Towards dusk at the end of the second day, we paddled up to a landing stage and disembarked. Scores of other boats were tied to the wooden jetty, bumping gently into the supports as the river current tried to entice them away. Racks of nets were stretched out to dry, the rank smell of fish powerful on the night breeze. Tube-shaped fish traps made from hoops covered in hide were stacked neatly on the quayside. A hundred yards or so away, lights twinkled among the trees.
‘Home, Chickamauga,’ said Kanawha, shouldering her bundle. ‘Come.’
She led me up a well-trodden path away from the clouds of little insects that hummed on the margins of the river. Having nothing to carry, I took a bag of crabs from Tecumseh and followed. The creatures were still alive, squirming desperately in the sack as if they knew their days were numbered. Kanawha had promised me a crab stew fit for kings, a speciality of her grandmother, so I had a vested interest in lending a hand. She had already reached the trees. I sped up to catch her as Killbuck’s canoe was now at the mooring. I could hear Maclean cursing and complaining. He was intending to have the business settled immediately – this night or never, as he’d declared to me only that morning. Even though the Courageous would probably have sailed by now, Maclean pinned his hopes on returning to the nearest seaport and finding a trading schooner to take us to the West Indies to catch up with it.
I had argued with him, telling him he wasn’t thinking straight. The chances were that it was already too late for him to restart the charade of me being his cabin boy. He’d not taken my cool reasoning well and vowed that I was going with him or going to hell.
That’s what he thought.
Kanawha took my arm and pulled me through a rickety gate and into a kitchen garden. At the far end of the path was a little cottage built from wood and thatched with reeds. I was surprised. I did not know what I was expecting – tents or caves even, not this: this looked so familiar. I suppose I had never imagined the Indians’ home, thinking they were permanently on the move, huntsmen not farmers. Indian furs were famous and much sought after in the fashionable world so I had assumed that the trappers lived wandering lives on the trail of big game. My education had clearly been faulty: there was more to Indian life than beaver skins, as proved by the fields of newly sown crops that surrounded the village.
‘Like it?’ Kanawha asked hopefully, pointing to the cottage. ‘It is Grandmother’s house.’
‘Yes, I like it.’
As Kanawha ran down the path, a huge dog burst from round the back and rushed to her, leaping up with both paws on her shoulders, smothering her face with licks. To my nervous eyes, the beast looked more wolf than dog. She danced with him for a moment, before taking his collar.
Kanawha said something in her language, then repeated it for my benefit in English. ‘Yopo, this is Cat. Enhesse. Friend.’
I approached gingerly.
‘Hold out your hand so he can smell you,’ Kanawha ordered.
I did as I was told, trying not to flinch back as the great hound sniffed my scent.
‘There, he know you are friend now.’ Kanawha let go of his collar and bounded to the front door. ‘Puse! Puse! Estonko!’
A high shriek, like the sound made when the fox gets in the henhouse, echoed from the hut. Decked in a red tiered dress with colourful appliqué edging and a profusion of bead necklaces, a tiny woman rushed on to the porch, arms outstretched.
‘Kanawha, heres ce!’
The little lady folded her granddaughter in a hug, then held her out at arm’s length, checking her over to make sure all was well. Her white hair hung in two thin plaits either side of her beaming face. With skin as wrinkled as dried prunes and only a few teeth remaining, she looked to me at least a hundred years old. Kanawha whispered something then nudged her grandmother to look in my direction. Not knowing what to do, I curtseyed when I saw the old lady’s dark eyes were upon me. This provoked a peal of laughter that would have cracked the bells of St Paul’s.
‘Come,’ she chuckled. ‘Welcome.’ As I moved within reach, she clutched my forearm, pinching the skin. Turning to Kanawha, she spoke rapidly in her own tongue.
‘My puse does not speak many words in your language,’ Kanawha explained. ‘She thinks you look too pale – like a ghost.’
I shook my head, meeting the woman’s gaze. ‘I’m no ghost, Grandmother.’
With a cluck of her tongue, she patted my cheek hard and beckoned me to follow her into the house. I guessed this meant she was now convinced I was flesh and blood.
The house was furnished simply – table, chairs, a low bed with a quilted cover – but everything was spotless and smelt of fresh herbs. It was the first comfortable place I had been in since Boxton and I could not help sighing with relief as I sank into a chair – before immediately leaping to my feet again as a cat yowled and shot away. The old lady cackled with laughter as she pushed me back down. Kanawha was already putting a cauldron of water on the hearth – she had been serious about her promise of stew. The two Creek women chattered away in their own language and, from the occasional glances thrown in my direction, I guessed that my predicament formed part of the general catch-up. The cat, by now recovered from her shock, leapt lightly on to my lap and I stroked her, soothing both herself and me. If I’d learnt anything it was to grab my peaceful moments when and where I could.
‘Come, eat,’ said the old lady.
I woke with a start. I must’ve drifted off to sleep. A delicious smell filled the kitchen.
‘Excuse me, Puss,’ I apologized to the purring cat as I hoisted her off my lap.
We had all just sat down to table when a tall youth with a high forehead appeared at the door. He said something, nodding his head curtly at me. I put my spoon down, feeling a heavy dread that my peace was at an end, but my hostess was not about to waste good, hot food. She shrieked at the young man, letting loose a barrage of rapid, angry words, completing the performance by driving him from the door with a broom. She then returned to the table, smiling contentedly.
‘Eat, eat!’ she said, waving her hands at me like a goose-girl herding her charges to the trough.
I was not one to disobey such a formidable personage. I glanced at Kanawha to see she was grinning proudly at her grandmother.
‘What did she say to him?’ I whispered.
‘She told him to take his lazy bones on to the porch and wait for us to finish. Even the chief cannot order Puse Fo about.’ Kanawha swallowed a large mouthful of stew and patted her grandmother’s arm appreciatively.
‘Puse Fo?’ I queried.
‘Grandmother Bee – little but with a terrible sting, no?’
Thanks to Grandmother Bee, I had ample time to finish my stew before the second messenger arrived, asking where we were. This time the broom stayed in the corner and it was me that the old lady ushered out.
Kanawha took my arm as we followed the two messengers down the path. The newcomer appeared to be teasing the other for being scared of the little woman’s displeasure, but the boy who had felt the edge of Puse Fo’s tongue was having none of it. I didn’t need to speak their language to understand that he was saying: ‘I’d’ve liked to see you stand up to her.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked Kanawha as we passed rows of cottages like Grandmother’s.
‘To the chief’s house. He owns lots of plantations around these parts – this is just a small one.’
Small, she called it! I had thought Indians were all about loincloths no bigger than a duster and makeshift forest camps, waving tomahawks and yelling war cries. Shows you how much I knew – and how wrong were those so-called travellers who regaled us with such tales. Imagine it, Reader: a white-boarded house at the end of the trail, fine enough for a rich merchant. A broad porch ran around the house, many people standing or squatting in its shelter awaiting an audience with the great man. Everyone was decently, if eclectically clad, in a mixture of European and Indian styles. Not a hint of war-paint or an axe in sight. It could have been any high-born man’s doorstep in London – the same collection of petitioners: debtors begging a reprieve, creditors calling for settlement of their account, people after favours. The fact that they all bore the tanned skin of the American Indian did not change the essential familiarity of the scene.
Our guides led us straight inside. It was only here that I knew we really were in an Indian rather than European house. The walls were decorated with brightly woven tapestries, some depicting the creatures of Kanawha’s tales. Rush mats covered the floors; spears, shields and other weapons hung above the fireplaces. By the front door, a tall, almost life-size, carving of a warrior wearing a mask snarled at all incomers. I could hear the sound of a child crying in the distance and a woman hushing it with a lullaby. A black servant passed us, carrying a tray of empty glasses. Not a servant – a slave. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that the Indians would also own African slaves: I’d thought of the original inhabitants of this country as the underdogs, but I now I saw that even underdogs have underdogs. I was relieved I’d left Pedro behind.
‘Go in,’ said the first guide, gesturing to a room to the right of the main entrance. ‘They wait for you long while.’
From his tone, I could tell that satisfying my hunger had probably not been wise. But there was no choice to undo what had happened. I stepped into the room, grateful to have Kanawha at my shoulder. It took a moment for them to notice us standing irresolute by the door, giving me time to take in the scene. A group of some twenty or so Indian men were seated in a circle, Killbuck and Little Turtle among them. Maclean was sitting on a low chair at the left hand of the chief, speaking fast and chopping at the air to emphasize his words. On the right sat Tecumseh, but he was very still, deep in his own thoughts. As for the chief, what first struck me was what a strange mixture of Indian and European he was. His hook-nosed face and pale skin would not have seemed out of place in the streets of my home except for a certain – how can I put it? – immobility in his features, inherited, I suppose, from his Indian mother. It gave him an imposing air as if he was above the low passions that swayed most men. His hair was long and streaked with grey. He wore a tailed jacket and shirt over soft leather trousers; a brightly coloured sash of beads hung from his shoulder to his waist. Despite the splendour of his appearance, he did not look in good health: grey shadows haunted his eyes and lingered in the hollows of his cheeks.
‘So, you see, sir,’ Maclean was saying, ‘the girl has to come back with me. If she doesn’t, my captain will be very displeased and I’m sure McGillivray of the Wind Clan does not want to be at odds with Captain Barton of His Majesty’s navy. One girl is not much to buy peace.’
The liar! Captain Barton did not know I existed, much less care what became of me. If Maclean had any sense, he would have long since given up any idea of rejoining the ship – his stratagem had failed once I gave him the slip. But it appeared he was not throwing in the towel yet. I feared all that he wanted now was revenge and I would never leave this forest alive if I went with him.
McGillivray now raised his eyes, noticed me standing by the door and beckoned me forward. The Chief’s gaze was cold – no comfort for me there then. Kanawha pushed me gently in the back and I took a few paces to come just within the circle opposite him.
‘Girl Cat, what is this man to you?’ the chief asked quietly.
At least he was interested in my side of the story.
I took a breath, trying to calm the torrent of accusations that were queuing up to spill out. ‘An enemy. On the orders of his master, he abducted me and my friends, sir. He tried to kill one of them, a rich young man, son of an English noble, but he didn’t manage it.’
‘Lies,’ growled Maclean. ‘This little trollop was running away to sea after her lover. I’m to take her back to her father – he’s a great friend, a good man. I wouldn’t want to see the family shamed.’
‘Is this true?’ asked McGillivray.
I shook my head. ‘I’ve never had a father; in fact, I have no parents at all.’
McGillivray looked at me in silence for some time, his fingers arched together, lips touching the tips. I guessed that as a man surrounded by enemies – American settlers to the north, Spanish and French to the south, other tribes on all sides – he was well used to weighing up what would be most advantageous to his people. He must be skilled at it if the wealth of this house was much to go by.
‘Sit,’ he ordered at length. ‘I have heard something of you from Tecumseh. He says you have travelled far to escape this man. Tell us about yourself.’
About myself? I sat cross-legged on the carpet and pondered my answer. How could I make the most of this chance to win over this audience? No one seemed to like Maclean much so maybe they would be readier to believe me? I noticed Little Turtle on my right watching me closely; he smiled slightly as if to encourage me.
‘It is a long story. What would you like to hear first, sir?’ I asked.
Chief McGillivray settled back and closed his eyes, his face drawn. ‘Tell me of your home,’ he replied in a distant voice.
‘London?’
‘Yes, I have heard many marvellous tales of that place, home to the king who was once my chief.’
I glanced around the circle of men, all waiting expectantly. Well, if I wanted to win the hearts of the Creek people, I should do it in a language that was familiar to them. I remembered how Kanawha had told me the history of her people, not as a list of names, dates and places, but as a series of animal stories. That gave me my cue.
‘Then let me tell you the story,’ I began, ‘of how the wily sparrow stole a diamond from under the nose of the greedy shepherd boy. Once upon a time, there lived a sparrow at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the great city of London far, far over the seas . . .’
A murmur of approval ran round the circle. Tecumseh’s eyes brightened, Little Turtle nodded and McGillivray himself sat up. Maclean tried to interrupt but the chief threatened him in no uncertain terms with ejection.
I continued, warming to my theme as I turned my friends into the creatures of Kanawha’s myths. I imagined Pedro as a black hare, capering madly on stage; Frank was transformed into a raven; Syd took shape as a bull, pawing the earth angrily as his domain was threatened; I darted in and out as the sparrow.
McGillivray ordered refreshments to be handed round and signalled to me to continue.
Coming to the matter at hand, I told how the half-tailed fox – I cast a dirty look at Maclean – had plucked the raven from his roost and run away with him to sea, taking the hare and sparrow too. The fox threatened to kill the little bird with a snap of his jaws or turn her over to the wolves if the raven and hare did not do his will. But the sparrow had taken flight one day, flying into the unknown to draw the fox away from her friends. Now she had landed here and knew not what would become of her, but at least the raven and the hare were free. She would not lead them back into the trap set by the fox, for all his growling and nipping at her heels.
A chuckle followed this remark. A bowl of tobacco was passed around the circle, pipes filled. Soon I was sitting in a smoky fog worthy of any gentlemen’s club in St James.
‘You are clever, Girl Cat,’ said the chief at last, resettling his sash across his chest. ‘Cleverer than Maclean here.’
‘What!’ spluttered the purser.
McGillivray ignored him. ‘He comes among us with shallow friendship and weak threats, forgetting we have more reason to hate than love him. We have suffered for his actions on behalf of that man Barton. But you, you come with nothing but yet give us a treasure of stories to win us over.’ He sucked on his pipe stem, the tobacco glowing red for a moment. He expelled a wisp of smoke. ‘How old are you?’
‘You cannot be more than fourteen summers, maybe less.’ He tapped the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. ‘So wise so young. Perhaps it is not natural. Are you a witch?’
‘No!’ I protested.
Maclean leapt on the word. ‘That she is, sir. Don’t listen to her or she’ll get you under her spell.’
A mutter ran round the room. Some of the eyes that had been friendly but a moment ago were now looking at me with hostility.
McGillivray gave me a sour smile. ‘Oh, we were all under her spell, I have no doubt about it. But what to do with her – and you – that’s another matter completely. I will sleep on it.’ He turned to me. ‘You can go; but send no nightmares to haunt me. I cannot be swayed by any witchcraft of yours.’ He looked back at Maclean. ‘And issue no more threats: they do not impress me. You are a man of crooked tongue, Maclean, as you have ever been.’
With that, we were both dismissed. I hurried away as fast as I could to keep out of Maclean’s reach. Kanawha had to run to catch up. As soon as she was in earshot, I blurted out over my shoulder: ‘I’m not a witch! I’m not!’
I was more distressed by the accusation than I cared to reveal in that gathering. I knew that in our enlightened age I shouldn’t believe in witches but the age-old fears seemed particularly powerful in this wild place. For all I knew, they still burned witches at the stake. I had thought I was being clever, trying to fit my world into theirs; instead, I had only called down yet more suspicion on my head. Was I always destined to be in the wrong?
‘Cat is upset?’ asked Kanawha in confusion.
‘Too right she is,’ I muttered.
‘But witch is not always bad. Grandmother is one too, our heles-hayv, our medicine maker. She makes good medicine for us. Your stories are good medicine.’
I paused at the gate, collapsing against it after my dash across the village.
‘Oh, Kanawha, what do you think is going to happen?’ I felt at the end of my tether. ‘If I were a witch, I wish I could really magic myself into the sparrow and fly home.’
‘I think,’ she said, taking my arm in hers, ‘that now we go to bed and sleep. You can do nothing; Mac Clan can do nothing tonight.’
She was right: it was out of our hands.
The next morning Grandmother Bee turned us out of our blankets at dawn. She had three split-cane baskets carried by a buckskin strap across the chest and a knife for each of us.
Kanawha sighed. ‘Come on, Girl Cat. There is work to do.’
We staggered blearily after the old lady and out into the dew-damp of the early morning. The earth smelt rich; you could almost hear the plants stirring after their winter sleep, roots thrusting a path through the soil. Then the birds began their performance, starting with a lone voice singing its aria in a bush, then second soprano swooping in, closely followed by third. The song built until a whole host was competing to dominate the territory. Some cries were so shrill they seemed to shred the air.
‘What are we doing?’ I yawned.
‘Collecting for medicines,’ Kanawha explained. ‘Try not to stray. The forest is full of swamps, very dangerous if you do not know the land.’
Resolving to keep close to my guides, I walked in Kanawha’s footsteps as we pushed our way into the woodland. Near the village, trees were sparse, many having been felled for building materials and firewood, but further in the wild took over. We walked among pines and magnolia just beginning to bud. We passed under woody vines that spread from trunk to trunk like green-fringed shawls, and through clusters of trees I’d never seen before and could not name. Beard-like moss drooped from oak trees, transforming them into giant old men standing still as statues. Startling green ferns sprang up from fallen trunks, snapping open like a coquette’s fan at a ball at the touch of Spring sunshine. It was all so foreign, so bewildering, so beautiful.
From time to time, Grandmother Bee would stop and cut something, signalling us to do the same; a root or a bulb, a fresh leaf or dried berry – all were thrown into our baskets. I could see that Kanawha was fretting, bored with this work as I had so often been with darning at Drury Lane. That made me smile, but I was just relieved to be doing something that didn’t involve climbing a thirty-foot mast.
Towards midday, we approached a part of the forest where the ground was stagnant and shifted underfoot. Cypress and cane grew in thick clumps in muddy water. Midges hummed in the air, feasting on my freckled skin as if they had never seen anything so delicious. Seeing my discomfort, Grandmother rubbed me with an ointment she carried in a pouch at her side. Now able to look about me without the constant attention of the flies, I spotted a crop of bright red flowers in the distance.
‘What are they?’ I asked, taking a step towards them.
Kanawha caught the back of my tunic as my foot went ankle-deep into the mud.
‘Opelika – big swamp,’ she said. ‘And they are a warning – only grow here.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’ I sat down and emptied the water out of my shoe. It was certainly good to be with someone who knew her way around.
We were released from our botanical duties after noon. Kanawha was in a hurry to return home, leading me back to Chickamauga at a punishing speed.
‘What’s the rush?’ I asked, wiping the sweat from my brow. Though it was early spring, I was finding this land of Georgia hot and stuffy in the middle of the day; it must be nearly unbearable in high summer. A more complete contrast to the cool drizzly weather of London I could not imagine.
‘Brothers are breaking in new horses,’ she said excitedly. ‘They let us ride if we get there in time.’
‘Oh.’ The memory of my experience of riding side-saddle at Boxton came to mind. I had hardly coped with a docile mare; unbroken horses were definitely not for me.
Kanawha jogged out from the trees to a paddock at the edge of the village. Tecumseh and Little Turtle were already there, leaning against a fence as they watched three horses cropping the grass a few yards away. They were smaller than horses I was used to in London, not built for heavy work or pulling a cart, but they looked tough enough for riding. One was a piebald with a scraggy black mane, the other two were a lovely honey colour.
The two men looked up as we approached. Little Turtle made space for me to lean beside him. Tecumseh pointed to the trio of horses.
‘Magnificent, do you not agree, Girl Cat?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Yes, they’re lovely.’
‘White man brought many curses with him when he came to our land, but one blessing followed him: our brother, the horse.’
‘Where did you get them?’
‘The chief bought them in Florida from a Spanish officer.’
Kanawha interrupted us, chatting away in her language. Her brother shook his head, replying in English.
‘Only the piebald is broken; the other two are as wild as the day they were born.’
‘I ride, yes?’ she asked eagerly.
Tecumseh thought for a moment, then held out a bridle. ‘If you are careful. I do not want to be stung by Puse Fo for getting your head broken. Sasakwa is still nervous.’
Little Turtle snorted and shook his head dubiously.
I waited next to him as we watched Kanawha walk slowly towards the piebald. The mare stared at her, nostrils flaring in suspicion. The Indian girl held out her palm, allowing the horse to smell it. Next she laid a hand on Sasakwa’s neck, talking in a low, melodic voice. All was well until she produced the bridle: Sasakwa was off like the wind to the other end of the paddock.
Little Turtle laughed. ‘She does not like you, sister.’
Kanawha frowned and marched back to her brothers, throwing the bridle on the ground.
‘You said she was broken in,’ she muttered angrily to Tecumseh.
‘I said she was nervous. She has been running from us all morning. She does not like us either.’ Tecumseh turned to me. ‘What about our little witch: do you have a way with horses as you do words?’
‘I’m not a witch,’ I grumbled, ‘and no, I absolutely do not have a way with animals – I’ve only ridden a few times and very badly.’
Little Turtle glanced at his brother then picked up the bridle and passed it to me. ‘Show us,’ he coaxed.
‘It’ll be a waste of time.’
He just smiled in that unflappable way of his. I took the bridle, intrigued by the two brothers’ patience. From what Tecumseh had said to Kanawha, they had been at this all morning and failed to get anywhere. Most English horse-breakers would have been in the paddock with a whip and spurs by now, forcing the horses to submit. The Indian brothers appeared unruffled, content to feel their way to a solution.
‘I might as well give it a try then.’ I jumped the fence and walked slowly towards the horses. The two honey coats galloped away as soon as they spotted me; the piebald tried to stare me out as she had Kanawha. Close to, she seemed much bigger than she had from the other side of the fence – all muscled limbs and hooves. Her smell brought to mind the sensation of falling from the grey at Boxton – not the landing but the feeling just before I parted company with the creature – a sense of being completely out of control. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping I wasn’t about to lose face in front of my new friends. Perhaps it didn’t matter because they couldn’t hear what I was saying. I held out the bridle.
‘Right, you mean old thing, I don’t want you to take a step nearer. Just make it look as if I’m trying, all right?’ I jiggled the bridle. ‘That’s right: keep on staring at me like that. I’ll give it a few more seconds then give you up for a bad lot.’ I held out my hand as Kanawha had done. ‘There, you’re not going to cooperate, are you? That’s fine by me . . . no!’
I smothered a yelp as the horse trotted forward and lipped my fingers. I swear that she was eyeing me mischievously, fully aware of the panic inside me.
‘Good!’ called Tecumseh. ‘Forget the bridle. Try lying across her back – get her used to the weight of a rider.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ I muttered.
If I was reluctant, Sasakwa certainly wasn’t. She moved alongside and gave me a disdainful look.
‘You’re a tricky one, aren’t you?’ I muttered as I stroked her neck. ‘Flirting with us, playing hard to get.’ I reached over her back, wondering just how I was going to get up. ‘You’re only letting me do this because you know I don’t want to.’
The mare snorted and shifted her hooves.
Taking that as a final challenge, I jumped and used my arms to lever myself up so that my head was hanging over one side, my legs the other. Sasakwa began at once to trot, bumping me up and down like a sack of meal on the miller’s pony. After ten paces, the inevitable happened and I slid off, ending up sitting in a pile of recent manure.
Breaking her in? You must be joking: she was totally in control of this.
Little Turtle ran to my side and helped me up.
‘Good. I had theory, I was right,’ he said, very pleased with himself.
‘Theory?’ I stared grimly at the mare who was watching me from a few paces away.
‘Sasakwa was broken by a Scotsman in Florida. I think red hair reminds her of him and tells her who is master.’
Yes, she knew full well who was master, but it wasn’t me.
‘Try again. This time I’ll help you sit on her back.’
‘No, really, I think I’ve had enough –’
‘No, no, now is time to build on your success.’ He dragged me over to the fiendish mare, who stood waiting good as gold. The little coquette.
‘Ready?’ Little Turtle seized my waist.
‘But there’s no saddle!’ I protested.
‘We do not use a saddle,’ he replied, hoisting me astride the creature.
I grabbed a fistful of mane. Sasakwa tossed her head and began to trot again; I could feel myself sliding all over her back. I gripped with my knees. It was easier than side-saddle; at least I was in touch with what the beast was trying to do: she was trying to unseat me.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ I muttered.
She began to buck, throwing me forward. I lurched to grab a hold round her neck, by no means in charge of the situation, but at least I hadn’t been dislodged. Sensing she wasn’t going to get rid of her limpet that way, Sasakwa sidled into the fence, squeezing my leg against the top bar. I was angry now; she was a vicious little thing and I was blowed if I was going to let her get the better of me. I clung on, gritting my teeth. Next she tried a gallop across the field; that almost proved the end of me, but anyone who has clung to the shrouds in a gale is well trained to keep hold on to a horse. Finally, she slowed to a trot and bent forward nonchalantly to crop the grass, as if nothing had happened. That undid me. I slid forward and ended up lying on the ground, staring up into her mouth. She snickered and lipped me again, her teeth knocking my forehead. As she hadn’t taken the chance to trample me, I think that meant we were friends.
I think.