Calling Crow Nation (The Southeast Series Book 3) Page 5

  A splash came from near the dugout. “I’ve got him!” said a triumphant voice. Swift Arrow and the others saw a flash of silver as the Timucua hoisted the gar he had impaled on his lance up out of the water and into the dugout. Another canoe glided into view. “The ship is leaving,” said a man. “Yes,” said another, “they say there were so many slaves on it that they had to stack them two deep.” The others laughed.

  Swift Arrow looked through the holes in the thicket and saw the ship. Small in the distance, it headed straight out to sea, taking his beloved chief with it.

  “Come,” said one of the Timucua voices, “we’ll cook this big fellow over a nice fire. Can we get through here?”

  The Timucua began beating the thicket with his oar as he probed the thickness of it. Swift Arrow turned and motioned to Little Bear to begin backing away.

  Little Bear pointed to a ripple of movement on the surface, of the water behind him. A large water moccasin was swimming toward him. It wrapped itself around his broad back to rest, preventing him from moving.

  Swift Arrow insistently waved him back. Little Bear grimaced and backed up. Immediately the serpent came to life and bit Little Bear on the back before swimming quickly away. Little Bear exhaled audibly, but did not cry out. Sweat beaded on his wide, dark face as he pushed slowly and silently through the water to the bank. After running for a while, the Coosa braves were forced to stop. Although Little Bear had been bitten many times before, he was reeling from the poisons in this snake’s bite and needed to rest. Swift Arrow and the others took up position, watching the approaches, as the big brave lay down on the ground. After sleeping for half a day, Little Bear awoke and they ran on.

  Chapter 6

  The Contempt lay anchored in a small bay into which a muddy river emptied. The sun climbed into a nearly cloudless sky, burning off the hazy mist that hung low over the shoreline. Samuel Newman, John Newman and Fenwick the Tailor sat in the skiff tied to the ship. Two men began climbing down the ropes from the ship. One was a big, ruddy-faced, blue-eyed Flemish tanner in his forties named Breuger, who had emigrated to England to escape persecution from the Catholics five years earlier. Breuger carried a loaded crossbow over his shoulder.

  Fenwick called up to him. “Be careful, my friend, don’t fall. That crossbow might go off.”

  “It’s okay, Fen, for even if it should shoot a bolt into you, I have several more in reserve.

  “Ho ho,” laughed Fenwick.

  Samuel smiled at their banter. He knew they were nervous about going ashore, but go they must. They would have to procure victuals and water somewhere, enough for their stay here and enough to get them back home. Samuel looked back at John, who appeared not to hear the other men as he stared intently at the misty forested shore. Samuel’s smile faded. John’s black moods would be his own undoing, but he must make sure they didn’t threaten the rest of the men and the venture.

  Breuger hunched over low as he walked carefully through the middle of the skiff, keeping his weight in the center. He took a seat next to Samuel. Three other men climbed down. The first, a strapping lad of nineteen years from the Bristol countryside named Thomas, put his weight on the skiff, pushing it lower in the waves. He carried an old German matchlock musket. Thomas went carefully to the prow of the skiff and lay the musket there. He came back and sat at one of the oars. The second man, a quiet, emaciated, pock-faced chandler named Miles, sat in the stern. Then young Patrick Fitzgerald from Munster climbed down. Keeping his eyes to himself, he sat at the other oar. Samuel nodded and they pushed off.

  They began pulling for the shore. The two young men put their backs into the task and the boat soon traversed the bay. By the time Samuel directed them to start up the river, the mist had burned off. They rowed quietly beneath great dark bald cypress trees, leaving a large V-shaped wake in the black water. John rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as he watched the shores. The birds make a racket and the men saw many turtles sunning themselves on rocks and logs. Samuel pointed out a large tree on the bank to Patrick and Tom and they headed for that. A few moments later Patrick and Tom shipped the oars and they drifted toward the bank. The skiff grounded gently on the muddy bottom.

  “Fenwick,” said Samuel, handing him a coiled-up length of rope with which to tie up the skiff, “you shall have the honor of being the first ashore on Florida. Over you go.”

  Fenwick looked anxiously down into the black water.

  “He’s worried about the alligators,” said John drily.

  “It’s all right, Fenwick,” said Breuger, “they will only bite you if you step on them.”

  “Are you sure?” said Fenwick.

  “Of course,” said Breuger.

  Fenwick smiled as he held out the rope. “Then you go.”

  “Hurry, man,” grumbled John.

  Fenwick jumped into the water, muttering quietly to himself. “After two weeks of no meat and nothing but dried peas and biscuits, the alligators better worry about me!”

  The others laughed as Fenwick pushed through the water and climbed onto the bank. He began pulling the skiff in hand over hand. When it would come no farther, the other men began climbing out.

  “Secure it well to the tree,” said Samuel. “The tide has gone out and she sits low. We don’t want to lose her when the tide returns and have to swim home.”

  Wordlessly they pushed through the thick bushes and ferns, listening to the sounds of wildlife all around them. Used to the ever-reaching vistas of the long-ago deforested fields and towns of England, they marveled at the wild lushness of the forest. Here there was no horizon; there was no road. They heard birds overhead, but saw none flying about for there seemed to be no sky.

  Young Tom was the first to speak. “I’ve heard stories about the inhabitants of these lands,” he said softly to Miles, who was walking in front of him. “‘They say that there are wild men in these forests who live up in the trees.”

  Miles turned round to him briefly and nodded. “I have heard the stories too. Tailed men, they say!”

  “There are some who believe that we all had tails at one time,” said Breuger from behind them. “But most of us lost them over the centuries.”

  “Yes,” said John, “all but the Irish.”

  Patrick’s cheeks grew red at the taunt, but he said nothing, continuing to walk.

  Fenwick winked at him, then turned back to Samuel. “Tailed men?” he said, but Samuel was staring intently into the dense growth and did not hear him.

  “Supposedly,” said Breuger, “the natives of these lands are tailed. But worse than that, they are said to be cannibals of the worst kind, fond of burning their captives alive and then eating their blackened flesh.”

  Fenwick again turned worriedly to Samuel. “Is it true, Samuel?”

  “What?” said Samuel, “that they are cannibals?”

  “No, that they are tailed.”

  Samuel peered at the thick foliage. “When I see a live homo caudatus, all bound up, or a dead one for that matter, then I’ll believe it. But I’ll not settle for children’s stories of such.”

  “A homo what?” said Fenwick.

  “Homo caudatus, “said John. “That is the Latin word for tailed men.”

  The forest thickened and the men lapsed into silence as they were forced to hack and push at the vines and bushes. With their heads as wet as if someone had doused them with buckets, they finally pushed out onto a trail. It was not a hip-high animal trail through the thickets, but a well-traveled, dirt-smoothed trail, almost wide enough to allow a carriage to pass, definitely wide enough to allow three men to walk side by side.

  “I wonder where this goes,” said Fenwick nervously as he picked his nose.

  “To a village, no doubt,” said Samuel.

  John and the other three men were looking down the trail in the opposite direction. John came up to Samuel.

  John wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “It sounds like every bloody animal God ever created is about and making noi
se, but you never see one to put an arrow into it.”

  Samuel nodded tiredly. “Perhaps we should follow the trail and see if there’s a village. We could trade with them for food.”

  “Oh,” said John, “how, I pray you? We don’t speak their language, we don’t even know if they have the capacity of language. Do you think it will be like trading with the bloody French or the Irish? Hah! If we find a village, our best bet is to take what we need.” John lay his hand on Tom’s musket. “Keep your match lit, boy. We’ll put the bloody fear of God into them with that and get what we need.”

  Samuel found his temper rising. “No,” he said emphatically. “The Spaniards trade successfully with the natives. If we find any, we will trade for what we need.” He glared in warning at the other men and then at young Tom. “Do you understand?”

  Tom nodded.

  John laughed as he looked at his brother. “Samuel has read too many of those French books about the natives of the New Lands.” John turned to the others. “It is written in these books that the New Found Lands are a paradise where the rivers flow with wine. The birds in the trees and sky are already roasted to a golden brown and sing like angels before they fly into one’s mouth.” John turned back to Samuel. “Brother, do you think the natives will victual us with these birds and wine for our return voyage?”

  “Stop your rot,” said Samuel angrily. “It was your doing that got us into this mess.”

  “By my soul,” said John hotly, “I thought a fat, old grandee named Fernandez had some hand in it.”

  Samuel shook his head angrily as the other men waited for the two brothers to settle their argument. “Enough, enough already,” he said, “Let’s go.”

  John smiled as he pointed first one way on the trail and then the other. “This way or that way?”

  Samuel started down the trail toward the north and Fenwick fell into step behind him. Wordlessly, Breuger, Miles, Tom and Patrick followed, and then John. They had not gone far when a curious sound came from the trees off to their right.

  “What was that?” said Fenwick.

  “I don’t know,” said Tom.

  “Some kind of local bird, I think,” said Samuel.

  “Well,” said Tom, hefting the musket up, “if it shows itself, it’s going in the cook pot tonight.”

  They walked on and heard the same call from the thick foliage on the other side of the trail.

  “There’s another one,” said Breuger worriedly.

  “Pay it no mind,” said Samuel, “keep moving.”

  As the men walked along, the sound came again and again, as if there were now many of the creatures and they were following them. The Englishmen walked faster, their breathing heavier, and the creatures seemed to become more bold, coming closer. Breuger took off running down the trail. “Wait,” Samuel called. The others ran after Breuger, and Samuel followed them. The sound grew much louder and the men fell into a panic, running wildly. A horrible scream rang out and they stopped, looking about at the inscrutable green foliage. A large feathered form raced across a small clearing.

  Tom raised the musket to fire and an arrow pierced his chest. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. Then a swarm of arrows found him and he fell like a stone. Samuel and the others looked around frantically. A chorus of horrid screams erupted and the bushes seemed to come alive with natives. Feathered and hideously painted, they rushed at the surprised Englishmen as they pulled their swords.

  Samuel faced the attackers but turned at the last minute when he sensed movement behind him. A strong arm closed around his neck and he was thrown to the ground and clubbed in the head. The blow stunned him. He was aware of the sounds of the others’ struggle, but could do nothing to help them. Then someone was pulling him to his feet. Samuel felt a small degree of relief when he saw that John and the others were unhurt. Like him, they, too, were bound up tightly with leather straps of some kind.

  “John,” said Samuel, “are you all right?”

  “Yes,” said John, looking around sullenly at their attackers.

  Samuel estimated there were more than fifty native men, all of them painted red and black and decorated with feathers, stones and the like, all of it designed to give them a menacing, wild-animal look. They were tall and stout of frame, and wore their hair pulled up into a knot that stuck up from the middle of their heads for about the length of a finger.

  Samuel glanced back at the others. Fenwick’s mouth hung open in fear and he looked about wildly. Breuger was on his feet and evidently unhurt, but his face was bruised badly and he appeared to be in shock. Miles and Patrick sat on the trail, their hands bound behind them.

  One of the natives began shouting and they pushed Samuel and the others back in the direction from which they had just come. They passed Tom’s body where the natives had left it lying on the trail, stripped of his sword, boots and clothing. The natives had retrieved their arrows and Tom’s pale white body was a mass of bloody holes.

  “Christ in Heaven!” Fenwick said fearfully, “he looks like a bloody pincushion.”

  They were led along the trail for most of the day, until they came to what appeared to be a large timbered fort. They passed through the entrance and walked down a main street of packed dirt. Samuel stared at the groups of small huts, corralled off with crude fences that lined both sides of the street. There were no people anywhere to watch their entrance and he thought this strange. When they came to a square of sorts, one of the native men called a halt.

  As Samuel looked about, he heard a commotion behind and a large, muscled man who was evidently the leader came up to him. Inspecting him briefly, the man issued orders. His men then pushed Samuel and the others rudely toward some poles set in the ground. The poles formed a circle, the diameter of which, approximated the height of a man. The poles were spaced such that people tethered to them would not be able to see one another. A native shoved Samuel back so hard his head cracked into a stout pole. As his hands were being tightly bound, he fell again into unconsciousness.

  Samuel came out of a fog and heard voices. The air was cool. He opened his eyes. He was in the center of the village, his arms tied painfully behind him. The sun had set and the light was dying. A breeze washed across the open square of the village, chilling him. He looked about but could see none of the natives anywhere. Behind him he heard Fenwick and Breuger talking, but he could not turn his head around enough to see them.

  “Where are their women?” Fenwick was saying, “and their children?”

  “Perhaps there are none,” said Breuger, “perhaps they are a species like the Amazons, with only one sex.”

  Samuel called to them. “Are you all right back there?”

  Breuger’s voice came. “We’re alive.”

  “But for how long?” said Fenwick plaintively.

  “Shut your trap,” snapped John.

  “Is Miles alive?” said Samuel.

  “I’m all right, sir,” came the man’s reply.

  “Patrick?”

  “He’s still unconscious,” said Miles.

  Samuel wondered where the natives had gone. He wished he hadn’t blacked out. “Where are they?” he asked the others.

  John answered. “There is a big hut back here which you cannot see. They all went in there, to rest up, we think.”

  “Have they been out since then?” said Samuel.

  “No,” said John.

  “They know we’re not going anywhere,” said Fenwick. The air continued to cool and the men fell silent, each with his own thoughts.

  Someone cried out as if in great pain.

  “What was that?” said Samuel.

  “It’s Patrick,” said Miles, “he’s coming round.”

  “Is he all right?” said Samuel.

  “I think so.”

  “They’re coming out now,” said Fenwick, “a dozen or more of them.”

  Samuel was vexed at not being able to see what was happening. “What are they doing, Fenwick?” he said. “Keep
me informed.”

  “I don’t know,” replied Fenwick sadly, “bringing up wood.”

  Samuel could hear the sound of branches being broken. He heard the occasional shouts and laughter of the natives.

  “About fifty paces from here they have stacked quite a large pile of wood,” said Fenwick.

  “What are they doing now?” said Samuel.

  “Nothing. Just standing around.”

  “Christ in heaven!” said Breuger.

  No one said anything and Samuel called out anxiously. “What is it?”

  “Someone is bringing a torch.”

  It was dark now. No one said anything. After a while Samuel could hear the crackling of the fire. He knew it must be large because even from the distance, he could now feel its warmth on the back of his neck. Were they really going to throw them into the fire, he wondered. The thought was too much to bear and he pushed it out of his head. He watched the flickering light that now fell on the ground, and allowed his mind to take him back to a lawn party at his estate. Torches cast their quivering glow upon his grassy lawn. His five-year-old son ran with some other boys, shouting as they played the catching game Last-in-Hell. A small, warm hand clasped his finger tightly. It was his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Catherine, the joy of his life. Her happy eyes beseeching him, she pulled him out onto the lawn for a dance. Her fat cheeks shone like red apples above the round white-lace collar of her black velvet dress. He spun her around and her delight issued forth in a tomboyish belly laugh. His wife, Frances, heard and looked over from where she sat with the others. She smiled at him. Then she turned round to smile and talk with the guests as the servants made the rounds with cakes and drinks.

  Chapter 7

  Calling Crow and his men arrived at the deserted Timucua village that they had passed the day before. The sweet smell of hickory smoke was in the air. Calling Crow knew now, of course, what had happened to the people of this village, but he still wanted a look inside. He ordered his men to halt. Moving well away from the high timber palisade, they found a place to rest where a thick wall of trees and vines would obscure them from the eyes and ears of anyone in the village. Calling Crow sent Red Feather over the wall to scout.