The strangers slithered through the woods along the creek quiet as ghosts. Compared to them, Allbright and I sounded like a pair of buffalo. In this way, I was certain that, whatever the exact color of skin, fullness of lip, broadness of nose, or wiriness of hair, they were Indian. This fact became undeniable when we fetched up at their camp and I saw the whole band of around eighty or so men, women, and children of what I learned were Black Seminoles.
Either out of good manners or a strange lack of curiosity, only the children stared and pointed at the Sergeant and me as we stepped into their midst. They motioned for us to sit down, and brand-new, U.S.-issue mess tins were placed in our hands by a couple of flounced and beaded women. On the tins were chunks of boiled antelope and a sort of doughy bread that tasted like it was made from yams and vulcanized rubber.
I ate and gawked at the band.
If God ever put a more handsome group of human beings on this earth, I have yet to see them. These black Mexican Indians had extracted the best from three races and assembled a tribe of people with walnut skin, long black hair either straight or with a bit of crinkle to it, high cheekbones, full lips, and every brand of nose you can conjure. Might even have been a button or two amidst them. The men wore full muslin shirts and moccasins. A few old birds sported turbans made of a plaid wool.
Most impressive of all was their chief, a tall, powerfully built man with straight, black hair that fell to his shoulders, dark skin that had a coppery cast to it, and eyes angled up in Chinaman fashion. He was dressed in a muslin tunic that extended to the middle of his thighs. A vest decorated with Mexican pesos pounded flat and rows of beads was worn atop the tunic. Deerskin leggings covered his legs and moccasins his feet. About his neck was a strand of beads made from iridescent shells interspersed with more flattened pesos.
As striking as he and the rest of the men were, it was their women who stole my breath away. Let me describe the one I took to be the chief’s wife, though she may only have been a sweetheart for the headman always seemed to look to one old gal for the final word. In any case, when I gazed upon this young woman, I felt as though I was staring into the face of my grandmother back when she was one of the Leopard King’s Amazon warriors. Back before the filthy Portugee got hold of her or the cursed Americans locked an iron collar about her neck. Back when she was free.
This beauty gazed at me directly from beneath a frame of short, straight black bangs that curved around her face. The rest of her hair was pulled up into a tall hair hat decorated with a band of red beads woven through it. Her neck, from just below her chin down to the tops of her shoulders, was circled with alternating strings of yellow and red beads. The choker gave her a regal appearance, her head resting high and noble above the garland. A fantastic cape, trimmed across the top with Mexican peso coins beat down to broad, flat discs, covered her upper arms.
Of a sudden, the old gal who I figured might be the chief’s wife appeared to notice me for the first time. She was a shrunk-down, wrinkled-up, potbellied copy of the young beauty. A smile played across her queenly features as she nudged the other women around her, pointed at me, and whispered. They all commenced then to studying me, scowling and grimacing as though I were a hard problem they had to cipher. Then they, too, went to smiling, nodding, and beckoning me to join them. With horror, I realized that they had all arrived at the same conclusion: I was one of them. I was female. A female warrior.
I looked away, but my constant fear of exposure had risen into a full-blown panic. I would of jumped up and bolted right then and there except that the smiles and waves stopped dead the instant that the headman stood before the gathering and said in English, “We welcome the sergeant who leads his men into this land where we will fight side by side.”
Though this comment mystified me, there was a muttering and heads nodding in our direction. Then they all fell silent and the chief went on speaking to Allbright. “I am John Horse, headman of the Black Seminoles. I led the only successful slave rebellion in the history of this country. Three times I defeated the Army of the United States of America in the swamps of Florida and kept my people free. Have you heard my story?”
For the only time I knew of, the Sergeant stumbled before answering, “No, sir, I have never before heard of people of color defeating the U.S. Army.”
John Horse shrugged. “Of course not. We did what our enemies fear most. Why would they share the tale? Three times the army came into the swamps of Florida to claim us. And three times we beat them back. I will tell you of my people’s victories, Sergeant, so that you will know who John Horse and the Black Seminoles are. So that you and your Buffalo Soldiers will come to fight beside us. No matter who the enemy is.”
The Sergeant gave him a suspicious look.
Horse continued, “I went to Washington two times to speak to the President and tell him that the Black Seminoles would slaughter the whites who try to make us slaves. You must know that, again and again, we were betrayed by generals who promised freedom then imprisoned us when we surrendered. The last time I was tricked this way, they locked me inside the fourteen-foot-thick walls of Castillo de San Marcos. With me was the great chief Osceola and the fiercest warrior to ever fight the white man, Wild Cat, who we call Coacoochee.
“Inside those thick walls, all we saw of the freedom we had been promised was a nine-inch-wide opening fifteen feet above our heads. Though our women wailed, lamenting our lost home, Wild Cat made us strong with his words, saying, ‘They may shoot us. They may drive our women and children night and day. They may chain our hands and feet, but the red man’s heart will be always free.’ We, his allies, some of us his blood kin, were red men. Not the black slaves whose grandparents had escaped bondage.
“We watched the nine inches of sky and we fasted and we waited. We made rope from our bed sacks. And, on a night when the moon did not enter the sky, we escaped. We gathered our bands and took back the swamps. We fought the white man, and again, no general, no army could defeat us. Again, we drove the masters to the bargaining table. And, yet again, promises were made if we surrendered. We were promised our own land in the Indian Territories. Because our children were dying of hunger, we accepted. And, a third time, we were betrayed.”
A slave rebellion? Red men and black men fighting together to defeat white men? Escaping out a nine-inch opening fifteen feet overhead?
Could this be true?
Though I had never heard a whisper of such things, when John Horse spoke I could hear my grandmother through him. Her stories of six thousand women warriors defeating armies of men twice that size might also have sounded like a pack of lies to anyone who didn’t know that we weren’t slaves. We were captives. John Horse had the same iron in his soul that was never going to be bent nor beaten into another shape. I believed he had done everything he recollected and a deal more besides.
“The barren land they moved us to,” Horse continued, “was in the territory of our enemy, the Creek. These devils had fought alongside the slavers. They kidnapped us and they enslaved us. The Black Seminole will never be slaves. Not for the white man. Not for the red man. So, again, I led my people to freedom. We escaped to northern Mexico, where the government gave us sanctuary if we would help them fight the Comanche and Apache raiders. This we did. I became el Capitán Juan Caballo and, for many years, we were happy in Coahuila. And then, once more, the betrayals began.
“Because of this, I now come here to Fort Clark. The U.S. Army has invited us to fight the Apache and Comanche with them for, in this, the American soldiers are helpless children. They now offer us good land beside this creek and good rations. Still, my people fear another betrayal and we did not know whether we should accept or go back to Coahuila. And then we saw you. Black men wearing the uniform of the U.S. Army, riding the horses of the U.S. Army, and carrying the guns of the U.S. Army.
“Because of you, we are convinced now to leave Mexico and come to Fort Clark. Then, no matter what betrayals might come, we shall always have allies by our side. But first, my people and I need an answer to a question.”
“And what might that question be?” the Sergeant asked, his tone peppery with suspicion.
“We want to know why you are fighting for your enemies, for the ones who enslaved you?”
“You mean the United States Army?” the Sergeant asked, his suspicion turning to annoyance. “Just exactly who do you think you and your men will be fighting for?”
John Horse translated the comment for those who didn’t savvy English then answered, calmly, “We will not be fighting for those who enslaved us because the white men never owned us. They never sold one of our children from her mother or used our women as broodmares as they have done to your people. If an enemy had ever done such things to my people, and then, if a great war had been fought to free us, we would never become slaves again.”
Peevishness crinkled the Sergeant’s fine features and he said, “We are free men, we are fighting for those who freed us, and we are paid well for our service.”
At this, a great murmur went through the crowd, the Sergeant was pulled to his feet, and one of John Horse’s lieutenants handed him a small bundle wrapped in the plaid wool some of them had tied about their heads as turbans. The Sergeant took the bundle, which caused a wave of happy murmurs of hink-lah-mas-tchay and es bueno. Though a general jolliness settled over everyone, the Sergeant’s uneasiness sharpened. He stood there staring at the bundle like John Horse had placed a bag of boll weevils in his hands.
At that moment, all the ladies, led by the old one I took to be John Horse’s wife, rose up as one and headed straight for me. I scrambled to my feet. Though I feared what they had figured out, I didn’t think they had any way to blow me as it did not appear that the women spoke English. Then I glimpsed the gift John Horse’s wife held in her outstretched hands and I saw that no words would be needed for they were stepping forward with one of the long, flounced skirts that only the women wore.
I pivoted smartly and ran from the gathering. Though a tsk-tsking chorus of hull-wax-tchay and no es bueno followed me into the darkness, I had no other choice. Even then, I feared they’d exposed me. That the Sergeant would put together the two and two of them presenting me with a damn skirt and me bolting and my secret would be revealed.
I was trembling when the Sergeant caught up with me. I was sure he’d have that skirt in his hands and demand to know what it meant. Instead, he said, “Good work, Private. I’d have left myself except that I was too stunned by their proposal.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage.
“I salute you for your very swift, very correct response to their treasonous suggestion.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’ve a nimble mind, Private. And a loyal heart.”
“Sir.”
“You saved us by not accepting their bribe. I should have done the same. Instead, they tricked me into allying myself with them in rebellion against the United States.”
“You don’t say.”
“I couldn’t believe it either, Cathay. Just by accepting their gift, I betrayed the oath of allegiance I swore when I enlisted.”
He heaved the bundle into the woods, said, “Good night, Private,” and took off at a fast trot back to his encampment. I started to leave, then went back, peeked twice in all directions, bent down, and plucked up the Sergeant’s bundle.
Back at my camp, I unwound the plaid wool. The women had fine weaving skills and the cloth was surprisingly light and soft. It became my new binding. I pulled my muslin shirt on over it. I now had two secrets to hide. The second was: far from being horrified by John Horse’s tale, the news that slaves had beaten back the U.S. Army electrified me.