My afternoon of being broken in by Sasakwa turned out to be time well spent. When Tecumseh reported my ‘success’ to the chief, it helped swing the clan’s opinion in my favour. I was to stay, at least until the horse was properly trained. And that, Reader, promised to be a very long time indeed for that devil of a pony.
When the verdict was announced that evening at the chief’s house, I expected the purser to explode. But he didn’t: Maclean just nodded his head once and left the room. That put me on my guard immediately – it was so out of character. I would have preferred it if he had cursed and raved as that would have been a sign of his frustration. He left the village the very next day, promising me that he never wanted to lay eyes on my miserable face again. The feeling was mutual but it seemed too good to be true. Was I really so easily rid of him? I hardly dared believe it, but he was indisputably gone, last seen heading downstream for a trading post.
The other person who seemed less than happy with the decision to keep me on as horse breaker was Kanawha – not that I was staying, but that I had been given the task she wanted. She watched me leave each morning with undisguised resentment as all she had to look forward to was another day of plant collection. I would have loved to swap the bruises I was gathering for her basket of herbs, but no one would hear of it.
Four days into the horse training, Grandmother Bee came to watch. She stood with Tecumseh at the edge of the paddock, a little figure in a vivid red shawl, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare. Sasakwa had decided that my lesson for the day was to learn how to take humiliation. She allowed me on to her back now but only so that she could dump me with greater effect in front of my audience. Grandmother found this highly amusing. She said something to Tecumseh, tapped his arm, then disappeared into the forest.
I groaned, wondering how much more of this my poor bones could take. Tecumseh helped me to my feet.
‘What did she say?’ I asked as I hobbled on his arm to the fence. The pony smirked at me from the far end of the paddock, chewing a mouthful of grass.
‘Grandmother say that Sasakwa is your spirit sister.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She is stubborn and does not do what she is told. With blood like that she will be a good breeding stock – make our herd strong.’
I let go of Tecumseh’s arm. ‘I’m sure she will. Perhaps you should get someone else to ride her now. I think I’m only teaching her bad habits.’
He shook his head. ‘No, our chief say that only you will do.’ He smiled and patted my shoulder. He had kind eyes, deep brown like his sister. ‘You are happy here, Girl Cat?’
I wondered at the change of subject. ‘Happy enough, though I worry about my friends.’
‘But you have new friends here?’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Yes, I suppose I do, but as soon as I can, I want to find my old ones. They’re like family to me; I belong with them. In fact, two of them live in Philadelphia. I don’t suppose there’s a coach or even a boat that I could take to reach them?’
Tecumseh laughed and pointed to the north into the forest. ‘Philadelphia: that is far, far away. I have never been half that distance. Even if you found a vessel to take you, you would still need a lot of money to buy a passage and it would take many weeks.’
‘And if I walked?’ I asked hopefully, encouraged that he had at least heard of the place.
‘Impossible. There are thousands of rivers and many mountains between us. You would not manage that journey.’
I groaned in disappointment. The vastness of America was something I had heard much about but now, for the first time, it struck home. I couldn’t just jump in a carriage or on to a barge to get to my destination in a few days or weeks as I had been able to in England and France; I was trapped by the wilderness. A wave of panic swept over me.
‘Come,’ said Tecumseh, patting my back consolingly. ‘Let us teach Sasakwa to respect her rider.’
I clenched my fists, trying to get a grip on my emotions. There was no point in giving in to my fears; I could not afford to show weakness if I was to survive. Far better to concentrate on the task at hand and earn my freedom by completing Sasakwa’s training.
With Tecumseh’s help, I was able to remain in contact with the pony’s back for the rest of the session. In my own humble estimation, I was beginning to get the feel for riding and no longer sat rigid with terror anticipating disaster. I even began to enjoy it.
‘We made progress,’ Tecumseh noted as we left the paddock. ‘You will be a rider yet.’
‘Why not?’ I said, filled with the optimism of the amateur. ‘After all, I’ve been a dancer and a sailor – why not a horsewoman too? Frank always said I could be whatever I wanted.’ I felt that now familiar pang of homesickness again: where was Frank now? Had he and Syd kept Pedro safe in Jamaica, out of his old master’s hands – if that was where they were by now? And had he been able to persuade someone that he was the son of the Duke of Avon?
Observing my change in mood, Tecumseh put an arm around my shoulders. ‘Do not worry, Girl Cat: you will not feel that you are a stranger forever. You will soon feel at home.’
I didn’t want to feel at home: I wanted to be at home. The Wind Clan was a fine family, but it wasn’t mine and never would be. I tried to put this into words.
‘I’m sorry, Tecumseh, but I’ll never fit in here. I’m like . . . like a bird that is just passing through on its passage from one country to another.’
He shook his head. ‘No, you nest here now. I will speak to our chief and Grandmother. We will make you one of us and then you will no longer pine for things you cannot have.’
I reached the cottage still mulling over what Tecumseh had said and found Kanawha practising with her bow. She had been cool towards me the last few days, but seeing me so unhappy seemed to melt her mood.
‘Come, Cat, you must learn how to hunt,’ she called from the field behind the house. She had set up a target – a flour sack strung from a pole – and was hitting it faultlessly despite its pendulum motion. I was impressed.
‘Now you try.’
She handed me the bow, showing me where to hold it, how to fit the arrow to the string, the movement needed to pull it back. It was far tougher than I had imagined. I loosed a shot – the arrow ploughed into the earth well short of the target. Kanawha broke into a peal of laughter.
‘Again!’ she said, scooping the arrow up. ‘I will keep the target still for you. Remember, think about how the arrow flies.’ She sketched a graceful arc in the sky. ‘Aim higher.’
The next arrow fell from the string before I even had a chance to release it. The third disappeared into Grandmother Bee’s vegetable patch, provoking a squawk of indignation from the hens that were rooting for grubs. On my fourth attempt, the arrow sailed past the target, far too high. Kanawha charitably took that as a sign of improvement.
I put the bow aside. ‘I’m pretty useless, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, you are,’ she agreed, rather pleased by this discovery.
‘And you’re so good at everything: fishing, hunting, running.’
‘Yes, I am.’ Kanawha stretched her arms above her head, flexing her strong, capable muscles. ‘But this was how I was raised. You must be able to do something that I cannot. What were you taught?’
Indeed, what had I learned in my hand-to-mouth existence backstage at Drury Lane? Not much that made any sense here.
‘I can read and write.’
She shrugged.
‘Speak Latin.’
‘What’s that?’
I didn’t think it worth the trouble to explain it was a language no living civilization spoke. What else could I do?
‘That’s about it really,’ I admitted.
She looked disappointed, and I felt I had let Drury Lane down with my utter failure to impress her. But the swinging target gave me an idea.
‘No, no, wait. I can do this.’
I had spent months last year training as a ballerina; it might just make an impression on Kanawha. I ran to the fence, hopped out of my shoes, and began to warm up.
‘What are you doing?’ Kanawha asked.
I grinned. ‘You’ll see.’
Once prepared, I climbed on to the fence, gained my balance – easy when you’ve practised up a mast with a thirty-foot drop below – and began a series of ballet steps, moving fluidly through the positions, rising to tiptoe. I admit, Reader, standing on the beam was unnecessary but I was showing off. I didn’t think Kanawha would be astounded by my skill unless I made it more dramatic.
‘What is that?’ she wondered, staring at my feet.
‘Try it, it’s harder than it looks.’ Humming the tune I had danced to in the Paris Opera, I pirouetted on the beam. Kanawha attempted to copy me but ended up tumbling from the fence.
‘See? I told you it was hard.’ I leapt down lightly and helped her up. ‘That is something called ballet – a sort of tribal dance we perform back home. People come to big houses and watch us do it.’
She frowned, trying to comprehend the world I was describing. ‘Why?’
‘Because it is beautiful – because they enjoy it – I don’t know – many reasons.’ Explaining made me feel foreign again.
This time with feet on the ground, Kanawha repeated the moves clumsily. She would need a lot of practice if she wanted a job in the chorus line.
‘You should dance at the ceremony,’ she said.
‘What ceremony?’ I corrected her posture as my teachers had so often done for me.
‘Your adoption. The chief has decided you are to become one of the Wind Clan.’
I froze. ‘What!’
‘Yes, it was settled this afternoon.’ Kanawha abandoned the ballet with a shrug and took up archery again, eyes fixed on the target rather than my shocked face. ‘It is good news, no? It means Mac Clan can never take you away.’ The arrow flew from her fingers and hit the target spot on.
Good news? Not for me. I had always wanted a family, but it had never occurred to me that it might consist of Indians in a remote part of America.
‘But will you let me leave after that?’ I asked, squeezing my feet back into my worn shoes. ‘Will I be free to come and go as I wish?’
A second arrow pierced the swinging sack in the centre. She lowered the bow. ‘You will not be a prisoner, Cat, but once you are married you must stay with your husband.’
‘Married!’ This was getting worse and worse.
‘Of course. I am to be married to McGillivray’s son at the Green Corn Festival and someone has already asked for your hand. We can be betrothed at the same time.’ She smiled at me, clearly expecting me to be pleased.
I appeared to be the last person in Chickamauga to know the plans for my future happiness.
‘And do I get any say in the matter? Who wants to marry me?’ I took up a stick and beat the fence in frustration.
Kanawha was surprised by my reaction. For an Indian girl, marriage was the event they all looked forward to; she really thought she was the bearer of glad tidings. ‘My brother,’ she said tentatively, trying to work out what was wrong as I lashed the gate. ‘You do not like him?’
I paused in my whipping, taken aback. Tecumseh wanted to marry me? He was very handsome – I was flattered despite myself – but he had not shown the least sign of romantic feelings towards me in the time we had spent alone together.
‘Of course I like Tecumseh.’
Kanawha laughed. ‘No, no, not him. He is to marry the chief’s daughter. No, I am speaking of Little Turtle. Tecumseh suggested you would be a good match for him as he is too shy to ask one of the village girls. You will be his first wife.’
Wonderful: I was to get the bashful little brother – the one named after a creature normally made into soup – rather than the tall, dark and handsome leader.
Not that I wanted to marry anyone.
Aargh!
I took a deep breath and gathered up the fragments of stick that had borne the brunt of my frustration. Kanawha was looking at me as if I had gone mad.
‘What is wrong, Cat?’ She seemed genuinely upset that I was not ecstatic.
‘Everything.’ I slumped to the ground and threw bits of wood disconsolately at the hens that had the ill judgement to come near me. ‘I’m really grateful to you all but I don’t belong here. I’m Cat Royal from Drury Lane, London. I don’t want to stay here: I want to go home.’
Even to myself I sounded like a whining child asking for the moon. How was I going to go home? I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with no money or prospect of getting away. These kind people were making me part of their community and I was being ungracious. I hadn’t forgotten that the other two options for captives Tecumseh mentioned had been death or slavery – I had got away lightly.
Kanawha took the remaining sticks from my hands and squeezed my arm. ‘After tonight, your past will be behind you. Little Turtle will make you a wonderful life partner: he is kind and generous. You are very fortunate.’ She said the last words wistfully – I wondered why.
‘And your young man: what is he like?’
She grimaced. ‘Too old. Not so kind. But it is a good match for my family. I am content. He will be away often on his father’s business. His other wives are friendly.’
I swallowed a protest at the mention of multiple wives.
‘Why marry him if you don’t like him?’
‘I am content,’ Kanawha repeated, signalling that the conversation was at an end.
That evening I was led to the village meeting place – a space in the centre of the settlement marked by a circle of poles. All the clan had gathered, a fire had been lit in the middle and everyone was talking and laughing. Feeling like a cow led to the shambles, I allowed myself to be walked three times round the outer edge of the ring, then guided to the feet of the chief. Gentle pressure on my shoulder indicated I should kneel. My heart thumped desperately: I wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. I had no choice but to let this happen.
An exchange took place in the Creek language as Tecumseh petitioned the chief to allow me to join the tribe.
‘Enka, enka!’ chanted the chief. He bent forward and kissed my forehead. ‘Welcome, daughter.’ He placed a string of beads around my neck.
I bowed in acknowledgement, hands on my thighs as Kanawha had taught me.
‘Rise, Cat of the Wind Clan,’ announced the chief, bringing me to my feet. He led me three times round the tallest pole – the totem of the clan, carved with the creatures of their tales, guardians of the village. After the final circuit, he placed my hand in Tecumseh’s as the eldest male in Kanawha’s family. ‘Look after your sister,’ McGillivray told him. ‘She is now your kindred.’
Tecumseh bowed.
My adoption complete, the celebrations began. Musicians processed into the ring, Little Turtle was chief among them, proudly beating on a set of drums. His eyes sparkled when he saw me watching him. I looked away, aware that we had not yet broached the subject of my unwillingness to wed. A group of young men leapt into the centre and began a spirited dance with spears and masks. One carried a rifle that he fired enthusiastically into the air. Despite struggling with low spirits, I attempted to show some interest.
The men gave way and next came some young girls performing with the picturesque addition of garlands and baskets. Kanawha explained that the dance told the story of how the clan first learned to grow corn.
‘Do all your dances tell stories?’ I asked, intrigued.
Kanawha was tapping her feet in time to the drums. ‘Yes, don’t yours?’
‘Sometimes. In the ballet, yes, I suppose they do, but not usually. Sometimes we just dance for the fun of it, men and women together.’
‘Together!’ She looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘You teach each other the dances?’
‘Of course. Rich people have dancing instructors, us poor pick it up as we go along.’
‘But do men and women not have secret knowledge, dances that are passed down from father to son, mother to daughter?’
I laughed at the idea. ‘No, there’s nothing mysterious about our dancing. Balls – or dances – are usually about courtship – finding a mate – not about secrets.’ My cheeks flushed as I remembered my own humiliation in Bath, an evening that seemed to belong to another age but in truth was less than half a year ago.
‘Ah.’ She nodded her head in understanding. ‘Courtship, yes, I see.’ Her eyes lingered on a tall man a little older than the others dancing now.
‘Is that your future husband?’
‘Yes.’
I watched him dance for a minute or two; he went about it with an intensity lacking in the other performers, face set in a frown. He did not seem a very suitable match for the gay-spirited Kanawha, but then, what did I know?
There was a sudden outburst of whistling and clapping. Kanawha gripped my arm in excitement.
‘Look, Tecumseh is dancing.’
My new brother had sprung to his feet and whirled into the centre of the dance. He ducked and dived, twisted and turned, performing handsprings with an agility I’d not seen since Pedro played Ariel. Obviously a favoured performer, the audience beat their appreciation with their feet. If this had been Drury Lane, they would have called for an encore. I joined in the applause at the end, jumping up in my enthusiasm.
Face shining with recent exertion, Tecumseh caught sight of me and grabbed my wrist.
‘Come, sister. Kanawha say you dance for us.’
I pulled away. The idea of performing a ballet after his wild display was as incongruous as entering a boxing ring and trying to entertain the spectators with an embroidery class. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ I begged off.
But Tecumseh was adamant, as was Kanawha, who pushed as he pulled me into the centre. The cheering died away and everyone waited expectantly.
Rescue me, I pleaded to the heavens, hoping for a friendly downpour or bolt of lightning.
Nothing.
My dithering became embarrassing. I had to do something, but dancing with no music was out of the question. I decided I would sing instead, the choice of a lesser evil. One of the wild Scottish poems by the bard Ossian came to mind. I had first heard it at a concert in the drawing room at Boxton, but the ballad seemed fitting for this company with its story of warriors and spears, wind, rain and stars. The mournful tune lifted me from that wilderness for a time, connecting me to my old life. My existence here among the Creeks had become like Thomas the Rhymer’s time in faerie land: my past had faded, becoming like a dream as the new life took hold. What was Frank or Pedro to these people? Syd and Bow Street? Drury Lane? They were myths from my history.
‘My life flies away like a dream:
Why should I stay behind?’
My voice caught on these words and I could not continue.
Unaware the song had not yet finished, the Indians gave my performance a hearty round of applause. Though few had followed the words, the sad tune had appealed to these people all too familiar with loss and separation. Kanawha, however, gave me a strange look as I returned to my seat. Perhaps she alone had understood.