On Wednesday afternoon they held a feast … for the enemy. The women of Boonesborough outdid themselves with an array of victuals—venison, buffalo tongue, fresh vegetables, platters of bread and cheese, and pitchers of milk. The spread looked mighty tempting, and they’d dipped into their dwindling supplies to procure it.
It was a pity that Silas couldn’t swallow more than a bite, surrounded as he was with a Shawnee brave on each side. The whole affair was to lead up to another parlay, decided among Blackfish and Boone last night, after Blackfish demanded a decision and Boone gave his answer—they refused to surrender. Instead of taking up arms, however, Blackfish said he had no wish to massacre the fort, and asked for another day of talks tomorrow.
So they dined. Nine men from the fort. Twenty Shawnee. Like one of those church socials back east where food was served before a meeting of the congregation.
And what a congregation.
Silas cast a glance at the fort, where riflemen manned each post, instructed to fire at the slightest sign of unrest. Rosina—stubborn woman—along with Jemima, was among those standing guard.
Man, woman, and child alike, they must all do their part. Although Silas would rest a heap easier if Rosina was safe inside her cabin.
Feast eaten—or not, in the case of many of the fort men—Boone invited the group to leave the long plank tables set up outside the fort gates and move to the large elm tree some sixty yards away for their meeting. Silas moved in beside Boone as they walked. Despite the friendly facade Boone had donned during dinner, Silas read the telltale lines of concern mapping the captain’s face.
“Most of these men aren’t chiefs,” Boone whispered, clapping his broad-brimmed hat on his head, “but the finest warriors the Shawnees lay claim to. Best be on your guard, Longridge.”
Silas nodded. Despite the cool breeze, perspiration trailed down his back. He’d been in a few skirmishes against seasoned warriors before. But ’twas not a prospect he relished.
After everyone was seated on woven blankets and pelts spread across the ground, the meeting began. Silas glanced at the warrior seated to his left, his angular face painted red and black for war. During his time as a scout, he’d encountered braves who’d shown him kindness, and he’d shared food or the warmth of his fire in return. But the one next to him today had the look of a man who’d rather torch Boonesborough to the ground than sit and listen to negotiations. At Blackfish’s right, standing like a hewn marble statue, stood Pompey, the interpreter.
A pause hung in the air. Blackfish sat straight and tall, cross-legged, beneath the shade of the tree. “I will withdraw my army if the settlers of Kentucke promise to abandon the fort within six weeks.”
Boone, seated between a Shawnee brave and Blackfish, looked to the other men of the fort. The air smelled of bear grease, Kentucke wind, and tension. “Nay,” Boone said in a firm voice. “That we will not do.”
“By whose right did you come and settle here?” Blackfish uttered the words, the demand in his tone overshadowing the lilting language of his people. Pompey quickly translated.
“Richard Henderson purchased this region from the Cherokee through the treaty made at Sycamore Shoals,” Boone answered.
“I know nothing of this treaty.” Blackfish turned to a warrior dressed in the garb of a Cherokee who stood nearby. “Did your people sell this land to the whites?”
Features stoic, the man paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I believe such a treaty was made.”
A flicker of surprise crossed the middle-aged chief’s rawboned face. He paused. A fly whined over Silas’s head, but he didn’t dare make a sharp movement to swat it away.
“I see that what Boone says is true. That alters the case. You must keep this land, and live on it in peace. But for a time, my people and yours must be separate. We will go over the Ohio River and stay on our side. You will not cross the river for a time. Later we may hunt on each other’s land and trade and be brothers.”
Silas eyed the chief. Sounded reasonable enough.
“You will also take the oath of allegiance to the great King across the sea, King George, and submit yourselves to the British authorities.”
Silas tensed. Submit to British tyranny? Lose their hard-fought independence in the midst of a revolution? He’d sooner walk over hot coals. But if it meant the prevention of bloodshed, a play for more time … They were ill-equipped to defend the fort without the Virginia militia, and there were women and children within its walls to consider. And if Blackfish withdrew his warriors this time, they might never be able to muster such a large force again.
After a pause, Boone nodded, glancing at Silas and the other men from the settlement. Richard Callaway rubbed the scruff on his chin, looking disgusted.
“Seems fair enough,” Silas said.
“We agree to abide by your terms,” said Boone. Pompey repeated the sentence to Blackfish, who gave a satisfied nod. Quill and pen were brought, a treaty made and signed. For long minutes, Blackfish spoke to his warriors, explaining the terms. Silas listened carefully. Then Blackfish turned back to Boone.
“We have made a long and lasting treaty, and now we will shake hands and embrace as brothers.”
Almost in unison, everyone stood. The hair on the back of Silas’s neck prickled. Sun slanted through the leaves of the great elm tree.
Two of them for every one of us.
Blackfish swallowed Boone in an embrace. The Indian who’d been seated next to him turned to Silas and grasped his arm in a nooselike grip, bony fingers crushing painfully. Silas steeled his jaw, keeping his face composed.
Instead of letting go, the brave only tightened his hold. Panic dug beneath Silas’s skin. This was no brotherly handshake.
A grunt. A thud. Silas glimpsed the blur of Richard Callaway and a Shawnee tussling on the grass. Another Shawnee warrior to his right tackled Flanders, tomahawk in hand.
Then chaos. Silas grappled the Indian holding him, slamming his knee into the man’s gut. The Shawnee staggered backward. Boone struggled with Blackfish, throwing the chief to the ground.
Gunfire erupted from the fort. A Shawnee fell, blood spurting from his chest. Some of Blackfish’s warriors sprang from a clump of nearby brush and fired back.
The world was ablaze with bloodcurdling cries, flashing tomahawks, and the brute will to survive. Silas fought as hard as he could, dodging the stream of bullets from both sides, yanking a warrior by the back of his shirt and throwing him off Boone, who’d taken a hit in the back from a tomahawk. Blood seeped, a blooming, growing stain against the fabric of Boone’s favorite hunting shirt. Smoke hung in an acrid haze.
Squire clutched his shoulder with a howl. A warrior ran at Silas with a whoop. Silas dodged, ducked, fist slamming into the solid muscle of the man’s torso. Bursts of gunfire exploded. Prone bodies of the wounded and dead littered the ground. Boone, despite his wound, butted a charging Indian with his head, and sent him flying.
“Back to the fort, men!” he yelled, voice cutting through the thick smoke.
Silas dodged a warrior, fists pumping, feet pounding. Sixty yards seemed like an eternity. Silas’s moccasins scarce touched the ground. Boone and the others kept pace, Richard Callaway half-carrying Squire. Silas’s lungs burned. Another volley of shots exploded, bullets whistling inches above his head.
Rosina.
Her name came to him in that suspended moment. Her winsome face. Her tears.
He must survive.
The fort gates opened with their familiar creak that had never seemed so blessed. The last man scrambled inside just as the gates swung closed. Silas bent double, gulping for air and counting heads. Five … Six … Seven …
All nine. Alive. But this was no time to rejoice.
The siege had begun.