CHAPTER FORTY

Lucia sat with Daphne and Juba just outside the tiny, bark-shingled lean-to that they shared in the hidden camp of the Yamasee women. Nearby were the shelters of the other Fairmeadow slaves. The mosquitoes from the swamp swarmed thickly in the spring heat, and Lucia concentrated on the basket she was weaving, trying to ignore them.

“No good,” said Daphne, brushing the mosquitoes from her face. “This place is no good. How far to Saint Augustine?”

“There are mosquitoes there, too,” said Lucia.

“Mosquitoes like this? I never hear that.”

“Not like this,” said Juba, who was sitting on the other side of Daphne. “If Saint Augustine be like this, we would hear. How far?”

Lucia shook her head. “Ten days. Twenty. Far enough.” All that the Fairmeadow slaves thought of now was how to get to Saint Augustine, the sanctuary they had always dreamed of reaching for as long as they had been in Carolina. The Spaniards would let them live there in freedom. They would not be slaves anymore.

“People starve in San Augustín,” said Lucia. “Carlos and I almost starved.”

“Long time ago,” Juba said stubbornly.

Lucia shrugged. It was true. And who could say where they should go? Maybe they would be safer with the Spaniards than with her own people. At least San Augustín would always be there—the English could never overrun the fortress. But her own people might lose their war and the slaves be taken back again. And she with her scars was as vulnerable as they. Her skin might as well be black.

“If you truly want to go,” said Lucia, “someone will show you the way.”

“When?” asked Daphne.

Lucia shook her head. “I don’t know that.”

“When this war be lost,” Juba said bluntly.

Lucia said nothing. It was only a week since the uprising began and already the English militia was advancing toward the river, pressing against the Yamasee country. The Indian men were trying to turn them back, but if they failed, the Yamasee country would have to be abandoned. These lands were too close to the English, too hard to defend. The fight would have to be carried on from a greater distance, where the English would not dare to come after them. This, at least, was the talk from the men who came daily to the camp, a few at a time, bringing plunder, visiting their families, relaying news. Carlos was never among them, nor were any of his men. Lucia had heard nothing from him since that morning at Fairmeadow almost a week ago.

“If they lose this war, where you go?” asked Daphne. She rubbed her hands over her arms, chasing mosquitoes.

“I don’t know,” said Lucia. “To the Creek country, I suppose.”

“Come with us,” said Daphne. “We stay together.”

“You come with me,” said Lucia.

Daphne shook her head. “There be ships in Saint Augustine. Maybe someday we go home.”

Lucia made no reply. In the silence she worked a long piece of split cane in and out around the growing sides of what was to be a large burden basket, double woven for strength. She had been working on it for two days now, ever since she had first heard that the English militia was advancing.

“Will your husband come and tell you where to go?” asked Daphne.

“I don’t know,” said Lucia, keeping on with her work, her fingers moving swiftly, her concentration focused there.

“He should come,” said Daphne. “How he gonna find you when you leave this place?”

“Maybe he would not wish to find me,” she said quietly.

“Not wish it? Your husband?”

“Once my husband. Perhaps not now.”

“But he came to Fairmeadow.”

“He came to set me free.”

“That be all, you think?”

Lucia shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Daphne was silent for a moment. Then she said, “You think he has another wife?”

“Perhaps.”

“A man can have two wives.”

“If the first wife allows it,” said Lucia. She tucked in the last of the length of split cane and reached for another from the pile beside her.

Again Daphne was silent, unsure whether to press her questions further. But finally she asked, “Would you allow it?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucia. “I did not share him before.”

“Sharing a man be better than being alone.”

“I am used to being alone.”

Daphne shook her head. “Not me,” she said quietly. “I ain’t never gonna be used to it.”

On the other side of her Juba nodded in agreement.

Lucia said nothing, trying not to think of Carlos, not wanting to feel the emptiness that came whenever she recalled that morning at Fairmeadow, seeing him there after so many years, talking to him while he stood painted and distant, preoccupied with war, so different from what she had always imagined. They had been together in Apalachee for so short a time, not even a year, and she so young. Had she ever known him at all? At so young an age, what does anyone know?

“It’s that bird girl,” said Juba. “Look here. She comes.”

Lucia looked up and smiled to see the little girl they had been watching since the first day they came to the camp. Everyone watched her, a girl so small, hardly three years old, with a great blue heron, taller than she, that followed her everywhere she went. She came toward them very deliberately, paying no attention to the gangly bird loping along at her heels—she was concentrating on a small pottery bowl she carried in both hands. Every now and then she raised her eyes from the bowl without lifting her head and looked ahead at them, smiling a little, half shy and half bold.

“You have come,” Lucia said as she approached.

“I brought you this,” said the little girl without formality, speaking in Apalachee instead of Yamasee. She stopped and held out the bowl to Lucia, the heron stopping to wait patiently behind her.

“Is it bear oil?” asked Lucia, looking into the bowl.

The little girl nodded. “My mother told me to bring it. She puts a good smell in it. But mosquitoes don’t like it.” Her voice had a pretty singsong tone.

“That is good,” said Lucia, nodding gratefully. “We need this. Tell her that she lifts our hearts.”

The little girl was not listening. Looking at the unfinished basket, she leaned over to touch it.

“Are you making a basket?” she asked in her lilting voice.

“Yes,” said Lucia, holding it up for her to see.

“Why?”

“Because I need one,” said Lucia.

“Why?”

“Because I have nothing to carry things in.”

“Why?”

Lucia put her hand on her hip and smiled at her, shaking her head. “Do you have the why disease?”

“What?” asked the little girl, not understanding.

“She be a question-asker,” said Daphne.

“What did she say?” the girl asked Lucia.

“She said you have the why disease. She said it in English.”

“Why?”

“Because she does not speak our language.”

“Why?”

“So that you will ask questions,” said Lucia. “Where did you get the bird?”

“My father gave him to me.”

“When it was little?”

“Like this,” said the girl, holding her hand down close to the ground. “He got big.” She turned around and looked proudly at the bird.

“What do you feed him?”

“He likes fish.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Baby.”

Lucia smiled. “That is a good name. What about you? Do you have a name?”

The little girl laughed. “I have to have a name.”

“Then what is it?”

“Blue Heron’s Mother.”

“That sounds like a new name.”

She shrugged. “A little bit new.”

“It is a long name for such a little girl.”

“My mother calls me Blue. She likes it shorter.”

“So do I,” said Lucia. “It suits you better.”

“Why?” asked Blue.

Lucia ignored the question. “What do they call your mother?” she asked.

“She used to be called Alap Juana. Now they call her Peeper.”

“Like the little peeper frog in spring?”

Blue nodded. “It makes people happy to hear the peepers sing. That’s what my father says.”

“Your mother must be Apalachee,” said Lucia.

“How do you know?”

“Because the name she used to have is Apalachee. And because that is the language you are speaking.”

“My mother is Apalachee,” said Blue, as if reciting an answer to a question she was often asked, “and my father is Yamasee.”

“I thought he might be,” said Lucia. “Tell your mother that the bear oil makes us happy. Tell her we would like for her to come visit us.”

“Me, too?”

Lucia smiled. “Yes. You must be sure to come back again. And bring Baby with you.”

Blue nodded. She stood for a moment looking at Lucia, smiling a little, and then she turned and started away.

“We will see you again,” Lucia said after her.

Blue looked back briefly, still smiling. Then she skipped a few steps and began to run, the heron following after her in quick, gawky strides.

Daphne laughed. “I never saw such a thing.”

“She calls it Baby,” said Lucia. She picked up the bowl of bear oil and offered it to Daphne. “Rub some of this on your skin. It will help with the mosquitoes.”

“I need it, then,” said Daphne, dipping her fingers into the scented oil.

“That woman was kind to send it,” said Lucia. “Her name is Peeper. We will have to find out which one she is.

“She be the only one with a heron standing at her fire,” said Juba. “Easy to find.”

Lucia laughed. “Easy-easy,” she said, handing the bear oil to Juba.

Lucia was deep in sleep when Cajoe’s voice came through to her, calling her name. She heard it but did not awaken, drawing the sound of it into her dream where Cajoe was a boy in shirttail, as she had first known him in the house of John Hawkins in Charles Town. Then a hand was shaking her shoulder, the dream falling away, and she opened her eyes to see him leaning over her in the darkness, a glow of firelight behind him. She sat up, confused, looking from Cajoe to the fire burning brightly in the hearth at the entrance of the lean-to, the same fire Juba had covered with ashes before they went to sleep.

“Did you stir that up?” she asked.

“Yes. You have to get up.”

“What is it?” She came fully awake, pulling her blanket up.

“Something has happened,” said Cajoe. “The whole camp is stirring. Go find out for us what it is.”

Daphne and Juba were awake now, sitting up and listening.

Lucia got to her feet and went out. The fires in the camp were all burning brightly, the people up and moving around. The sky was clear, the nearly-full moon shining in the west, dawn approaching. She walked quickly among the crowded shelters to the lean-to that she had been told belonged to Peeper, the mother of Blue, the bird girl.

“My sister,” said Lucia, stopping by the fire and looking in. A young woman was kneeling on the floor, carefully packing her belongings into a worn pack basket. When she looked up, Lucia recognized Blue’s features in her face and knew that she was Peeper. There was another, older woman there, folding a blanket, who looked as if she might be Peeper’s mother. A very old man was sitting by the fire. Blue still slept on her mat, tangled in a red blanket.

“You have come,” said Peeper in a friendly tone. She waved her hand toward a pot by the fire. “There is sofkee.”

“You must tell me what is happening,” said Lucia. “No one has told us.”

Peeper stopped her work and sat back on her heels. “Some of our men have just brought word,” she said calmly. “The English are coming into the country. They have divided, some coming by the north, some by the south. Our warriors tried to stop the northern ones near Salkehatchie River, but they failed. The ones in the south are not being opposed. We have to get out while there is time.”

Lucia nodded, anxiety tightening in her. She stood in silence, watching Peeper go back to her work. Then she asked, “Were many killed at Salkehatchie? Many of our men?”

“Some were killed,” said Peeper. “I do not know how many.”

Again there was silence, Lucia thinking of Carlos—he would have been there, she was sure. But Peeper must also be worried about her man. All the people in the camp would be worried.

“Where do you intend to go?” asked Lucia.

“To the Creek towns,” said Peeper.

“Is everyone going there?”

“No. Some are going back to the Spaniards.”

“That is where the people who are with me wish to go.”

Peeper nodded. “They would be welcome, I am sure.”

“I will tell them,” said Lucia, turning away.

“My sister,” said Peeper.

Lucia looked back at her.

“Where will you be going?”

“To the Creek towns,” said Lucia.

“Then come and walk with us, if you wish.”

“That would please me,” said Lucia. “My heart is full.”

“And mine,” said Peeper with a smile.

In the dim light of early dawn Lucia stood with her friends from Fairmeadow—Daphne and Juba, Cajoe, Chany, Peter, Will, Little Will, Sheba, Tickey, all the others. They talked quietly, laughing a little, trying to hide their fears.

“Cajoe can talk to the Spaniards for you,” said Lucia. “And some of these Yamasees speak Spanish. He can talk to them.” Her burden basket rested on the ground beside her, the tumpline in her hand.

“I’ve forgotten how to speak Spanish,” said Cajoe.

“Think of those days in Bella’s kitchen,” said Lucia. “It will come back to you.”

The fires in the camp had been extinguished and the people were gradually dividing into two groups. The ones who were going south to the Spaniards were the ones whose hearts were not in the fight. Many of them were older people and they spoke of returning to their homes in Guale, as if the Spaniards could give them any more protection now than they were able to give twenty years ago.

“Those are the ones you are going with,” said Lucia, putting her hand on Cajoe’s arm and pointing to that group.

Cajoe nodded and adjusted the blanket that he carried in a roll across his back. “Maybe we will see you again,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said, her fingers pressing gently against his arm. Then she turned to the others, briefly touching them, wishing them well, lingering especially with Daphne and Juba, clasping their hands. Then they began moving away. She turned from them and stooped down to fix the tumpline on her forehead, and when she straightened up with the basket on her back, she was alone.

She went over to the group that was bound for the Creek country and found Peeper among them by spotting the heron first. When she came up to them, Blue was crying. Lucia set her basket on the ground. “What is the matter?” she asked the child, putting a hand on her head.

Blue pulled free of her and would not answer.

Peeper shook her head. “It is the bird. I told her that when he gets tired, we will have to leave him behind. We are going too far for him to follow.”

Blue looked up at her mother, misery in her face. “I could carry him,” she pleaded.

“You will have to be carried yourself,” said Peeper. “We will find you another bird when we get to the Creek country.”

Blue shook her head, the tears flowing again. “I want Baby.”

“Then I will carry him for you,” said Lucia. “When he gets tired I will put him in my basket.”

Blue looked at her, brushing her hand hard against her tears, then looked at her mother to see if it really could be true.

Peeper shook her head. “He is such a big bird, my daughter. She has no room to carry him.”

“I think I can find room,” said Lucia. “We will wrap him in a blanket and stuff him in.”

Blue looked at her and smiled. “He will not like it very much.”

“We will do it to him anyway, “said Lucia.

Blue nodded. “Even if he cries.”

“Let him cry,” said Lucia.

“He is just a baby,” said Blue. She rubbed her hand over her nose, feeling happy again.

They had traveled for three days, walking at a steady pace, the way getting easier as the land rose and the low coastal swamps were left behind. Every day more warriors came to join them, men who were leaving the fighting to come find their families and see them safely to the new country. As the number of men swelled and the distance from the English settlement grew longer, everyone began to feel easier, until now, on this third night, they dared to light fires at their camping place. On this night, too, they took the trouble to make shelters, for the sky had clouded during the day and rain seemed certain before the night was over.

Lucia made her own small shelter, separate from Peeper, whose husband had finally come in on that day. Lucia had watched their silent reunion and was glad for Peeper’s high spirits now that her husband was with her again. But that was all she could bear to see. She could not watch them in the night, their glances of contentment while they ate, their easy conversation by the fire, and then, while Blue and the old people slept, their time together beneath their blanket. Peeper deserved her happiness, and Lucia did not want to be there to begrudge it to her. So she threw up a separate shelter, covering it thickly with boughs, making it just large enough for herself to lie in wrapped in her blanket on a deep, soft bed of leaves and pine straw. She built a small fire on the open side of the shelter and had a pile of wood with which to feed the fire through the night.

It was the first time since the morning Carlos had come to Fairmeadow that she had been truly alone, and she lay awake long after the camp had grown silent, the emptiness that she had felt since that morning slipping now into sadness. Her thoughts drifted over him, trying again and again to see him, to know him in the man that she had seen that day, distant and strange, kindling nothing in her that was old, nothing but an empty feeling. And now sadness. Peeper at the next fire in the arms of her man. She here alone. Always alone from her earliest years. So few times had there ever been others. And always she returned to her loneliness, as now, in her separate shelter, solitary by her fire.

She slept a little while. Then the rain began to fall and she awoke, and for a few moments she lay lost in the darkness, unable to remember where she was until lightning lit the night and showed her the boughs of her shelter and the white ashes of her fire. As thunder rumbled in the darkness, she sat up and stirred the fire, bringing up the still glowing coals and adding more wood. For a little time she sat watching the flames as they moved up into the wood and threw their light into the rain outside. Then she lay down again, shivering a little. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But the thunder grew louder, the rain pouring down, until finally she gave up on sleep and turned onto her side to watch the fire, its flames whipping about in the wind.

She was still watching when he came. She had heard voices somewhere in the camp and then silence again. The rain had almost stopped and her eyes were heavy with returning sleep, the fire burning lower now, more serenely, as she watched it. Then he was there beyond the fire, coming out of the darkness, soaked by the rain, stooping to look in at her, uncertain he had found the right place. She rose up soundlessly on one elbow, watching him as he recognized her in the firelight. For a moment he did not move but just looked at her, the rain dripping from his head and shoulders and running down his back. There was no war paint on him and his face was as she had always known it, older but the same. He wore a breechcloth and torn moccasins and carried a dripping blanket beneath his arm. She sat up, and he stooped lower and came into the shelter.

She moved to make a place for him. “I built it small,” she said softly. “I was not expecting you.”

“It is good,” he said and tossed aside his soaked blanket and sat down on hers. He leaned toward the fire, trembling slightly. She put her hand on his back.

“You are chilled,” she said softly. “So cold.”

He nodded, his body tense and shivering.

“Here,” she said, reaching down for the blanket. “Get up. We will pull it over us.”

He raised himself and let her pull the blanket free. As he sat down again she put it over him, watching him now, waiting for him to look at her. When he did, she smiled.

“Come on,” she said, reaching out for him. He came to her, slipping his arms around her as they sank down into the softness of the bed that she had made, the blanket over them, she holding him, feeling him cold and wet against her warmth, his arms so tight about her that they gave her pain, she saying nothing, only holding him more tightly, her face pressed hard against him.