Authors: Georgina Gentry
To Tame A Rebel (17 page)
Chapter 11
December nineteenth.
Captain Franklin Wellsley thought wistfully of Christmas as he squatted in front of his campfire and rubbed his cold hands together. Any idea of quick victory against the Yankee Indians, with lots of medals and parades to please Mother, had long since fled. He was also weary of Harvey Leland, whom he had already decided cared not a fig for the kidnapped stepsister but seemed greedy and too eager to know of Franklin's financial affairs.
Captain Franklin Wellsley thought wistfully of Christmas as he squatted in front of his campfire and rubbed his cold hands together. Any idea of quick victory against the Yankee Indians, with lots of medals and parades to please Mother, had long since fled. He was also weary of Harvey Leland, whom he had already decided cared not a fig for the kidnapped stepsister but seemed greedy and too eager to know of Franklin's financial affairs.
The young Cherokee scout, Clem Rogers, strode into camp. “Colonel Cooper sent me to fetch you, Captain. He thinks those Yankee Indians have settled in on Bird Creek up ahead. I reckon we'll be attackin' soon.”
“I don't see what keeps them going,” Franklin muttered, “burdened by women, children, and livestock, and poorly armed and provisioned.”
The scout pushed his battered hat back. “Hope, sirâthey're runnin' on pure hope.”
Captain Wellsley didn't answer.
Hope? Yes. Hope and sheer courage.
He had a soft spot for underdogs. Of course, there was always the matter of the kidnapped Mrs. Dumont, who might not even still be alive. “All right, Rogers,” he said, and stood up, “I'll see the colonel and then pass the word to the troops.”
Hope? Yes. Hope and sheer courage.
He had a soft spot for underdogs. Of course, there was always the matter of the kidnapped Mrs. Dumont, who might not even still be alive. “All right, Rogers,” he said, and stood up, “I'll see the colonel and then pass the word to the troops.”
Twilight was so weary, she could barely dismount as Yellow Jacket reached up to take the two sleepy children from the saddle. How long had they been on the run? Weeks. It must be at least the middle of December. She thought with longing of Christmas and feasting and elegant balls. “Is there any food?” she asked as she led the children to where the Creek warrior was building a fire. “The children are hungry.”
“Maybe I can snare a rabbit or break the ice and catch a fish in the creek,” he answered, but he didn't sound too hopeful. He gathered up some rope and a knife and strode away from the fire. She took little Pretty in her lap and held her close to warm her. The boy hunched closer to the fire and looked at Twilight, his face thin and drawn. “Do you think we will reach Kansas soon?”
Frankly, she had long since given up hope of reaching Kansas at all, but hope was all these people hadâshe must not take that from them. “I'm sure of it,” she answered as brightly as she could muster, “and when we get there, the Union soldiers will feed us and give us plenty of blankets and a place to sleep with real wood floors.”
Little Wasko smiled. “And what will you do? Will you stay with the white people?”
She hadn't given that a thought. Did Yellow Jacket intend to turn her over to the Union officers? “I don't know,” she answered truthfully.
“I thought you were Yellow Jacket's woman,” he said.
Was she? She shook her head. “I have a brother among the rebels, and . . .” She did not finish, realizing suddenly that she wasn't sure she wanted to return to the whites. Yet it was absolutely insane to consider staying with the Indians . . . wasn't it?
Pretty had gone to sleep in her arms. “What about you?” Twilight asked. “Will you try to find your folks?”
“I have none left.” The child shook his head. “I will join up with Yellow Jacket and go fight the rebels if he will let me.”
“Someone has to look after Pretty if I go back to the whites,” Twilight said, stroking the toddler's black hair.
The boy looked disappointed. “I thought you would stay and take care of her until Yellow Jacket and I returned from battle.”
He was thinking of them as a family. Twilight shook her head. “I don't think I can do that. I'll be expected to return to my own people.”
“Do you want to go back?” He nodded toward the south.
She blinked, surprised at herself that she didn't know the answer. “We'll see,” she said finally. “Now, you take my blanket and move closer to the fire. Yellow Jacket will be back soon with some food.” She said it matter-of-factly, and realized she was confident that the big Creek warrior would take good care of them.
After an hour, Yellow Jacket returned. He had managed to kill two fat squirrels, and they roasted them and ate. Later he helped her bed the children down. Then he sat next to her before the fire and spoke softly. “The rebels are moving up on us. We're going to stage a night attack at the creekâtry to take them by surprise. They won't be expecting it.” He reached for his extra ammunition.
“Be careful,” she blurted without thinking.
He looked at her, surprise in his dark eyes. “You know if they win, you might be freed.”
“I know.” She nodded. “But if I go, what will happen to young Wasko and Pretty? Harvey wouldn't want them, so I can't take them with me.”
The big warrior's expression grew troubled, and she wondered what he was thinking. He reached out and put his hand on her arm very gently. “If I don't come back, turn the children over to one of the women and make your way to the rebels. Use your underskirt for a truce flag so they won't shoot at you. I'm sorry I've put you through this. As for what happened the other night . . .”
“Don't say it.” She shook her head. “We were both caught up in the heat of the moment; that's all.”
“You regret it, then?”
She looked away. “I don't know. Itâit complicates things.”
“I always hated whites, especially Southern whites.” His voice was low, and he stared into the fire. “And then I met you.”
She waited for him to continue, but he did not. Somewhere nearby, Smoke yelled at him to come on. “Take care,” she whispered. “I'll pray to the Master of Breath for your safety.”
“If I never see you again, remember what I said about making a truce flag and finding your way to the rebels.” Then he disappeared into the brush. For a few minutes she listened, hearing the sound of men moving lightly across the prairieâor was it only the harsh wind blowing? She didn't know how far down the stream the warriors were setting up their ambush, attempting to buy more time for their women and children to get away. The small Union force of Indians didn't stand a chance. But neither had they at the battle at Round Mountain. She waited, her heart beating hard as she strained to hear.
The sun moved low on the horizon. Now there were shouts and the sound of galloping horses, rebel yells and gunshots; lots of gunshots. Both children came awake, the baby crying. All Twilight could do was cuddle them close and pray, knowing now that she was worried about Yellow Jacketânot because of her fate should he be killed, but worried about him because she cared about him. The thought shocked her.
Night came on, and gunfire echoed in the cold darkness; the acrid scent of gunpowder drifted on the icy air. A riderless gray horse galloped past, and in the distance, men screamed faintly in mortal agony. The sounds of battle echoed through the night. She could only hope Yellow Jacket wasn't breathing his last breath somewhere along Bird Creek.
After what seemed like hours, the shooting and the shouting dwindled off, and toward dawn, Yellow Jacket galloped back into camp, his dark face alight with triumph. “We've beaten them off, killed dozens in our ambush. We'll make it to Kansas yet.”
He swung down off his horse, and without thinking, Twilight went into his arms, hugging him close. “We were so worried.”
“I wasn't!” Little Wasko said proudly. “I knew we would win. Someday I will be big and I will fight the rebels.”
Yellow Jacket reached down to pat his head. “By the time you are big, maybe this will all be over. Now, start breaking camp; we've got to be on the move again before the rebels recover and start after us again.”
Around them, she could hear others breaking camp, loading wagons. Old Opothleyahola's badly outnumbered forces were on the move again.
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Days blended into days, and their journey north seemed no faster than before, yet still the rebels were on their trail. It was night, and Yellow Jacket sat at the council fire and looked around at the other leaders. The ancient one coughed hardâso hard, he almost bent double. Yellow Jacket exchanged a look with Smoke. They both seemed to know that if the old leader died, their followers would lose heart and the rebels would overrun and slaughter them. Like Moses leading his people to the promised land, Opothleyahola was leading the Muskogee.
The old Creek leader stopped coughing and looked around the circle. “It has been days since we defeated the graycoats at that place they call Bird Creek. Our people are sick, weary, and out of food and ammunition. I now begin to doubt that we can make it.”
Smoke protested, “But it is not far now to Kansas. We have come a long, long way.”
Another leader grunted, “And that way is strewn with bodies of our dead. It seems Great Chief Lincoln is not sending us help after all.”
No one said anything. They had all trusted the Union to keep Lincoln's promise, yet so far, there had been no bluecoat soldiers coming to help them.
“Maybe,” Smoke suggested, “maybe they are still coming and are up ahead. It's only a few more miles.”
The others glanced about at each other, still hopeful.
Opothleyahola looked to Yellow Jacket. “What think you, great warrior? Do you think they are coming?”
He did not think so, but he could not kill their hope, since hope was all that kept them going. “Perhaps. Anyway, even if they misunderstood and are not coming, what alternative do we have? If we stop, the rebels will overrun and kill us, so we must keep moving north.”
The others nodded.
“We have lost many good warriors fighting two battles,” Alligator grunted.
“But we have won,” Yellow Jacket pointed out. “Even an enemy with plenty of supplies and ammunition is no match for brave men protecting their women and children.”
“Hear! Hear!” shouted the others.
“Speaking of women,” one of the others said, “Yellow Jacket, you have the white woman with you still?”
He shrugged carelessly, but his heart beat hard. “We need her for her medical help.”
“She has no more medicine,” one said, “so she's not much help. Would the rebels stop their pursuit if we freed her?”
“I don't know.” Yellow Jacket stared into the fire. He did not want to let her go. When he closed his eyes, he could feel her warmth against him on the cold night, the softness of her skin, the scent of her long hair.
Billy Bowlegs said, “Perhaps we could trade her to the enemy for food and supplies.”
Smoke snorted. “You would trust the graycoats enough to parley with them? They are sure to betray us, no matter who gives their word.”
“That's right,” Yellow Jacket said, “we cannot trust them enough to try such a trade.”
The Creek leader began to cough again. “Still, Yellow Jacket, she is our last hope. If things get worse, we must try to use her to bargain with.”
Yellow Jacket wanted to protest, but he dare not. He knew that the captain might still desire Twilight enough to make any kind of a deal to get her back. He pictured her in the white man's arms, in his bed, and his soul cried out against it. “We'll see,” he said, and stood up. “Right now, all we can do is keep moving north.”
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Days passed as they stumbled forward. Even Twilight had forgotten everything except keeping herself and the two children alive. The cold weather did not let up as they traveled, and always behind them was the threat of pursuing Confederate soldiers. Yellow Jacket looked wearier and grimmer each day, yet he encouraged the others and often rode behind, putting himself in danger to round up the stragglers so the rebels wouldn't capture them. Some of the time, he found enough game to feed their little ready-made family. Sometimes there was nothing but hot water with bones boiling in it to make a thin broth. At night the four of them huddled together under their blankets, attempting to keep from freezing to death.
Every morning, when they arose and started north again, they saw others lying very still in their last, long sleep. For them, the terrible journey north was finished. But they had died free, Twilight thought. A few weeks ago she would have wept like any protected Southern belle to be amid so much misery, but she had changed. All that mattered now was surviving and getting these two young children to the safety of Kansas. She no longer asked to stop and bury the dead they passed; the moving tribe could not spare the energy or the time on those who were past caring for. Always the Indians, under their weakening leader, Opothleyahola, kept their eyes on the north and listened for the sound of the pursuing Confederates.
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