Cat-O'nine Tails

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ I intended to follow his order to the letter.

  I turned away from the party at the stream to look for the nearest cover. The trees thickened the further you got from the fort; that would make hard going but it also offered the best hiding place. I headed up the sandy shore for a hundred yards, then clambered up a bank held together with a mass of tree roots. With a final glance behind – Maclean was still watching – I disappeared into the trees.

  For the first time, I was really alone. The further I went, the more distant my old life seemed. The cobbled streets and pavements of London, the glitter and shallow glamour of the theatre, the carriages and horses: these were dropping over the horizon as I sailed into these new seas. All I had were the clothes I stood up in and some oat cakes. I was terrified but determined.

  You probably know me well enough by now, Reader, to understand that if there’s one thing Drury Lane has not prepared me for it’s the wilderness. I can cope with the wildlife on the streets of London, the entanglements and snares laid by my fellow Britons, but this vast untamed place was beyond me. I thought I’d become familiar with the countryside at Boxton but now I realized that Frank’s estate had more in common with Hyde Park than with this forest. It was a labyrinth, guarded doubtless by monsters large and small. Shrill calls of birds overhead made me jump, twisted roots and thorny plants tripped me up. As I walked on, I tried to make it feel less strange by dredging up the Shakespearean poetry I knew about the wild, but rather unhelpfully all that would come to mind was the famous stage direction from The Winter’s Tale: ‘Exit stage left chased by a bear.’ Were there bears? I had no idea. There were certainly snakes – Harkness had already warned me when we were in the stream – but I trusted to luck to keep these out of my way.

  One monster would definitely be on the hunt. Maclean would come after me, I had no doubt. Without his hostage, his position on the Courageous was very precarious. If anyone believed Frank, then the purser was dead meat. His trap, which seemed so impregnable while on board with me under his thumb, looked very flimsy once I removed myself from the picture. I didn’t have long to make good my escape. Recapture was not an option that bore thinking about.

  This realization propelled me onwards. I began to stumble, half running through the trees. It seemed to matter little if I lost my way; I didn’t really know where I was in any case. I just needed somewhere to evade Maclean until the ship sailed. Trusting to Barton’s desire to get away from America as soon as possible, I guessed that meant only a few days at most.

  A few days!

  In that case, I would need shelter and, ideally, a way off the island. I turned towards the shore. Perhaps it would be possible to wade across to the mainland at low tide? Or maybe there would be a fisherman or a passing whaler?

  Emerging on to the beach several miles north of where I had started, I saw that the further shore was still as far off as ever. No wading, or even swimming. After all that thrashing through the undergrowth, I decided I’d earned myself a short rest and a bite to eat while I thought what to do next. Lying down in the sandy dune, hidden by the long grass, I broke open Mrs Foster’s present. The oat cakes tasted wonderful, reminding me that I’d not eaten anything freshly baked for many weeks. I took one – saving the rest for later. As I lay chewing, head resting on my elbow, the sun struggled out from behind the grey clouds, transforming the dull shore with its magic touch. The warmth from the sun was quick to make itself felt on my back. More comfortable now, I realized that it really was quite beautiful here. And, after all, city girl though I am, I could still appreciate the feel of the sand under my fingers, the whisper of the wind in the grasses. I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing, trying to disappear into my surroundings.

  I could do this. I would find a way to reach Lizzie and Johnny in Philadelphia, my name would be cleared of all suspicion and I could don a dress again.

  Mind you, I quite liked breeches.

  It was the splash of a stone hitting the water that woke me from my daydream. I raised my head cautiously and scanned the shoreline. Not far up the beach, someone was walking slowly in the shallows, pulling on a string behind them. Expert fingers inspected the catch dangling from the bait, bagging a lusty crab with glee and throwing back a tiddler. Then the line was cast out again – the little stone weights pulling it below the surface.

  I sank back down and gulped. I’d wanted a fisherman – and I’d got a fishergirl. But what was wrong was that she was a red-skinned one. Images of tomahawk-waving savages flashed through my mind. I glanced at her waist, wondering if she would have a row of scalps dangling by their hair, but her belt held nothing but a pouch and a knife.

  A knife.

  Call me a coward, but I decided to retreat into the woods. My scalp was not going to be anyone’s trophy if I had anything to do with it. I tried to step as lightly as possible but a twig snapped as I backed away. The girl raised her head; I sank down; her gaze travelled past me. With a sigh of relief, I saw her return to her work.

  Back in the cover of the trees, I pondered my near encounter. She hadn’t looked warlike but I had heard nothing but horror stories about the native people of this land. All things considered, I’d done the right thing not to approach her. But if she was here, that probably meant there were others. And where there were people, there would be boats. If I followed her and waited until nightfall, perhaps I could ‘borrow’ one – all right, steal one – and make my way to the mainland.

  I spent the rest of the day shadowing the fishing girl. She turned back north as the evening approached and walked along the beach, swinging her catch of crabs in a large pouch. I could tell she was happy from snatches of hummed songs that reached me in the trees. I wished I felt so carefree, but what with fear of her and anxiety that Maclean would catch up with me, I had probably never felt less like singing.

  Rounding a spit of land, the girl disappeared from view. I scrambled after her, slinking through the trees and climbing over obstacles as fast as I could, desperate not to lose my ticket off this island. I had to come down on to the shore to wade across a stream, but then I reached the point she had rounded. Cautiously, I peeked out from behind a bush to see what lay beyond. I had been right: three canoes were beached in a bay. The girl was now running towards some dark-haired men building a campfire. They waved as she approached. One scooped her up into a hug. Family. She seemed to be talking excitedly. The tallest man glanced in my direction but then looked over his shoulder into the trees at the back of the beach. Did they suspect something? If they did, they did nothing about it, choosing instead to unpack the girl’s bag and admire her collection of crabs. Perhaps she was just telling them about her good day’s work? I certainly hoped so.

  I made my way through the trees as silently as I could, keeping the flickering light of the fire in sight to guide me. I decided to lie in wait until they slept, praying that they would feel safe enough to set no guard. Finding a fallen trunk to hide behind, I hunkered down. With only the beetles and buzzing insects for company, I couldn’t help but feel envious of the girl at the campfire. Shouts and laughter reached me – they were having something of a party, it seemed. I hoped it wouldn’t mean that they were planning on a late night. I feared I would drop off to sleep before I got my chance.

  I wasn’t going to fall asleep.

  Absolutely not.

  I did.

  SCENE 4 – SAVAGES

  It was the middle of the night when I woke. A fly was buzzing in my ear and the annoyance had brought me to my senses. Creeping forward, I took the risk of approaching the campfire. I could still see the glow, but it looked as if it had been allowed to burn down to the embers. There seemed to be four dark bundles lying in a circle around it: the girl and her three friends, asleep, I guessed. Giving them a wide berth, I dropped on to the beach near the boats. The canoes had been drawn well out of the water behind a large rock. Glancing towards the sleepers, I tiptoed to the nearest vessel. Several leather-wrapped bundles lay on the b
ottom. Savages though the Indians were, I felt bad enough about stealing one of their canoes; I wasn’t about to take their stuff too. As quietly as possible, I lifted their belongings out and placed them carefully on the sand.

  Thwack! A blow caught me on the side of the face, sending me spinning into the river. I gasped, taking a mouthful of water, then panicked. The Indians may have caught me but I was determined not to be taken alive! My attempt to wade deeper into the river was thwarted by a hand grabbing me by the top of the head and dragging me back to the beach.

  ‘Found you!’ crowed Maclean triumphantly. He shook me until my teeth rattled, then threw me to the ground. ‘You are coming back with me, but not before I’ve taught you a lesson!’

  I didn’t know what scared me more: the murderous look in the purser’s eye as he grappled for his whip or the fear that he would wake the sleepers.

  ‘Indians!’ I gasped, scrabbling away on my hands and feet.

  Maclean was too intent on his revenge to take any notice. He swung the cat-o’nine-tails; I twisted like a snake – the ends bit the sand.

  ‘Stay still and take your punishment!’ he shouted.

  Terrified, I backed away until I hit the rock. Covering my head with my hands, I waited for the blow to fall.

  It didn’t come. A pebble clattered at my feet. I looked up to see Maclean shaking his hand in agony. A tall, thin man with two long black braids stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Put it down,’ he said in halting English, pointing at the whip.

  Two more men appeared at his side – behind them the girl, this time swinging a catapult, looking mightily pleased with herself.

  Maclean took a step backwards and held up his hands, the whip drooping in his numbed grip.

  ‘I am friend of the Creeks,’ he declared. ‘You see him; the boy was trying to steal your boat. Let me punish him.’

  The leader turned to look at me cowering at the foot of the rock. After my ducking in the river, my hair was straggling over my face and my clothes were soaked.

  ‘It is girl,’ the Indian said simply, not fooled by my disguise.

  ‘Ye-es, but she was stealing from you nonetheless,’ said Maclean with a gesture towards the canoe.

  ‘We watch. She took things out. We not know what she want.’

  ‘It’s clear enough, isn’t it? She was going to steal a boat and run to the mainland.’ Maclean’s fists curled. This delay did not suit his fiery nature at all. ‘She’s wicked – evil – an outcast of her people. Leave her to me.’

  I had no intention of being in Maclean’s power ever again. I made a rapid decision, praying my choice was sound.

  ‘Please, don’t hand me over to him,’ I begged the Indian on my knees. ‘I’m sorry about the boat. I was just trying to get away from him.’

  The Indian approached and raised me from the ground, keeping a strong grip on my elbow. He touched my cheek with his fingertips. I flinched. Maclean’s blow had given me another bruise to add to my collection.

  ‘Come to fire. We talk.’

  He towed me along in his wake and directed me to sit down on one of the heaps of blankets – decoys, I now realized, to make me think they were all asleep. The Indians must have known about me for some time but waited until I made my move before deciding if my intentions were hostile. That gave me hope that they were not going to do anything rash in revenge for my attempt to steal a boat. I was thankful they had given me the benefit of the doubt; I wouldn’t have stood a chance against all four of them.

  The girl threw some more wood on the fire as the leader looked again at my cheek. He said something in his own language to the older of the other two men. Much to Maclean’s disgust, this man drew out a pot of ointment from his pocket and gently rubbed it on the bruise. Satisfied, the leader sat down and crossed his legs. The others took positions around the fire, the girl immediately opposite me where I could see her dark eyes glittering in the firelight. They waited.

  Maclean was the first to break the silence. He had obviously been working out what he was going to say during the brief interlude. He turned to the leader.

  ‘Honoured sir, as I said, I am an old friend of the Creeks. This girl is my kin; I claim her. She must return with me to my ship.’

  The leader ignored the latter part of this speech. ‘Old friend? Creeks have no old friends among white men.’

  Maclean gave a snort. ‘Your fathers will remember me, young man. I am Maclean, agent of Captain Barton.’

  From the looks of consternation that passed round the little group, I guessed that this name was well known but not welcome.

  ‘We remember Captain Barton,’ acknowledged the leader. ‘I am Tecumseh. My father knew him.’

  Maclean nodded. ‘Then he also knew me. I am pleased to meet you, Tecumseh – a fine son of a fine man.’

  I was sinking further into low spirits. If Maclean got all pally with these Creeks I was done for one way or another. I clutched my knees to my chest, waiting for the next move.

  ‘This is my . . .’ Tecumseh searched for the English word, ‘uncle, Killbuck.’ He nodded at the older man who had put the balm on my bruise. He was a head shorter than his nephew and his hair was shot through with silver. ‘And this is my brother and sister, Little Turtle and Kanawha.’

  Little Turtle was a stocky young man with a stubborn jaw, a complete contrast to his willowy brother and sister. I could see how he might have earned his name for there was something hard-shelled about him. I guessed he would be a tenacious fighter. Kanawha most closely resembled Tecumseh: slender and handsome with her brown eyes and long dark hair worn loose. She bore herself with elegant poise, or at least that’s what I would have said if this had been a London ballroom and not the savage shore of America. Here ‘elegant’ did not seem to fit.

  Maclean bowed to the listeners, clearly believing himself on the home straight.

  ‘I am honoured to sit at your fireside, friends. But sadly I cannot stay, for my ship sails and I must return before dawn. I will take the girl and leave you in peace.’ He cast a triumphant glance at me. I lowered my head to my knees, plumbing new depths of despair. In the silence, the wind picked up, rustling the leaves and making the fire flare. A spark spat out at my feet, catching light on dry sea grass. I ground it out with my heel, thinking all hope extinguished.

  But then it happened.

  ‘We are sad to lose our friend Mac Clan, but the girl does not have to go with you,’ said Tecumseh levelly.

  Maclean drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘But she is mine, I tell you.’

  Tecumseh shook his head slightly. ‘No. When since do white men enslave white women? Is she your wife? She is too young for Mac Clan. You claim you are kin, but what kinsman would treat his kinswoman as you treat her? If she were your dog, I would let her free.’

  I couldn’t believe my ears, nor could Maclean from the expression on his face. Livid didn’t cover the half of it.

  ‘No, you can’t . . . I have to take her back with me . . . I demand that you give her to me!’ He rose abruptly but Little Turtle slid between us, blocking his path. Maclean turned back to Tecumseh. ‘By what right do you keep her? I am your friend; she is your enemy!’

  The girl broke into a peal of laughter. ‘Enemy? She is no threat to us – she moves through trees like a herd of buffalo!’ She stomped her feet on the ground in imitation of my attempts to pass unheard.

  ‘Enough, Kanawha,’ interrupted Tecumseh. He turned to me. ‘Girl, what is your name?’

  ‘Cat,’ I said in a whisper.

  ‘And, Cat,’ he said the name hesitantly, ‘is this man your kinsman?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Do you wish to go with him?’

  I shook my head fervently.

  ‘There: that is clear. Friend Mac Clan go back to his ship; Girl Cat stay here.’ The other three nodded their agreement.

  Maclean was having none of it. ‘No!’ He turned to the older man, Killbuck. ‘You, sir, speak to your nephew: for the sak
e of our past friendship, the Creek people owe me this much.’

  Killbuck had a strange expression as he looked back at the purser. ‘I remember our past dealings with Mac Clan. Friendships die. Regrets come. We have no friends now.’

  Maclean was struggling to control his temper. ‘If I can get no justice from you, I will speak to your chief then. Where is he?’

  ‘Chief of the Wind Clan is not far,’ said Tecumseh, refusing to be ruffled by the slur on his judgement. ‘We take you to him.’

  Maclean gave a groan of frustration, clearly wondering how long he could afford to stay away from the Courageous. ‘Can we leave now? See him at once?’

  Tecumseh nodded. ‘We leave now. Vhoyvkets!’ The Indians rose as one and swiftly broke camp, stowing their gear and scattering the ashes; soon there was no sign they had ever been there. Tecumseh approached and put a hand on my shoulder, gazing into my face with his calm dark eyes. I felt my fear ebb away. I knew who the savage was now and it wasn’t Tecumseh. ‘Girl Cat, you travel in my canoe.’

  I nodded, grateful that he wasn’t making me ride with Maclean.

  The girl dodged round the purser and grabbed my arm. ‘Come, I show you.’

  The three Indian men pushed the boats out into the shallows. The canoes were made from hollowed logs that could be either poled or paddled, depending on the river. Maclean clambered in with Killbuck; Kanawha helped me into the biggest canoe while her brother steadied it. They then turned for the mainland and began paddling across the water. They bent and dipped the oars in rhythm as if they were moving in time to a song I couldn’t hear.

  I shivered, still dazed by my changing fortunes. A blanket was draped over my shoulders from behind.

  ‘Thank you, Kanawha,’ I said, trying the name out on my tongue. It tasted strange – a language I had no handle upon, slipping out of my control.

  She chuckled, amused by my clumsy pronunciation.

  A thought then struck me. ‘Mr Tecumseh, sir?’