gently telling the Indian agent that he looked like he could use a grist of sleep.

            That was an understatement.

            Now that the worst of it was over, John longed for nothing more than his own bed and his wife’s arms.  He wanted to see his children.  To hold and hug them.  But how, how could he return when one remained lost?  How, when he didn’t know what had happened to Robinson.

            John looked at the bedroll.  He found he didn’t have the energy to undo it, and so he dropped on the ground and used it to pillow his head.  Closing his eyes, he raised his inner voice in prayer, petitioning the one who had created them all to show him the path to his son.

            Sometime later, a hand on John’s shoulder roused him.  He blinked and rolled over, only to find he had been asleep some time.  The risen sun cast the young soldier’s slender form into silhouette, but John realized fairly quickly that it was Hosea.  Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he rose to his feet.

            “What is it?  You haven’t lost Hawk, have you?”

            “No, sir, Mr. Johnston.  That old renegade is safe as a pig trussed up and ready for the kill.  But I think we might have found something that belongs to you.”

            Hosea stepped aside to reveal, running across the trampled field as fast as his long legs would carry him, a disheveled and bare-chested boy with raven-black hair and wide, deep brown eyes.

            It was as if John’s heart forgot to beat.

            He gasped. “Robinson!  Dear God, Robinson!”  And then he too was running.

            Tears spilled down John’s cheeks as he took his boy in his arms.  He pressed the child to his chest and planted a kiss on his filthy forehead. 

            “My son,” he breathed.

            Robinson was doing his best not to cry.  His head was tucked against him and he could feel the boy’s body tremble.  John deliberately pulled his son back so Robinson could see he was crying too.  There was no shame in their tears and he wanted him to know.

            “Pa!” the boy whispered.  “Pa….”

            “Hush.  You’re safe now.  Thanks be to Providence, you’re safe.”

            Robinson touched his face, tenderly.  Then the boy drew in a great gulp of air.  “Pa, the Indians – ”

            “They’re taken.  They cannot harm you anymore.”

            “Not me, Pa.  Mrs. Moray.  The Indians have got Mrs. Moray!”

            “What?”  John frowned.  “Mingo’s wife?  What are you saying?”

            “She was with me, Pa.  She kept me safe.  But those men, they took her!  She told me to run and I did.”  Robinson shuddered again.  “One of them took hold of her Pa.  I couldn’t help her.”

            “What men?”  He feared he knew, but….  “What did they look like?  Did you hear a name?”

            Robinson nodded.  “There was one big as a mountain.  And about a dozen others.  They was led by old man.  He called himself Watowah.”

            “Sir,” Hosea, who had been standing to the side, granting them a moment of privacy, asked, “Isn’t Watowah the renegade Cherokee Mingo set off in pursuit of?”

            John lifted his boy and held him with one arm.  As Robinson laid his head on his shoulder, safe at last, the agent turned to look in the direction the older man had gone.  “Yes.  But I wonder now, who is the pursuer – and who the pursued?”

            “Should we follow them, sir?”

            John nodded.  “But first I must see my son to safety.”

            “Pa, no!  I want to go with you!” Robinson protested.

            Just as John was about to address his boy’s concerns, shouts from the opposite side of the camp drew his attention.  As he watched, Daniel Boone’s long lanky form cleared the trees and came striding purposefully across the field.  The older man paused when he saw Robinson and a pained look added to the wrinkles on his aged face. 

“This your missing boy, John?”

            “Yes, Providence has seen fit to return him to me.”

            Daniel Boone nodded.  “Let’s hope that Providence has room for two miracles today.”
            “What is it, Daniel?  What is wrong?”

            The frontiersman looked grim.  “Some of the soldiers just found my boy Israel’s daughter, Bekah, in the woods.  She’s been shot.”

            “Shot?  Dear God!  By whom?”

            Daniel Boone ran a hand across his stubbled chin.  “By Simon Keller.  That madman has my son and he means to hang him.”