Читать книгу Daughter of Shiloh - Ilene Shepard Smiddy - Страница 12

CHAPTER IV

April 1793—Life as a Captive

Never had Clarinda been so angry. This crazed Indian clutching her must be mad. He would learn a thing or two when William and her brothers got hold of him. She heard the fiendish war whoops, then saw the naked painted bodies swarming around her. The field was crawling with Indians.

“Run, Polly, run,” Clarinda screamed. “Lord Jesus, have mercy.” Wrestling free, running faster than she had ever run in her life, she kept praying. Her long skirt caught on some stubble, causing her to trip. She fell hard and lay face down in the mud. The smell of the savage Indian stifled her. She gagged and spit up.

The flaming pictures Clarinda had seen earlier in the morning danced before her eyes. Surely her vision was a warning of approaching danger. Pushing herself up from the moist earth, she frantically looked for an avenue of escape. Finding none, she saw she was surrounded, and knew running would be hopeless.

Clarinda numbly straightened her clothing with muddy fingers. Concentrating all her young will, she held her head high and walked ahead of the Indians. She dared not look to either side, but kept her eyes forward. The booming of gunfire resonated in her ears, confirming that this nightmare was real. The Indians were attacking the station.

Clarinda resolved to follow William’s teaching. She told herself, I will not show fear. I will not cry out. Wading across Slate Creek, she repeated the words over and over again, forcing them into her subconscious memory.

The Indians pushed and shoved the women along, stringing them out in single file. Those carrying infants were made to walk at the rear of the line. Clarinda could hear the hungry, frightened cries of the babies. When the line showed signs of slowing, they were poked and prodded by their captors. The Indians used grunts and hand signals for commands. Clarinda steeled herself, blocking out the pitiful sounds of sobbing coming up from behind her.

Searching for answers, she reviewed what William had told her about Indians. Mostly he spoke about the Cherokee. Members of their tribe were often seen at the trading posts. They did not act like bad Indians. She wondered what tribe her captors came from.

Clarinda’s mind began to drift. She recalled when she and her sisters had gone with Jacob to hear some important men speak. The politicians had promised that if Kentucky became a state it would put an end to Indian wars.

Plodding along the trail she thought about William’s stories of the early frontier. He had told her that long ago the Shawnee laid claim to this mystical region that was now the state of Kentucky. Then the Cherokee drove the Shawnee to the north. Now the Cherokee lived far to the south in order to abide by the peace treaty. The Cherokee gave up this land, they signed the treaty. They were supposed to be keeping the peace.

The captives, urged forward by their captors had been walking fast all day and evening without rest. No offer of food or water was made. Now darkness was complete. Clarinda could not see the trail. The sound of the children’s anguished pleas became embedded in her heart. Clarinda knew she would never be able to shut them out of her memory as long as she lived.

The Indians found a secluded campsite and stopped. The night was black dark. Clarinda tried to see Polly. She wished she could just talk to her. Once, along the trail, she had caught sight of Polly when the line wound around a fallen tree. Polly was half-dragging a small child, trying to keep up. Her face was ashen, her eyes empty.

Poor Polly, the Bakers were new to the frontier. Clarinda wanted to console her friend and be comforted in return. She too was frightened. Never show an Indian your fear, she remembered again. William’s words kept ringing in her head.

The Indians kept them in small groups, away from each other. Clarinda was determined to stay alert. She set her mind on one goal. She must stay strong in case she saw a way to escape, but pretending to be strong and brave was not easy to do.

An ugly warrior with hideous markings drawn on his face and chest pushed Clarinda to the ground. He motioned for her to stay there. The Indian was rough and looked mean. She heard the moans of others being abused.

None of the Indians made a move to strike a fire. The night air was damp and cold. Another Indian shoved Mrs. Young down next to Clarinda. She could not recall ever having heard Mrs. Young’s Christian name. She wanted to ask her now, but decided not to risk the Indian’s displeasure.

Some foul-smelling meat was handed to her. Each prisoner was given a gourd full of water. Clarinda drank thirstily, but the meat made her retch. She threw it aside.

In the darkness Clarinda leaned close and whispered to Mrs. Young. The ugly Indian rapped her hard on the shoulders with a long stick. Evidently ugly face was in charge. He stalked about, watching and listening. He was the one who had given the order to stop. He went about making sure the captives made no sounds. Clarinda thought him capable of unspeakable violence. She hoped to stay awake in case she might get a chance to sneak away. She huddled down in a bed of dry leaves, as close to the earth as possible for warmth. Heartsick and exhausted, her eyes grew heavy and she slept.

Long before daylight the Indians shoved and dragged the captives back into line. Clarinda saw that other warriors had caught up with them during the night. The horses that the newly arrived Indians brought with them were loaded like pack-mules.

Overcome with bitterness, Clarinda recognized the animals were from Morgan’s Station. She could see the settler’s household goods protruding from the packs. In blocking out thoughts of her own desperate situation she had failed to consider what was happening back at the fort. Was her Ma dead?

Her spirit sank and she shuddered, biting her lips to hold back the flood of tears.

In order to make walking easier Clarinda removed her outer skirt and petticoat. Using the sash from her skirt, she tied them around her neck like a cape. She found she was able to move through the brush much faster in just her pantaloons.

She tried to hold her clothing away from the thorns and brambles lining the faint trail. Her fingers traced the delicate needlework. Clarinda thought about her Ma’s callused hands, and how hard she always worked. If she only knew where Martha was now she might find some measure of peace.

After conferring with a tall Indian, Ugly Face moved Clarinda to a place at the front of the line. He motioned her to follow behind a big gray mare. She recognized the mare as one belonging to Mr. Becraft, and remembered how she had watched his children riding her around the fields outside the station.

Clarinda noticed that the tall Indian whom Ugly Face had talked to was leading the gray. There was something different about him. She did not recall seeing him yesterday. He was well built; his bearing that of someone who was used to being in a position of authority. Sort of like the military officers she saw at the Furnace.

This Indian wore his long black hair neatly tied back with a leather thong. Eagle feathers stuck in the thong were his only adornments. His body was clean and smooth, not painted like the rest of the war party.

Clarinda studied the part of his face she could see. The gray horse walked between them. The Indian was ruggedly handsome. His bronze muscles rippled as he moved effortlessly along the faint trail. He handled the gray with one hand using the other to carry a rifle inlaid with gleaming brass trim. There was something vaguely familiar about the shining rifle and the way he stared back at her.

From far behind her a commotion erupted. The sounds of a struggle reached Clarinda. She stopped to look back. The tall Indian turned and looked directly into her face. Without saying a word his dark eyes flashed her a message of warning.

The noise came again, and then she heard screams followed by the cries of a woman and a baby’s whimper. She wanted to run back, but the Indian’s eyes burned into hers an unspoken order to keep moving. She felt, rather than heard, his command. He kept his face turned toward her; the stern look on his carved features flickered just for an instance. Clarinda thought she saw a glimmer of compassion or some form of human emotion.

Was she losing her mind? He was a savage, a heathen and a thief. That was plain enough to see. He was leading a stolen horse and marching them to God only knew where. He could have even murdered members of her family. Clarinda shrank back at these thoughts, but she forced her feet to move.

Each step was painful. She wondered how long she could keep setting one foot down, and dragging the other one forward. Her whole body ached. Her arms and legs were covered with welts and insect bites.

The line had been snaking along for hours. An orange sun rode high overhead. Clarinda heard more sounds of scuffling and wailing behind her. The line slowed to a crawl, then came to a complete stop.

“Mercy,” she breathed a prayer of thanks. Maybe the Indians would give them food, or at least some water. She had not eaten since her capture.

Clarinda would forever remember what happened in the next few moments. Using tomahawks, the painted Indians savagely bludgeoned some of the prisoners to death, then set about scalping them.

Most of the dead were children. Clarinda watched as blood spouted from Mrs. Craig’s open skull, and she saw Betsy Becraft fall. Shaking from sheer terror, Clarinda buried her face in her hands, waiting for the blows to fall.

From somewhere far distant she heard her own voice screaming. The sound grew louder and would not stop. It was all around her, choking her. She welcomed the spinning, whirling darkness. Her limp body crumpled to the ground.

The tall Indian dropped his rifle and raced around the horse to catch Clarinda. He snatched her up quickly, raising her with his arms. He shook her gently, while pouring a strong, smelly liquid over her face. Clarinda’s eyes opened slightly, she tensed, feeling the strong arms holding her. The Indian set her down firmly on her feet.

“Be still, make no sound,” he said. “You mustn’t cry out. They’ll kill you.”

He spoke English. This time she could not mistake the softness. It was in his voice and in his eyes. His words shocked her back to the present.

“Keep walking, don’t look back, no matter what you hear, keep on walking.” His voice was an urgent whisper, and his meaning was clear. He was giving her a chance to survive. She must try to do what he asked. She lurched forward on trembling legs. By grasping the tail of the gray mare, she found she could stand. By holding on, she let the mare pull her along the trail. It was the only way she could stay upright, so she held on with both hands, trying to stay alive.

That night there was food. She was allowed to bathe her feet, which were cut and swollen. Thinking she would never eat again, Clarinda watched the meat roasting on a spit. It smelled good. She took what was offered, knowing it would be impossible to keep going without food.

Somewhat refreshed, Clarinda began examining her surroundings. She hoped to find something familiar, a hilltop, valley, rock or stream. She searched for any landmark she might have seen before. There were none. She examined and discarded several plans for an escape. She was desperate to go home. She wondered where her brothers and William were. She could not understand why they had not come for her. Maybe they were all dead at the hands of these demons. How long would it be until she would know?

Days blended into nights, and Clarinda’s thoughts stayed on her family. Walking along, their faces floated around her. She could hear their voices in the wind, calling her name. Each weary day was the same. She walked behind the gray mare and the tall Indian with the fancy rifle. He had not spoken to her again, and she never looked back.

At last the pace became slower. The Indians no longer seemed to fear pursuit. The line was much shorter. There were no children now. Only the women from the station. While the Indians set up camp at night Clarinda and the others were allowed to talk quietly. Most often they fell asleep exhausted without saying anything.

During the blackest hours of one night several Indians left with Polly Baker and Ben Becraft. The leader of that group was known as White Wolf. Clarinda suspected he was a white man. She overheard Shining Rifle speak to him in English. She prayed for her friends, in her mind turning them over to God.

She wondered where God was anyway, and if He had a hand in all of this. She had been taught He would watch over her. She didn’t understand how He could let this happen. She felt guilty and afraid thinking these thoughts. There were no answers. Her load of grief was heavy, but she was determined to survive. She must find a way to get back to her family.

Every day Shining Rifle stayed just a few feet in front of Clarinda. She walked carefully, following in the footsteps of his high, fringed moccasins. She had learned early on not to make any noise or draw attention to herself. She tried to do as he indicated after he saved her life back there on the trail. She believed with all of her heart that he had saved her, but she could not understand why.

Clarinda remembered something William had told her about the war. There were Indians who had fought along with him. They were regular soldiers, wore uniforms, and could speak the white man’s language. Some even learned to read and write. Maybe Shining Rifle had been one of those Indians.

She secretly watched him while they were in camp. He rarely talked to the others and remained aloof. It was clear that the relationship between these Indians was unusual. They did not appear to be friends or even to know each other. Instead there was an atmosphere of distrust.

Shining Rifle’s tall stature and clean-cut features held no resemblance to the other Indians. Clarinda wondered if they were from different tribes. She found her thoughts were constantly muddled and confused.

Early on the morning after Polly’s disappearance the remaining Indians held a parley. To Clarinda it sounded like they could not agree on which direction to travel. After a time they split up into two groups. One group took two of the women, one named Robinson, the other Clarinda did not know.

Four Indians and Shining Rifle took Clarinda, Elizabeth Young, and Susie Baker. They took two horses, a roan and the gray mare. By this time the women knew to do as they were told. They could interpret the signals and gestures the Indians used to direct them. Shining Rifle did not speak or acknowledge them in any way, but after the others were gone, he led the gray mare at a slower pace and stopped more often to rest.

The Indians seemed less hostile now. One brave killed a deer with his bow. That night they had fresh meat. The Indians carried salt in small leather pouches. The venison was cut in strips, rolled in salt and slow cooked over the fire. It tasted delicious.

Back on the trail, Clarinda realized they had ceased their circular travel and were moving steadily toward the east. The mountains were getting higher, and the going more rugged and rough. She studied the position of the stars in the night sky and took note of where the sun and moon rose and set. She felt certain she could find her way home.

Elizabeth’s movements were still trance-like. The poor woman trudged along woodenly, doing what she was told. In a whispered conference one night the women made an agreement to do whatever the Indians expected of them, hoping their lives might be spared.

Clarinda suggested it would be wise for them to help out whenever they could and make the best of this dreadful situation. In so doing, they might gain the Indian’s trust.

The long march ended for that day when the Indians found a clear stream to camp by. Clarinda began gathering sticks for the fire and the other women followed her lead.

Shining Rifle appeared to be more in charge now, though he seldom spoke. He took on the duty of making the campfires. Clarinda watched as he carefully placed the larger sticks that she had brought in a crude cross. He filled in around the sticks with leaves, grass and small bits of wood. The mound resembled an altar.

When the wood was ready, Shining Rifle sat back on his heels and held his arms and hands together in the manner of a prayer. He lifted his head, leaning back, so his face was turned to the sky. After a few moments, he went back to igniting the fire using the flint from his war bundle.

Clarinda thought this ritual must be a tribal custom but didn’t know from what tribe. The other braves took no interest in the proceeding and continued staking out the horses.

At dusk Clarinda picked up two gourds and a metal pot that dangled from the backpack the gray mare carried. She walked slow, making no sudden moves on her way to the river. Kneeling by the water’s edge, she scoured the metal pot with sand, then paused for a moment to listen. The sounds of the forest had quieted and she sensed another’s presence.

Shining Rifle’s voice startled her. His movements through the thick, knee-high grass had made no sound. He spoke in a gentle tone, tempered so as not to cause her alarm. “Don’t be frightened away like the fawn, you’re safe with me. I intend you no harm. What are you called?”

Frightened, yet reassured by his words, she stammered “Clarinda.”

“Clarinda.” he let the name roll slowly over his tongue, tasting the syllables. “It sounds like music.”

She gasped in astonishment. “You know about music?”

He stood silent, watching the ripples on the water. He seemed to be deciding if he should say anything more.

“My mother was French,” he said. “It is many seasons now since her spirit left this world. You are much like her.”

“I am? How strange,” Clarinda was flabbergasted. “I mean, how is that so?” She could not imagine herself being like a French girl who had borne an Indian child. “Was she pretty?” Clarinda looked up at the Indian, thinking even as she spoke, what a foolish question to ask. He was so close she could smell the oil on his skin. It was not a bad smell, but pungent, like spice.

“Much pretty, Clarinda. I can make no more talk here.”

She nodded, trying to understand, her thoughts racing.

Now she knew for sure Shining Rifle was different from the rest of the Indians. He was a half-breed. A magnetic force flowed around him. She could feel it. She also felt she had to keep his secret, at least for now. His tall form melted into the shadows. Clarinda carried the water back to the campfire. Tonight she would have so much to think on.

Elizabeth and Susie sat together near the fire. Clarinda handed Elizabeth a gourd full of the clear water. Elizabeth drank gratefully, then watched uninterested as Clarinda worked at some camping chores. Susie was silent, staring into the fire.

The next day Elizabeth ventured out to gather sticks to burn. Clarinda touched her arm and smiled. “It is good for you to help.” For a moment Elizabeth’s eyes shined, seeming to come to life.

“Maybe she’ll get better if we help her,” Susie Baker said.

Clarinda was so glad Susie was feeling better that she hugged her.

“We will help each other, we must find a way to go home,” Clarinda said. She looked around in every direction, then whispered “We have to be brave.”

The Indians held their course, and continued moving east. Clarinda could see high mountains, where a blue mist hung in the air like smoke. She remembered them on her journey into Kentucky. To the north must be the dreaded Ohio Territory.

“Dear God, please don’t let them take us into Ohio,” she prayed as she walked.

By afternoon they had reached what appeared to be their destination. It was an encampment in a small clearing. The Indians who took the other two women were already there, and acted relieved to see Shining Rifle and the rest of the braves.

Clarinda, Susie and Elizabeth were glad to see the woman named Robinson and the other girl were alive.

The Indians spent most of that night dancing around a huge bonfire. They had been waiting for Shining Rifle’s band. There were no Indian women in sight.

The camp consisted of a few deerskin-covered teepees and a circular pen for the horses. The women were assigned a teepee. Since reaching the mountains, the cold air cut through their tattered clothing. They were grateful for the shelter and welcomed the privacy the teepee offered them.

The first few days at the camp passed quickly. The women busied themselves bathing and washing what was left of their garments. Taking turns, they helped each other. The naked ones stayed inside the teepee while the others fetched the clothes when they were dry. They discarded what little was left of their shoes.

Every morning Clarinda found a round stone to place against the inside wall of the teepee. This provided them a way to count the days and have some understanding of the passage of time. They had no idea how long they had been on the trail.

They found a pile of clothing outside their flap one morning. Delighted, they sorted out things they each could wear. It was the plunder from Morgan’s Station. Their pleasure was bittersweet. Clutching the chosen items, they scurried back into the seclusion of their tent. With dry eyes they held the clothing close and thought about home, each remembering in her own way.

Clarinda threw her arms about Susie Baker. She had seen Polly wear the blue cotton dress she had chosen. Susie held her tight for a time, then motioned for her to put it on. The girl known now to them as Jenny chose Nancy Allington’s favorite red frock.

Like butterflies emerging from cocoons they crawled out into the sunlight. It felt good to be clean and well clothed. Their spirits lifted a little. Usually the women kept silent, not wanting to attract attention. Today they were talking, sorting through the rest of the clothing.

The Indians had completed their morning routine and were bringing the horses from the pen. The braves gave the women questioning looks, but Shining Rifle hurried them along. One Indian always remained behind to guard the captives. The rest spent the whole day away from camp.

Clarinda was convinced that they had Shining Rifle to thank for the clothing, but she dared not reveal what she knew about him. He had not spoken to her since that evening by the river. He did follow her with his eyes when he was in camp. The other women noticed and mentioned it to Clarinda. Just on the brink of womanhood, Clarinda could not understand their implications about what his attention might mean.

The Indians had relaxed their guard. The women were free to roam about the immediate area. Jenny and Clarinda found some wild berries growing along the riverbank. They were a short distance from camp, and the guard was not paying them any notice.

Jenny whispered to Clarinda, “This River is the Little Sandy.”

“Are you sure?” asked Clarinda excitedly.

“Yes,” Jenny said. “Really sure. My family stayed near here for a time before moving on to Morgan’s Station. I remember this valley well.”

Clarinda recalled Jenny’s family had arrived just before the attack. “We can escape,” she told Jenny. “The Little Sandy flows into the Ohio, and the Ohio will lead us to Limestone. All we have to do is follow the rivers. There’s a fort at Limestone. The militia will take us home.”

Clarinda could hardly wait until dark. When they were all inside the teepee she outlined her plan. “I know we can find the fort at Limestone if we follow the rivers. If we don’t go, when the Indians finish whatever it is they’re doing here, they’ll take us across the Ohio. We won’t be able to get back. Let’s leave now, while they sleep.”

“No, no, we’ll all be killed,” Susie cried under her breath. “The Indians will find us. We can’t get away.”

“Please, Elizabeth, don’t you want to try?” Clarinda begged. “Jenny, Miss Robinson, what about you?”

“I think it would bring certain death on all of us,” Jenny said.

“I’ll go by myself. When I get to Limestone I’ll send the soldiers here.” Clarinda jumped to her feet, ready to leave. “What difference does it make if we die out there or here?” she asked. “You don’t have to come, but I’m going home.”

“No, we won’t let you go,” Susie Baker said tearfully. “If you try to leave we’ll have to wake the Indians.”

“The tall one, the chief, he wants you,” Jenny said, nodding. “That’s why we’re still alive. He would have us tortured if we let you go. Besides, I didn’t see this place called Limestone.”

“It’s on the Ohio River, where the Little Sandy joins it and the Big Sandy. Limestone is near there. We can find it.” Clarinda could not understand their objections.

Elizabeth Young had regained her senses. “No, Clarinda, they can move faster. They know the wilderness. My Joe used to tell me about Indians. I don’t think they’ll hurt us here, but if we try to escape, we’ll all die. We can’t let you go either. The chief does want you. I can tell. We would all suffer if we let you leave.”

This was the most Elizabeth had said since they were taken. The other women agreed with Elizabeth. Clarinda sat down, shaken. She wanted to tell them she only reminded the tall Indian of his mother, a French girl, but she held her tongue. Instead she asked, “Why do you call the tall one a chief?”

“Because,” Jenny said, “he makes the prayers to their Great Spirit. He may even be a shaman. Don’t you see how they look up to him, and the way he builds the fires? The sticks represent the four directions, north, south, east and west. He is asking for guidance.”

“My goodness,” Clarinda said. “How do you know so much?”

“When we were here, the Cherokee were our friends. They taught us some of their customs. Most of these Indians are Shawnee or Wyandot. The chief may be the only Cherokee.”

Clarinda thought about that. What would an Indian chief want with her? Jenny was right about him. He did appear to be some kind of leader. She had thought that since she first saw him.

If they would not help her, she would have to stay. Maybe there was no one to go home to anyway. Perhaps her brothers and Elizabeth’s husband Joe had not come because they were all dead. But what of her sisters? They were not at the fort. She resolved to pray hard that they were not harmed. All became quiet in the teepee and Clarinda fell asleep.

The women soon realized why the Indians were staying on the Little Sandy. They were catching wild horses that roamed free in the nearby mountains. Almost every day they added more to their pen.

Late in the afternoons it became the women’s practice to watch the braves break horses. They were good horsemen, and the activity provided a welcome diversion to the long days.

By using a rawhide hackamore with a braided headstall, the Indians could break the horses for riding in just a few training sessions.

One day Clarinda counted the round stones. There were thirty-two. “We’ve been here a month,” she told Susie Baker. All of the women were gathered outside the teepee.

Clarinda’s attention was drawn to a brave who was rearranging his pack. Shining Rifle was standing within a few feet of the seated Indian, smoothing arrowheads by rubbing them with a rough stone.

Watching the Indian, Clarinda caught a glimpse of something familiar. She was sure she had seen some of her family’s belongings. For a moment she hesitated, overcome with pain and anger. Then she saw a gleam of blue and gold as the brave proudly held up one of Martha’s treasured blue flowered dishes.

Without any thought for her own safety, Clarinda sprang on him like a cat, in a flying leap, screaming and kicking, biting and scratching.

The brave was caught off guard. He fell backward, trying to avoid Clarinda’s furious attack. All of the rage and humiliation she felt went into her assault. She was pounding him in the chest with her fists when the chief pulled her away from him.

Shining Rifle was laughing uproariously, as he held her back.