Kit Carson

From The Serpent’s Knee

Chapter Five

There was more whiskey in saddlebags than the single bottle Tunanya had brought to Rodney’s cabin. Twice the riders stopped, dismounted and forgot their mission, scuffling and firing guns. Rodney alone was sober, frustrated as the zeal of their departure waned. Still, they made fair time. Long before daybreak they were on Rodney’s grant. And now Tunanya halted them. The swamp where Rodney had been taken by the runaway slaves was near. “Can you find the black men?” Tunanya inquired.
“The moon is too low. Let us wait. But I need no guide when we get nearer the house.”
“Then let us go on,” Running Otter proposed. “Let us attack when the light first comes and they still are dazed from sleep.”
“Attack?” Rodney considered the word. “I want to capture Bentley unharmed. I want him to know exactly what I will be doing.”
“You spoke of papers,” Tunanya said, showing no effects of the liquor he had consumed. “Is that not why we are here?”
“It is. That will come later.”
They talked of the surprise raid, agreeing on a plan to hold the families of camping settlers at bay. Rodney and Tunanya were to break in. The others were to give protection outside.
Rodney went to the swamp as the others waited. The sky was showing faint traces of light in the east. As he neared the arbor refuge, Rodney called. “Tuttle. This is McIvor. The man you helped last night.”
There was no answer. Rodney moved cautiously, calling Tuttle frequently. He found the arbor torn apart. The smell of smoldering coals reached him. And Rodney comprehended, feeling a bit sick.
“The black men were gone?” Tunanya asked. Rodney nodded. He told them what he found. Running Otter was impatient. Every moment visibility increased.
They left their horses in a clump of thick brush. By now they could make out the house in the clearing. No one was stirring. “We go,” Running Otter said. “Two there. Two beyond the house. I watch the front.”
Rodney’s pulse throbbed. He felt as if he were acting out a dream, a necessary one. And so intent was he, that he did not see a half dozen figures moving in a line, till Tunanya dove to the ground.
Twotoes Kell came towards them. He carried his rifle, hand against hammer. Rodney froze. “The first one who fires on Bentley’s house will get shot,” Kell said, and his voice carried authority. He identified Running Otter. “fall into position with the others,” Kell said. “Move.”
Running Otter walked past Rodney without a sidewise glance. And Kell waved to the other men, beckoning.
“How did you know?” Rodney asked.
“A drunken fool leaves a trail. Mount your horses and line up with my men.”
Kell was watching the house. A man opened the door, rifle in hand. It was Bentley, wearing trousers only. Kell raised a hand. “Kell,” he shouted. “Cherokee Guard.”
Bentley stepped on the porch, peering at the line of horsemen in the road. He lowered his gun, motioned. Kell walked across the clearing to meet Bentley. “How did you know about the trouble?” Bentley asked. “I sent a man after the militia…if he ever finds any.”
“It is my duty to know where trouble comes.”
Bentley grunted. ”Well, it got here last night.” As he spoke, two men came from the house, another circling the house. “Somebody got my niggers drunk on popskull. I sent Hawkins…my foreman…to break it up. They carved him up like a hog for slaughter. We got two. Had to kill ‘em. Holed up in the swamp.
“Any of them Cherokees?”
Bentley shook his head. “Unless it was the blue woman.”
Kell stared. “Blue woman?”
“Wears a blue mask,” one of the other men said. “Damned heifer sneaks around nights. Smuggles guns to the niggers.”
“Joe, bring one of the guns,” Bentley ordered. “It’s a make I never saw before, Kell.”
Kell examined the long muzzled rifle. It was obviously new.
“Good workmanship,” Bentley said. “I’d say the marking on the lock is Spanish.”
“There is none in the Nation like this,” Kell said. “You talk of a woman wearing a blue mask. That is news to me.”
“First we heard of her was south of here. Sounded like a crazy rumor. Then we got hints she was in this part of the country. They had trouble west of here last week. Nigger killed a white man.”
“The Cherokees do not want this woman in their towns,” Kell said. “The council will be told at once.”
“There was a Cherokee here yesterday, Kell. Half white. Had a wild story he owned this land.”
“McIvor,” Kell said. “I know of that. He came for maps of the land.”
Bentley grinned. “Didn’t the fool know this land was surveyed two years ago? Accurately too. And it is on record at the capital? He can have the old charts and welcome.”
“If you would trust me with them, I would deliver the papers to McIvor,” Kell said.
Twenty minutes later Kell emerged from the house. He joined his men, going first to Rodney. “Your maps,” he said. “Now let us ride back to Elijay.”
Rodney fell in at the rear, avoiding even Tunanya. He felt shamed, and his head ached. When Kell dropped back, Rodney expected a lecture. Instead, Kell was jovial. “Some good comes from mischief, Attalla. Tell me, what sort of woman was that who was with the runaway slaves? The one who treated your wounds?”
“I am sorry, Twotoes. There was little light. and she spoke few words. Black or Indian, I could not say.”
“Describe what you did see.”
“She was…like Tresa. Taller, perhaps. She did speak some words I could not understand. And she was gentle.”
“A woman with a blue mask roused Bentley’s slaves. A white man and two slaves died. Two cabins were burned. The slaves had guns of Spanish make.”
Rodney thought that over. “Cherokee business?”
“No. My opinion is that the Georgia authorities will seek our help in this. A revolt by slaves would be bad. I think Bentley is scared.”
“Not enough to quit my land.” Rodney wondered if he could find this strange woman again. Whatever was afoot spelled trouble, and Rodney would encourage that. “You must not go back to your land,” Kell said. “Try the white courts instead. I promised Bentley you would keep away.”
“Have no fear. I am going back. but when I do, I shall be the true owner. That I promise.”
He faced the missionary that afternoon, but West talked of other matters. And Rodney prepared to leave, for the time to ride back to Nashville had come. Now he found himself dreading to go. He felt no desire to lie to Ailsa or her parents about his assets. There would be no money for the junior partnership, unless Selma McIvor helped him.
Or Dempster Chatfield.
The impulse to find more whiskey…better than Tunanya’s popskull was strong. If he could forget this dull, nagging worry! So many of his plans had been wrecked in unexpected places.
He rode to John Gunaski’s house. Tresa was planting corn. When Rodney offered to help, she pointed to the house. “Bring water. The Raven is too feeble, and I must finish this.”
Rodney filled the outside kettles. Tresa got a basket. There were berries ripening in a clearing. Rodney went along. the dewberries on gullied land required kneeling. Tresa laughed at his awkwardness. “You didn’t act so stiff once, Attalla.”
He laughed. “After all. ten years makes a difference.” He told her about the aborted raid, and the blue woman. “That sounds like one of your wild stories, Attalla. Only one like Servila…” Tresa stopped. “We have enough. There is much I must do before dark.”
Rodney caught her arm. “Servila? You know about the woman.”
“Did I say I did?” Tresa jerked loose. “Is it any of your business? You are a white man in your thoughts. You got drunk and did a foolish thing, and the poor slaves saved your life.”
“It wasn’t that bad. Servila?”
Tresa climbed from the gully. ”Rodney, why do you ask? Soon you go away to your white woman. This is not your fight.”
“After my lands are confiscated?”
“After that,” Tresa affirmed.
Rodney picked up his half filled basket. His hands were scratched by thorns. “You should tell Twotoes and The Owl. Any word about this…this Servila is important.”
“Did I say Servila was the blue woman?”
“You did, although you didn’t intend to. Is she Cherokee?” Tresa shook her head. “Negro?” Again a negative answer. “White?”
Tresa lowered her head. “Shawnee. Shawnee and Spanish. And that is all I am going to say.”
West was holding his final service this evening. He had baptized four that morning. Rodney thought of going to Kell with Tresa’s mention of the woman’s name. Somehow, he felt reluctant. Now he had an idea; why not talk it over with the missionary?
Uriah West stayed in one of Kell’s vacant houses behind the trading post. Nancy was washing, pounding a pile of damp clothing on a flat stone. Rodney found the missionary writing at a desk of smooth boards. West wore a thin coat, although the heat was of midsummer type. After some talk of places they knew, West inquired about Rodney’s visit. “It is a matter that concerns a revolt, not of the Cherokees,” Rodney said. He related Kell’s interview with Bentley and the name Tresa gave him. “I have hesitated about talking with Twotoes or The Owl, Brother West.”
“What do you think, my son? Do you believe she is working to incite a slave rebellion? you say she treated you with compassion.”
“Maybe she knew I was half Cherokee.”
“Yes, that could be a factor.” The missionary indicated the letter he had been writing. “My report to the Board sir. They maintain close touch with John Ross. I could mention this.”
“That I leave to you sir.” Rodney rose. Through the tiny window he could see Nancy Adler. She was seated, flat stone in hand, staring at the sky.
“You leave for Nashville soon, I hear,” West said. “My advice is to put this experience out of your mind, Mr. McIvor. You have been away so long that your thinking is that of a white man. Marry the white woman. Go back to England.”
“The day I arrived, I would agree heartily with your suggestion, Brother West. Now, I am unsure. By the standards of my rearing, I am practically bankrupt; and my affianced belongs to a family of wealth.”
“A good time to wed.” the missionary’s eye revealed his amusement. “Listen to me, my son. I could have lived among white people. As a physician or a pastor. They need me here, and that is why I am here.” He stood by the window. “Out there you see one of my failures, Mr. McIvor. Nancy Alder is Iroquois. My wife was living when Nancy was a baby, orphaned by smallpox sweeping through the reservation. I escaped the disease. we took the child, did our best to train her for life with white people. she was well schooled. But when she became seventeen, Nancy came to me upon my wife’s death and vowed to help me in my work, no matter where.”
“Perhaps it was what she wanted to do.”
“I wonder sometimes.” West sighed. “When she is moody. I catch her studying her face in a mirror. When she does that I pray that she will find someone…someone her age. She loves children so much.”
Rodney went outside. Nancy Adler was spreading the clothing to dry. She gave him a shy smile, coloring a bit. “I was wondering,” Rodney said, “if you would like a couple of books I brought along. they poems of the lake poets.”
“But how would I return them?”
“Oh, I have extra copies. You like Wordsworth?”
“Very much. And the new poems of Lord Byron.”
“Oh, you’ve read Byron?”
“At school.” Nancy Alder’s face lighted. “What a wonderful place you live in. And your new writers.”
Rodney listened as Nancy looked at the two books he had brought her. She read verses aloud, enunciated well. and now she placed the books in her lap very carefully. “We have a young poet too, Mr. McIvor. His name is Poe. I have his Tamerlane.”
“Edgar Allen Poe is regarded as a major poet in Europe.” She is pretty when she talks, Rodney thought.
The missionary joined them. Time fled, until Kell called. “The Owl is riding to the home of John Ross,” he said. “The chief has called a Council meeting.”
“Then I shall ride with them,” Rodney said.
He made his farewell rounds. Tunanya begged him to stay longer. “We had planned visits to the places where we hunted and fished.”
“I have to meet my destiny,” Rodney said, not realizing how accurate that statement was. “Who knows, I may return soon.”
“Hwi-la-hi. Go in peace, my brother.”
Rodney followed The Owl from Elijay, a young man changed in many ways from the time of his coming. his strongest wish was to take Ailsa back to England, undergo whatever actions were required to hold his place in the business, and resume the life for which he had been trained.
Nancy Alder’s last words, spoken at a brief farewell meeting, disturbed him. “When are you going to tell the white woman the truth of your birth?”
When? How? Rodney knew he must find an answer to that question before reaching Nashville.
White Owl begged him to ride to the Ross home. “He was The McIvor’s friend. It would please him to see you.”
Rodney decided to go along. The plain, wide porched house, badly in need of paint, was not what he had expected to see. Carriage and saddle horses were tethered in a confused sort of way in a grove. A half dozen men lounged on the veranda. The Owl was greeted warmly. He led Rodney into the house.
Ross was wearing a frock coat despite the heat. He fanned himself, seated in a low chair because some of the men squatted before him. Greeting The Owl, Ross glanced at Rodney. “The McIvor’s son,” The Owl said. “He has suffered loss of his lands also.”
“I am sorry.” Ross took his hand, rising. “Even sorrier to hear The McIvor is dead. You travel northward?”
“To Nashville.”
“For a white bride,” The Owl said. “I believe it is good, for his son Attalla must take his father’s place across the sea.”
“We shall miss The McIvor,” Ross said. “You visit us at a sorry time. I hope you return when we live in happier days.”
There was impatience among some of the older chiefs. Realizing that The Owl had interrupted a session of the Council, Rodney left. He went the trading post and claimed his pack horse, now recovered from lameness. There too, he purchased articles of clothing and camping equipment. It was a relief to shed the britches Tuttle had given him.
Mile by mile, as he approached the Cumberland range, along a well traveled road, Rodney wrestled with the immediate problems he would encounter. There was the revelation of his birth, the accounting of his resources Dempster Chatfield would want.
He wondered if he might talk with Longsdorf, and use him as an intermediary; he could prepare Ailsa.
Could he?
Unmindful of drought and heat, abnormal for this time of year, Rodney McIvor rode toward the destiny he had mentioned so lightly.

__________________

Sally Roberts

And yet another GREAT episode of The Serpents Knee!

Kit: I am enjoying this story very much! I have gone back to the beginning and re-read it again. It takes this reader into the depths of the west. the territory of the Indian nation as well as the differences of races deplicted within the story.

The details are so vivid and surreal. As I've stated... Your grandfather would be beaming with pride to know you have shared his story. It is indeed a winner!
It's ALL good!!!

Looking forward in the next chapter.

Blessings

PaintedDiary

Dear Kit,

I did exactly what Sally mentioned...I went back and read from the beginning. I am really taken back by this. The triumph, tears, and race issues are executed amazing in this novel. The authenticity is superb. Funny, seems like some area moved forward with race, and others still have not. The history in this is above all so magical and I felt like I was there. I know my ancestors were. You have written a beautifully brilliant piece of work here. I am very proud and in awe to have had the opportunity to witness here such talent. I look forward to more. Brilliant my friend.

Kimberly