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01-02-2011 12:17 PM |
From The Serpent's Knee
Chapter Six
The pack horse caused Rodney McIvor’s minor accident. He had crossed the mountains, reaching the Elk river. The animal, tormented by horse flies, bolted as Rodney was loading for the day’s ride. A forehoof dug into Rodney’s right foot, shearing leather. For an hour, Rodney endured pain. He washed the wound, bandaged his foot and started his journey. By noon the pain had lessened. That night Rodney was near Stone’s river, less than a day’s ride from Nashville.
During the night, fever set up along with a steady throbbing from toes to knee. Although the night was mild, Rodney wrapped himself in all available cover. By morning he could barely walk.
The foot was swollen, with an angry tinge. Loading his gear was sheer torture, but Rodney was alarmed, and he wanted to reach Nashville and a competent physician. Mounting was a major problem, solved when Rodney used the fallen trunk of an ancient oak as an aid. His sense of balance deserted him frequently, so that he had to cling to the saddle.
He had periods of near blackout; thirsty, he went without water because Rodney had forgotten to refill a canteen.
I must not dismount. Keep Going. Going…
Suddenly he was in Nashville, on an unrecognized road. Later he remembered asking his way; and then he was near the wharf. The person who spoke his name was Jeffrey. Jeffrey it was who got him to the Longsdorf house and found a doctor. Of that, Rodney had little knowledge, until he roused, fighting the lance a bearded white man jabbed into the center of mocking pain. “Sit on him Jeffrey,” the man ordered.
Rodney battled for control, lucidity of mind. “No,” he said, “I know what you’re doing.”
“Good. I am Doctor Regan. This should relieve you.”
“It is. In my foot. But I ache all over.”
“You have blood poisoning sir. Mild at present. I think we caught it in time, but you’ll be in bed for a time.”
Rodney groaned. He looked at Jeffrey. “Where is Mr. Longsdorf?”
“Up to Gallatin. Maybe he’s coming back tonight.”
While Dr. Regan dressed his foot, Rodney explained how it had all happened. “I think I was out of my head the last few miles. How did you find me, Jeffrey?”
“You got to the wharf. Folks said you was drunk. Happened I drove by from the market.”
“You stay off this foot,” Dr. Regan said. “The medicine is to ease you. If his fever rises, call me,” this to Jeffrey.
Rodney felt drowsy after the doctor left. He tried to question Jeffrey about the Chatfields. When he woke, children were playing outside. Jeffrey fed him broth, explaining that Longsdorf would see him soon. Noon passed before Longsdorf walked in with a sheaf of papers. “From your gear, odd clothing and markings still unhealed, I deduce quite an adventure.”
Rodney managed a grin. “Worse. I might as well confess; I am bankrupt.”
Longsdorf drew up a chair. “I had an inkling. Chatfield has received some messages which he kept to himself. I know this; they concern you.”
“Messages from where?”
Longsdorf offered him brandy. “They came in a roundabout way. From Knoxville. something is afoot, my friend, so be prepared. Mrs. Chatfield will not give me a hint. Jeffrey heard from the Chatfield servants that there was quite a stir the other evening. Miss Ailsa took to her bed.”
“Then I must reveal matters I have kept secret too long,” Rodney said, “Jeffrey knows.”
“Jeffrey? How in thunderation…”
“He was reared in Savannah. I am half Cherokee. The lands in north Georgia were my legacy. My mother was the daughter of a chief. Black Pine. That land has been confiscated. It was outside Black Pine’s home I was assaulted.”
Longsdorf swore softly. “Rodney, it would have made no difference if you had told me the first time we met. Now take my advice. Things are never as bad before they happen, as afterward. Jeffrey did right in getting Dr. Regan, but I’m going to lick this infection my own way, if you trust me.”
“You have studied medicine?”
“That I have. Two years.”
Longsdorf and Jeffrey labored for an hour; they spread a poultice from ankle to knee, coating that with clay mud. Rodney’s leg was placed on an old blanket. Whatever Longsdorf’s black concoction contained, it put Rodney back to sleep. Jeffrey roused him finally. “Suppertime, Mr. Rodney.”
He was hungry. Rodney felt no pain, no throbbing reaching to his crotch. “Yes, I am hungry,” he agreed. “Longsdorf is quite a physician in his own name.”
“He be sober by morning,” Jeffrey bent over and whispered. “Right after he treated you, he locked himself up. But you’ll be all right.”
“Jeffrey, I must know something. Chatfield has learned…has learned that I am part Cherokee.”
The black man looked away. “Something like that. But maybe Miss Ailsa and her mama…maybe they don’t care.”
“I am not ashamed, Jeffrey. Except that I failed to tell them the truth when we met in Europe.”
“What is the truth, Mr. Rodney? You live like a white man. You think like one. Me, if I was part Cherokee, I would be proud of the blood. It’s what you be that counts.”
“And not what I wanted to be,” Rodney said. “I must see them, come what will.”
“You stop worrying, Mr. Rodney. Let Mr. Longsdorf do some talking. Mr. Chatfield, he be a big man in Nashville. Once he wasn’t a big man. Mr. Longsdorf knows.” When Jeffrey brought Rodney’s breakfast, Longsdorf, looking rather fit, came in, long stemmed pipe held by one hand. “Rest well?”
“I slept.”
Longsdorf felt his pulse. “Regular. Any throbbing above your ankle?”
“Occasionally. Not severe.”
“You’ll be out by the end of the week. Rodney, you have me on edge. With all this talk of women. first, you mentioned a certain Nancy. Then you babbled of a blue woman.” He took a seat, puffing slowly. “Now I have met copper tinted women. Black ones. Yellow females. But none I considered blue. No wonder you bear unhealed bruises.”
“Not much of a mystery, my friend. The Nancy…so I mentioned her name…is the adopted daughter of a missionary. We did exchange a few words. The blue woman…well, about all I know is that she wears a blue mask. I believe she tended my wounds the night I…but that’s starting at the middle of a long recital.”
“I’m all ears. Go back to the beginning.”
For a half hour Rodney gave details, interrupted frequently by his host. Longsdorf shook his head. “You go away for a few days and run into the damndest things. I’m sorry about the loss of your property. That is tragic, under the circumstances.”
“Meaning Chatfield?”
Longsdorf eyed his pipe bowl. “Don’t blame Miss Ailsa. She must face prejudice that invades almost every man, woman and child on the frontier. And Nashville still is a frontier. Being a woman and young, Miss Ailsa must abide by the mores, morals and what have you of her surroundings and times.”
“A woman’s concept of love is a mystery to men, Rodney. She can turn her love on or off when shopping her man. Oh, I know our plays, our novels and songs are filled with unrequited love. You, my dear Rodney, are not abstract; you are real. I am afraid Miss Ailsa will break her pledge to you.”
“On the grounds that I am a half breed?”
Longsdorf was silent for a time. “On the basis that your secret is known and will react on her social status, here, or even in England.”
“It would not affect her overmuch in England. Oh, some would talk.”
“The Chatfields are not wise in British attitudes as you and I.” Longsdorf rapped his pipe of dottle. “I am more concerned over what this means to your business future. That is your business, of course.” He started out, looked back. “A mystery woman in a blue mask. My friend, if this were not so serious, I would consider riding into Georgia. I am intrigued.” Longsdorf walked back. “I forgot to tell you Dempster Chatfield had a setback also; he failed to get that precious appointment from Washington.”
“As distract Indian affairs agent? He was sure of that.”
“Which goes to show how fickle politics are.”
Jeffrey delivered a letter to Ailsa, riding out that afternoon. He returned with a package. Rodney had been playing chess with Longsdorf. He undid the hastily wrapped bundle. Letters, small gifts he had bought Ailsa when she and her mother were in Europe, tumbled upon the bed. “No personal note?” Longsdorf asked, turning to his servant.
“She be in room sir. They tell me she going away with Mrs. Chatfield.”
Longsdorf frowned. A signal passed between him and Jeffrey. “I must look into this,” Longsdorf said. He went away. Nor was he back at mealtime. Rodney heard a carriage hours after dark. It stayed in front for quite a time. Later Rodney heard Longsdorf arrive, go to his room.
On the third day, Longsdorf removed the cumbersome bindings. With Jeffrey’s help the leg was cleaned. All signs of swelling had gone. “Healthy as a damned mule,” Longsdorf grunted. “A small bandage on your foot will suffice. How about a carriage ride after school hours? It is a beautiful day.” The words were casual, but Rodney sensed importance in that suggested trip.
Jeffrey drove toward Andrew Jackson’s home, along a lane with trumpet vine in full bloom atop stone fences. They took a dirt road to a stream coursing to the Cumberland. “In that clearing they hold camp meetings each summer,” Longsdorf said. “Once someone lived here who planted those flowers and shrubs. But I did not come here to show you flowers.”
Rodney saw them…Mrs. Chatfield and Ailsa; they sat on their horses, each sidesaddle, where the road dipped into the shallow stream. Jeffrey turned the carriage and drove a short distance away.
Helped to a stone ledge, Rodney sat, as Longsdorf helped the women alight. Ailsa came, slowly, mouth tight, in the manner of a sullen child. Rodney had no rush of emotion, no hastening of heart beat. He felt older. And when Ailsa stood before him, Rodney smiled, asked her to be seated. “A lot has happened,” he said.
“You are still sick,” Ailsa said. She hesitated, saw her mother and Longsdorf vanish where a path led upstream. “Why didn’t you tell me in France? It was terrible. Pappa reading that letter from Georgia. He made it so…so horrible…”
“Is it…horrible?”
She choose a seat some distance away. “you know it is impossible to marry you here. Why, some rabble rouser might incite a mob. Pappa is afraid it will get out even now. He has told everyone of our engagement.”
“I wanted to see you, Ailsa, to offer my deepest apology for not informing you of my Cherokee blood. I should have done that, as you say. My silence was wrong. So, I have been guilty of an injustice to you.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” She was twisting her gloves. “Oh, Rodney…” she came nearer. “Rodney…let’s run away. I want to leave this place forever. We can be married later. I don’t care…if we go to England. Or to France. They understand there. I’m sick of hypocrisy. Of pappa’s shams. He is no aristocrat. My grandmother was an actress. With a troupe going from town to town. My mother has her lover. You know about that by now. Rodney, I’m sick of playing the lady. Take me away.” She was clinging to him now, trembling. “Pappa made me send back those things. I didn’t send them all. Not everything. And I never shall.” She buried her face against his side. “Please, let’s go away.”
“Your mother?”
“She would help. But…I’m afraid what Pappa would do to her.”
Jeffrey came running their way. “Mr. Longsdorf…Miss Ailsa…they come up road…”
Ailsa was on her feet. “Pappa?”
“They ride fast. Mr. Longsdorf…” Jeffrey vanished, still calling his employer’s name. Ailsa gathered up her shirt and ran toward the horses, tied in the undergrowth. Struggling to his feet, Rodney heard the approaching group. Longsdorf was shoving Mrs. Chatfield, who had stumbled. Jeffrey put locked hands under Ailsa’s boot, lifting her. Longsdorf did the same for Mrs. Chatfield. The two women sent their mounts splashing across the stream and into the deep woods beyond. “Bring it up for Rodney.” He came beside his friend, a small pistol in his right hand. Silent, he waited as Dempster Chatfield, riding ahead of two white men, each a stranger, entered the old camp ground.
“Say nothing,” Longsdorf told Rodney. “Make him do the talking.”
Jeffrey waited as Chatfield and two strangers, each well dressed, pulled up. Longsdorf’s calmness appeared to puzzle Chatfield, who raised in the saddle, looking about. “Why are you here?” he demanded finally.
“May I ask why is it your business?”
Chatfield rode nearer. “Mrs. Chatfield and my daughter left home early. Have they been here? To meet him…” pointing to Rodney, “…that pretender. That half breed.”
“you were his host. Why turn on my friend now? It was your proposal that I entertain him. Do your companions know that sir?”
Chatfield whipped out a pistol. “By God sir, I want the truth. What devilment did you cook up? Deliberately shaming me. You must answer for that.”
“My dear Rodney, did you hear that? He welcomes you one day. The next, he comes like a sheriff after an outlaw. Mr. Chatfield, you are the one who must explain.”
“Why…why you damned leech…drunkard…scheming behind my back as you take my pay…if I learn you inveigled my daughter and wife to a meeting, I’ll kill you.”
To be helpless now! Rodney wanted to leap at the man, pull him to the ground and choke him. He saw one of Chatfield’s companions draw his mount back. This was not his quarrel. The other man spoke in a low voice and rode back to the main road. This Chatfield saw, and he flushed. With an awkward movement he twisted in the saddle, brought up his pistol and fired at Longsdorf. It was so incredible an act that Rodney was frozen, as a smoke haze drifted before Chatfield’s face. Then Jeffrey came running. Longsdorf stood, features graven, and he raised the small pistol. Raised it with a steady hand. Chatfield threw down his pistol. “No. Don’t. I…I didn’t mean to shoot.”
“Get off that horse.” Longsdorf clipped his words, as if he were an officer. Chatfield obeyed. Longsdorf looked toward the two men in the road. “Gentlemen, please join us,” he called.
Chatfield was begging, almost incoherent. “Please observe,” Longsdorf dressed the witnesses, “that this outraged father and husband shot me in the left shoulder. He then turned craven. Look at him. Did you expect that?”
The older man shook his head. “I am Dinwiddie Austin. From Mississippi. Can I be of service to you sir?”
“Take this creature away.” Longsdorf wavered. And Rodney, grimacing, got to his feet and took the gun. “He is not worth your lead,” Rodney told Longsdorf.
“What a sorry end to this play?” Longsdorf said, as Jeffrey drove in the wake of their erstwhile callers. “Nothing settled. And I must get this damned slug out of my shoulder.”
“And I was the cause of it all,” Rodney said. He managed a laugh. “Dinwiddie Austin. The man Dempster hoped to invest in the land deal. Why did he bring witnesses along, I wonder.”
“Dempster needs a reputation now,” Longsdorf said. “Killing seems to be a virtue on the frontier. If he had dropped me, he would have been freed as a defender of his family. Dempster would have regained considerable stature, for he is a desperate man. More so now. He will not rest until he gets me, in some manner. And you, my friend.”
“I should have killed him with the other barrel of your gun,” Rodney said.
“In a way I am glad it happened this way, my friend.”
Rodney was grateful that he could help Longsdorf now. Ambulatory, Longsdorf fretted, his pupils dismissed. They played chess constantly. Jeffrey learned that Mrs. Chatfield and Ailsa had gone to Lexington. “Sent,” Longsdorf diagnosed. “In the end, Letha Chatfield always gives in.”
They sat with chess board on their laps. Longsdorf swept the ivory figures to the floor. “In all this confusion, I overlooked your talk with Miss Ailsa.”
“She wanted to run away with me. Just before Chatfield rode up, she told me…well, about you.”
“bad, or good.”
Rodney grinned. “I wouldn’t say she disapproves.”
“It is over now.” Longsdorf rose; his left arm still was in a sling. “We faced a mutual problem, Rodney.” Longsdorf sat down again; he seemed rather tired. “I was awake for hours last night. I did some deep thinking. Rod, the Cherokees call you Attalla. Excellent.” He picked up a decanter with his good hand. “I must ask you to pour, for I am about to give you a christening…one you must have.”
amused, Rodney obeyed. Longsdorf lifted his glass. “To Rodney Attalla, son of The McIvor. Son of a Cherokee great lady.” He emptied the glass, then flipped it into the fireplace. “Stand with me, Rodney Attalla, while I give you my hand. We are going to your Nation.”
“We? But the school…”
“There are plenty of others better fitted. I know of a tutor, now at the university, where the pay is terribly low. Jeffrey will run the place, as usual.
“Rodney Attalla, I hereby pledge my brotherhood in arms to the cause of the Cherokee Nation. And the blue woman,” he added with a chuckle.
“To fight? It is as useless as staying here.”
“You are wrong, my friend. It has been a long time since I slogged through jungles, or across endless sand wastes.”
“Why not go to England? I have enough funds for both.”
“I must confess self imposed exile, Rodney Attalla. A matter of violating family tradition and all that. You see, my friend, I am a bastard.”
It took self control to conceal reaction, but Rodney did just that. “You were not responsible. You had no choice.”
“Nor did you, my friend.” Longsdorf consumed a second draught of brandy. “They did not tell me as a child. I was to learn at school, when one of my enemies charged me openly. I beat him, sat on his head until the headmaster led me to his study and caned me. He knew. And now that it was open knowledge, he shipped me home.”
Longsdorf, emptying glass after glass, related his stays in schools on the continent, service as a subaltern in India and Asia. “They were mixed in accepting or enduring me. I loved a woman who cared nothing about my birth. She died.” Longsdorf slumped in his chair, eyes closed. “The only other one I cared for was Letha Chatfield.” He opened one eye, mouth twisted. “I knew you were part Cherokee before we met.”
“You? How?”
“Jeffrey. He possesses a sense of…well, the occult. And he was afraid for you.”
Rodney felt as if he had to shed his clothing and start running. But where? Back into time?
He could go back!
“You were in earnest about leaving for the Cherokee Nation?”
Longsdorf regarded him owlishly. “Why not? Away from this we could forget for a time, and work out something. Something for each.”
End Part One
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