Journey Home Chapter Twenty-six

            John Johnston hadn’t waited for the soldiers before departing.  For some reason, he felt in his gut there was no time.  He had commandeered a horse from the army – after all his title as Colonel, even if honorary, had to count for something – and taken off at a fast clip, following Mingo’s trail.  John hated to leave Robinson after so brief a reunion, but there was really little choice.  He just prayed the boy would listen and stay put.  After taking care of this matter, John was bound and determined to reunite his family, no matter what.

            Hawk was secured and that ended the threat of war.  The renegade’s men would be dealt with fairly, if summarily.  By engaging the US army in the downfall of the Wyandot’s scheme, Tobias Fox had dealt a fatal blow to the machinations of any false messiahs yet waiting in the wings.

            At least John hoped Toby had.

            As he rode, ducking low branches and praying every minute that his horse’s feet did not catch in some concealed depression, John’s thoughts flew to Daniel Boone and the mission the older man had undertaken.  It had been a hard choice to make.  Should he go after Mingo?  Or assist Daniel Boone in searching for his son?  The agent’s heart had tugged him one way, but his head had told him the real danger lay in the other – with Watowah and the Chickamauga’s desire for vengeance.  Simon Keller, like many settlers, was an ignorant man afraid of what he could not comprehend.  Watowah, from what John understood, was deliberately evil.

            And evil men cared little what they destroyed, just so long as it brought others pain.

            Robinson’s words rang in his ears, striking a chord of fear even as John’s horse’s hooves struck the hard ground.  The renegade had Mingo’s wife.  Even if he had not owed her for the kindness shown to his family and for risking her life to take care of his son, Rachel Moray was a woman and, as such, to be cherished and protected.  He had walked among the Indians long enough to know that their respect for a woman elder had no equivalent in the white world.  If this man was capable of willingly harming an older woman – a mother and grandmother – then Watowah would be considered depraved, even in his own people’s eyes.

            John reined in his horse and halted.  He dismounted and bent to search the road.  Unfortunately, the events of the night before had left it covered in prints.  Rising, he looked about.  Robinson showed talent as an artist and before John had left, his son had presented him with a drawing that showed the area where Mrs. Moray had been taken.  He pulled the sketch out now and, while marveling at the childish beauty of it, scanned both it and the tree line ahead, looking for a match.

            And found it!

            Fearful that his horse might give his presence away, John tethered it to a tree near the stream’s edge where there was plenty of fresh sweet grass.  Then, dropping to his belly, he crawled up the gentle rise before him until he could just peer over the top.  Mingo was nowhere to be seen, but near a half-dozen men were walking toward him.  One led a woman whose silent sobs shook her from head to toe.  It was Mrs. Moray. 

Thank Providence!  At least she was alive.

            John watched for several heartbeats as Mingo’s wife was led across the grassy field, trying to decide whether or not to intervene.  The men who walked with her seemed almost reverential in their treatment of her.  She was neither molested nor threatened in any way.  It didn’t seem they meant to harm her.  John’s grey eyes flicked from face to face.  Watowah was not among them.  Again he was faced with a choice. 

What should he do?

            John jumped as a hand dropped onto his shoulder and he realized that, in the end, the choice might not be his.  He whirled and then relaxed when he realized it was Major Thomas Gray.

            “You’ve found him?” Gray asked, his voice soft as the breeze that stirred the leaves around them.

            “No.  But that is Mrs. Moray.”

            “Mingo’s wife?”

            John nodded.  He glanced behind Gray and saw several other soldiers advancing at a crouch.  “Do you think you can take them – and keep her safe?”

            “I’ve handled similar situations,” the major replied without sounding cocky. 

            “If you will see to Mrs. Moray’s safety, I will see if I can find Mingo and Watowah.”

            Gray studied him.  “And do what?”

            John knew the military mind.  It tended to distrust civilians – and to think them more than a bit incompetent.  “Wait for you, of course.”
            Major Gray clapped his shoulder before edging back down the hill.  “Good man.”

            John waited as Mingo’s wife and her captors moved beyond the  line of trees.  Then he dropped down the opposite side of the hill and began to search the ground for signs of Mingo and Watowah.  Just when he was ready to give up, John found something; a shallow series of impressions showing that three men – one of them quite large and heavy – had walked toward the stream’s edge.  He sighted along them, noting the direction they were taking and then, he began to run.

            If he found Watowah and Mingo at the end as he expected he would, John realized he would owe Major Gray an apology. 

He would have to take things into his own hands. 

~

Mingo awoke gasping for air.  He was confined in a stygian space that smelled of freshly turned earth, barely big enough for his lean six foot frame.  He couldn’t move his arms or legs, and when he opened his eyes dirt trickled down into them.

It must be his grave.

As his heartbeat echoed in his chest, Mingo cast his mind back.  Where was he?  What had happened?  The first thing that came to him was the image of his mate of over twenty-five years being led away, quietly sobbing. 

“Watowah,” he whispered, eating earth.

The renegade Chickamauga had not had the humanity to allow them a goodbye.  Mingo had watched as Rachel disappeared from view; his face stone as he would not allow Watowah to revel in his pain.  All but one of the renegade’s men went with her.  The one who remained behind was a young, powerfully-built warrior who, by the look of him, had seen in his short span of years on the earth more battles than he and Daniel combined.  True to his word, Mingo did not try to run as the two conferred – though there had been nothing stopping him other than his own innate sense of honor.  He had not been bound or shackled.  Still, Mingo imagined Watowah had a prearranged signal with his men – something that would alert them to the fact that he was dead and Rachel was to be freed, and so he took no chances.  He was an old man anyway.  Most likely he had only a few years left.

He could not live them without her.

A few minutes later the renegade Cherokee had approached him.  Watowah’s aged face spoke clearly of his triumph.  The renegade’s companion’s face was blank, as if the giant felt nothing.  Only the man’s eyes were alive with the expectation of bringing about another’s pain.

Mingo had waited, unmoving, determined to meet his death head-on, only to be surprised when it did not come instantly.  Watowah pointed toward the rushing stream and the precipitous rock wall that rose beside it.  Then the renegade indicated with a nod that he should walk that way.  Mingo did, for about ten steps.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing, until he awoke here – wherever here was.

Unexpectedly, a voice spoke.  The sound of it was strangely muffled.  Mingo heard it as if a hood had been tightly pulled over his head.  “Can you hear me, Cara-Mingo?” Watowah asked.  “Do you know where you are?”

            Mingo said nothing.  He attempted to move again, and even more dirt trailed down into his eyes and onto his lips.

            “I leave Stone Breaker here to guard your grave.  No one will find you and take you from it.  You will die, as Nitashanta should have so many moons ago.”  The renegade Chickamauga’s voice grew more distant as he spoke.  It came, at the last, as a whisper to Mingo’s ear.  “Die, old man in the cave.”

            Now Mingo knew what had happened.  Like the old native healer Israel Boone had rescued from Watowah’s ambition decades before, Watowah had entombed him in one of the many caves fronting the stream.  The renegade was leaving him there to die an agonizing  death, robbed of breath by the slow trickle of earth that was steadily filling his grave. 

~

            John halted and ducked down behind a boulder.  Hawk’s cohort, Watowah, was advancing along the stream bank toward him.  The agent held his breath as the Chickamauga passed by, and then stood and looked after him.  The Indian’s hatchet face had worn a smug satisfied look that did not bode well for Mingo.  And yet, Watowah carried no weapon.  Nor did John notice blood on the renegade’s hands or clothes.  He hesitated, uncertain of what course to pursue.  Mingo could be lying somewhere in the opposite direction, wounded or dying.  Should he return the way he had come, or follow Watowah?  Finally opting for the latter as the surer course, John followed the Chickamauga.  It was only a matter of minutes before Watowah stopped to speak with another man who, from the look of him, could have been a strong man from one of the circuses that infrequently visited Upper Piqua. 

            The Indian was a Gargantua!

            Moving in as close as he dared, John listened to their conversation.  When he caught the gist of their words, he was filled with inexpressible horror.

            Watowah had buried Mingo in a premature grave!

            Trembling with rage, John started to rise; to move out to confront them.  Within seconds wisdom overcame his outrage.  It would do Mingo little good if he was apprehended as well – or broken in two by Watowah’s strong arm.              Closing his eyes, John begged of Providence a boon.  “This is a good man,” he whispered, “do not let him die at this animal’s hands.”  Opening his eyes, he looked again.  Watowah was moving off into the trees, back the way he had come. 

            The human ox was headed for the stream.

            A guard, he thought.  The old Indian was placing the giant there to guard his prize.  Certain his insight was divinely inspired, John abandoned Watowah to God’s judgement and set off in pursuit of the other man.

            It didn’t take long to reach the place.  Along the edge of the stream were several small caves.  Two were submerged, but one was above the water’s surface – for now.  John could tell by the signs on the rock that at times it became completely submerged.  The cave’s mouth was dark, as if it had been recently filled with freshly turned earth.  He could only pray that Mingo had raised an arm, or been granted some pocket of air that would allow him to breathe until a rescue could be made.

            Moving quickly but cautiously, John slipped in closer so he could study the big Indian.  The man had a face like a flat iron, wide at the forehead and narrow at the cheeks; cast of flesh baked iron-hard by constant exposure to the sun.  The giant was planted like an ancient oak before the cave’s opening.  John considered simply showing himself.  Perhaps he could draw him away, or even engage the man in conversation.  Fears of a single shout bringing Watowah or signaling the renegade’s men to return stopped him.

            What could he do?  Every minute, each second counted. 

What could he do?

            And then John laughed.  A short quiet bark of a laugh that was a much needed release of tension.  He was over-thinking it.

            Rising to his feet he picked up a large rock and, using all of his strength, flung it up and over so it landed far into the trees to the right side of where the giant stood.  The Indian started.  The man turned to look and then, with the keen sense of any animal of prey, dashed off into the trees to find whatever kill had entered his domain.

            There wasn’t time to dig Mingo out.  That would have to wait for later.  Still, John took a moment to draw close to the earthen wall, wading ankle deep in the water.   “Hold on, Mingo,” he said.  “Hold on!”  And then, without waiting for an reply, John Johnston headed off into the trees in pursuit of Watowah’s behemoth. 

~

            Rachel Moray thought of herself as a strong woman, but there is an end to strength.  There is a moment when faith fails, when hope turns to despair; when grief leaches the heart and the blood that runs through one’s veins goes cold.  As she walked through the forest sandwiched between Watowah’s men, that moment had come.  And it had come as a result of the simplest thing. 

A butterfly fluttering by. 

            She had known Cara-Mingo, or rather Kerr Murray for only a few months.  It was the 1760s –  oh, so long ago.  They had flirted, even though they knew they shouldn’t.  He was an intense young man with places to go.  She, well, she was loved by another man and everyone said it would be a good match.  One day they had found themselves walking in the yard and stopped near an arbor bent under the weight of a thousand wisteria blossoms.  His hand had brushed hers, quite innocently, as he reached for one of them.  A playful breeze had tossed her golden curls in her face.  Kerr had brushed them away as he anchored the blossom in her upswept hair.  At that moment, a butterfly had darted between them.  He laughed and said it must be an omen. 

            Then Kerr had kissed her.

            Rachel felt the touch even now, his lips on her; his fingers against her skin.  A touch, if the villain Watowah had his way, she was never to feel again.

            The warriors guarding her were the age of her children and grandchildren.  They were not brutes, but angry young men who had chosen the wrong man to trust.  When she jerked as though she had been shot and fell to the ground in a pool of tears unable to continue, they hadn’t known what to do.  None wanted to manhandle her, and so they had left her where she was and moved off a safe distance to watch.  In the mythology of many native tribes those considered afflicted by the white world were though of as blessed by the Creator – especially touched by His hand.  The young warriors had regarded her with a kind of awe. 

It only intensified when the butterfly – as if seeking to lend her strength – returned to light on her shoulder.

              “Kamama,” she heard one of them say, which brought a smile to her face.  Copperhead’s wife had been called that once.  Butterfly.  But this day she feared the orange and black omen was a bad one.

            One that signaled an end.

            One of the natives approached her.  He stood staring at her unspeaking, for a full minute, watching her and the butterfly.  Then he glanced at his men.  When one of them nodded, the warrior turned back to her and said, “Go.”

            Rachel blinked.  “What?”

            “Go.  Go now.”

            Gathering her skirts she rose to her feet, sending the butterfly on its way.  “You’re releasing me?”

            He nodded.  The man was young – most likely under twenty.  He had a kind face, hardened by choice and intention.  From the way he was dressed she guessed he was one of the Cherokee who had chosen to remain behind when the majority of their people were moved west.  His clothing was homespun and without ornament.

            “My men and I have talked,” he said.  “We do not agree with killing old men and women.  Watowah promised honor.  He said he wanted to make the Cherokee strong again.”  The young man shook his head.  “Such actions do not make us strong.”

            “What is your name?” she asked.

            He frowned, but answered, “Bear Grass.”

            “Does leaving an innocent man to die honor you, Bear Grass?”

            “We know nothing of Watowah’s plans,” he answered, his jaw tightening.  “Only Stone Breaker knows where your husband is.”

            “Then come back with me.  Help me find him.”

            He shook his head as the other men came to flank him.  “No.  We go to our home.  You must go to yours.”

            “But I have no home without my husband!” she pleaded, catching him by one sun- reddened arm.  “Please.”

            Bear Grass looked up.  His eyes followed the butterfly as it made a lazy circle above their heads and then flew off toward the west and the setting sun.  A moment later he pulled his arm free and with it signaled his men.

            Moments later, she was alone.

            Rachel stared after the men until the sun set behind the trees and their lean silhouettes became one with the rising dark.  Then she sank to the ground again, lowered her head into her hands, and wept. 

            Sometime later, she had no idea how long, a hand on her shoulder roused her.  Shaking off the lethargy of unexpected sleep, Rachel lifted her head and turned it toward a martial figure that was rendered faceless by the lack of light. 

“Bear Grass?” she asked.

            “No, Ma’am,” the man said, removing his hat and saluting.  “Major Thomas Gray of the United States Army.  Is there something I can do for you?”

            As he spoke, the butterfly returned. 

~

            John Johnston was not a small man.  When he had served in General Washington’s guard, the great man had only topped him by an inch.  He was broadly built, of military stock it was often said, and could wield an ax or scythe with the best of men.  John had held his own in hand-to-hand combat, often prevailing over larger, less agile men.  But that had been in his youth.  And as much as he wanted to think he was still that same man, he knew he was not.  He was five years from the half century mark.  Already, he had outlived more men than he cared to remember.  The last twenty-odd of those he had spent as a father and farmer, and an agent of the United States Government, negotiating treaties and handling disputes.

            In other words, he was soft.

            John sighed as he watched Watowah’s brute move through the forest, trampling leaf and branch underfoot.  There had to be some way to overcome the Indian giant without resorting to a physical battle, which he was destined to lose.  Sinking back into the shadows of the leaves, John ran a hand over his face and used his fingers to massage his neck.  He had to come up with something quickly.  Mingo didn’t have much time.

            As he sat there, trying to think, John’s mind strayed to Mingo’s wife and from her, to his own Rachel.  The one bright spot in all of this would be his beloved wife’s face when she saw Robinson alive.  Her joy would match his own.  The boy had been brave, striking out on his own to find help for Mrs. Moray.  But then, Robinson was a very special little boy.  One minute he was marching with his brother, all spit and polish and every inch the soldier.  The next they would find him sitting under a tree with a pencil in his hand, sketching, or reading a book.

            He sat up and snapped his fingers.  That was it! 

            John glanced back the way the giant had gone, wondering what he could do to lure the man into the position he needed.  The agent raised his head and gazed upward, taking the measure of the branches above.  Those near the top looked just strong enough to bear his weight without breaking.

            His weight, but not the giant’s.

            “I’ll have to remember to thank Master Benjamin Tabart if this works,” John breathed as he removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began to climb.

            He didn’t have long to wait.  As John reached the ten foot height of the tree, Stone Breaker broke through the underbrush, bellowing like an frustrated bull.  John waited until the man was under the tree and then he took aim and pitched a dry pinecone, striking the Indian on the top of the head. 

            “Come and get me, you beast,” John muttered as he climbed higher into the tree.

            On the ground Stone Breaker howled in frustration.

            John wished he knew some insults in Cherokee.  He racked his brain, but nothing came.  With an apology to his absent wife and all of the other women he loved and admired, he leaned out and called, “Are you an old woman sitting before the fire?  An old woman with no teeth who grows weak from eating mash, and who cannot lift a hand to empty her own pot?”

            In response the giant placed his hand on the bottom branch of the tree.

            John moved up higher, twenty, maybe thirty feet from the ground.  This time the branch he chose groaned under his weight.  He didn’t know what he would do if he reached the top and Stone Breaker was still coming.

            Sprout wings and fly maybe?

            “Tsalagi gi-li!” he called down, suddenly remembering the Cherokee word for ‘dog’.  It was a term employed often by the Shawano he represented.  It was amazing how those who had once been friends could become bitter enemies.  “Run home, gi-li, with your tail between your legs.  Run home to your fire where an old woman will feed you her mash because no young one will have you!”    

            That did it.

            Roaring like a bull, John’s own personal giant came barreling up the tree, looking to catch hold of the agent and shake him loose so he would fall and break his neck.  John dared to go one level higher, another ten feet or so.  He held his breath as he heard the branch creak beneath him.  There was a distressful sound, and then its rough hide broke free and fell.

            John looked down.  Stone Breaker was more than half way up the tree and so far, moving with speed and agility.  The agent watched him advance, branch by branch until he was within ten feet.  Within eight. Six.  Four.

            Two.

            Then there was a horrific crack.  The tree shuddered.  Stone Breaker cried out and plummeted the full forty feet to the ground.

            And lay very very still.

            It was what he had hoped for, but the reality of it left John’s stomach sick.

            Carefully, but as quickly as he could, the agent moved back down the tree, watching each hand and foothold, judiciously choosing to avoid his vanquished enemy’s fate.  When at last he leapt to the ground, John was trembling from head to foot.  He knelt at Stone Breaker’s side and placed a hand on the big Indian’s chest.  There was nothing.  The native’s head was turned at an odd angle.  He had broken his neck in the fall.

            John sunk back against the tree trunk and wiped his forehead free of sweat.  He never could have conceived when he bought Robinson a copy of Benjamin Tabart’s History of Jack and the Bean-Stalk that a fairy tale would save his life!

            Now he had to save Mingo’s.

Rising to his feet, John caught his coat up from the ground and began to run.  It was difficult finding his way back.  The sun had set while he led the giant on, and the path was anything but certain.  He trained his ear to the sound of the water and followed that.  John’s heart grew heavier with each step he took for he feared, when he arrived, that he would be too late.

Minutes later he broke through the underbrush.  Walking through the water, John approached the spot where he believed Mingo to be interred.  In the darkness it was hard to see, but he stuck his hands out, intent on clawing away the dirt that buried the older man –

only to find the grave empty! 

At that moment, a woman’s voice called his name.

Disbelieving, John turned to find a lantern’s shutter opening so its light could illumine the ground around it.  Rachel Moray was there.  She sat cradling her husband’s form.  Rachel was smiling.  Mingo must be alive!  Behind her stood Major Thomas Gray of the United States Army and a half dozen other men.  All of them were soaked to the skin and covered with mud.  At Major Gray’s feet, bound and gagged, was the renegade, Watowah.

Gray’s upper lip curled with satisfaction.  Then he saluted smartly.

John returned the salute.

And the smile. 

~

By the time Mingo and the others returned to the army’s camp where of late Hawk had planned to launch his revolution, Daniel Boone was gone.  ‘You just missed him,’ Hosea Walters told them.  Daniel had taken in the wagon that had been used to bear Israel to the camp.  Before the frontiersman left, he placed his son in the army surgeon’s care.  Bekah was there already.  Her wound had been a clean one and, by the time her father recovered, she would be fit to go with him.  The two of them intended to gather the rest of their family together and then to follow its patriarch to Frankfort.  Israel said they had been apart too long and in the time they had left, he wanted his children to learn to know their grandfather.  They’d go back to Missouri with him and spend some time with Nathan and Olive. 

Daniel, of course, was escorting Hawk to his just punishment. 

John Johnston had gone immediately to Hosea’s tent and gathered his small son in his arms.  Mounting a horse, he had left them, forgetting for the moment any other duty than that of a father and husband.  John said he would see them when they came to the Wild Wood Inn.  He and Rachel would wait to say goodbye.

There were others headed for Boonesborough and its surrounds as well.  Curious Dent was worried that he had been away from his establishment too long.  With a smile, Dent promised them all a jug of whatever color of Thunder they wanted when they arrived.  Then he tipped his hat and was gone.

Most of the natives had departed as well.  Once Hawk’s spell had been broken and they had seen what they were up against, those who were not in the army’s care had silently slipped away into the night.  White Wolf and Comes Flying had gone in search of the Cherokee who had freed Rachel.  Mingo told them to be gentle.  After all, the men had let her go, even if they had not had the courage or compassion to come to his aid.

Mingo stood now with his arms about her, staring into the rising sun.  Danny had returned and was waiting for them with a wagon, ready to bear them back to the inn where Verity and the others waited.  For just a moment Mingo had considered going after his old friend.  With everyone safe, he could have.  But family – both his own and the Cherokee – called him in another direction.

“You’re very quiet,” Rachel remarked.

He planted a kiss on her forehead.  “I’m very grateful.”

His wife smiled as she pressed her cheek against his chest.  For a moment she said nothing, but then she asked him.  “Do you remember that butterfly in the wisteria?”

Mingo frowned.  “Butterfly?”

“Men!”  She rolled her eyes.  “The one that passed between us as if it wanted to prevent our first kiss?”

“Oh.  In England.”

Rachel turned and looked toward the west.  “Do you think one could have flown all the way from there to here?”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

She laughed.  “I know.  It’s just that, at the moment that I thought I had lost you forever, I saw that butterfly.”  Her voice choked.  “I thought it was your soul, winging away from me.  I realize now that it came instead to give me hope.  To renew its promise that we would be together forever.”

As she spoke, Mingo had grown sober.  He reached down and cupped her small face in his hands.  He knew every inch of it, every line and what had brought it, each wrinkle of joy and crease of pain.  They spoke of children born and buried, of weddings and death vigils, of moments of panic and sheer delight.  Theirs had been a long and lasting love affair.  He could only pray it continued until his final breath.

“You’re very quiet, Mr. Moray,” Rachel teased.

“I’m very blessed,” he answered as he kissed her on the lips and then took her and, and together they crossed the camp looking for their son.