Cat-O'nine Tails

  ‘I will seek the animal guide you speak of,’ I said, ‘but do not be surprised when none claims me. Perhaps then you will believe me when I say I do not belong here.’

  ‘And the vow?’ Tecumseh asked.

  ‘There was no vow. I . . . er . . . lied.’

  He smiled. I guessed he had known or suspected that all along. ‘So why not tell your family the truth?’

  ‘Because I did not want to offend Little Turtle.’ My designated husband-to-be looked almost disappointed that there was no Thunder Fists to defeat. ‘I was trying to tell you that I do not want to marry anyone.’

  ‘Then you must ask the ancestors forgiveness for your crooked words. Your fast begins tomorrow at dawn,’ Tecumseh declared, filling my bowl with a second helping of stew.

  *

  Grandmother woke me before sunrise and led me out into the forest. She allowed me to take nothing but the clothes I stood up in and a knife, whether to defend myself or to cut the fruit for the ancestors, I don’t know. It was scant protection against larger predators; I just hoped she knew what she was doing.

  We walked all morning until the trees began to thin and we came out on the crest of a hill overlooking a grassy plain. There was barely a tree or bush to be seen: it appeared as a kind of vast bowl surrounded by forested hills, open to the heavens. Grandmother patted the ground beneath a giant magnolia tree. It was an impressive sight, covered with lush pinkish-white flowers and decorated with wooden chimes, strips of cloth and beads; it was evidently a special place for the Wind Clan.

  ‘The savannah,’ she said in her broken English, indicating the plain with a sweep of her arm. ‘Place where Girl Cat run no longer. Forest – ’ she pointed behind her, ‘now your home. Sit here and think.’

  ‘How long do I have to wait?’ I asked, already having had my fill of the wilderness.

  ‘Four days.’ She passed me a waterskin. ‘Drink only. I come for you. Do not get lost.’

  With that, the old lady disappeared back into the forest.

  With four days ahead of me, I had better make myself comfortable. I crossed my legs and gazed upon the scene before me. As soon as my body stopped humming with energy, resting from the strenuous walk, my mind began to whirl with thoughts. What was I doing here, Reader, so far from my natural element, the streets of London? It seemed incredible that I had got myself in this fix, yet I knew I was not the first. I’d heard travellers’ tales of people adopted by Indian tribes and stories of Indian princesses coming to London; it was not really so impossible – except for the fact that it was happening to me.

  An hour passed. By now the birds and beasts had become used to my presence under the tree. One by one they re-emerged. First a turkey cock ventured out from the trees to peck at my feet, its comb wobbling like a high curled fop’s wig. A herd of deer poured from the trees and scattered on to the plain to graze, bringing with them the poignant recollection of my ride with Frank when we had watched the deer run across his estate. A flock of large white birds – cranes, I think they were – flew overhead, legs dangling behind. They landed not far away on a fallen tree, calling to each other in their urgent voices, like an excited audience in the galleries for a first night. Shadows moved across the grass in the distance – horses or maybe even buffalo – it was hard to tell from this distance. Insects hummed and butterflies flitted from flower to flower; everything was busy, everything was at home – except me.

  By late afternoon, I was feeling bad-tempered and hungry. I have never aspired to be a hermit and if this enforced retreat was supposed to be a spiritual experience, then it was passing me by. As for animal guides, the only thing that had come near me all day was the turkey; under no circumstances was Cat Royal going to have a turkey as her life’s guardian.

  I slept little that night, getting up frequently to try and warm myself by pacing to and fro. I had no materials to start a fire and none of the woodcraft needed to do it from scratch. I was beginning to fantasize about hot baths and lavish dinners. I talked aloud to myself, sang – anything to keep from despair.

  Day two. I hate turkeys. I refuse to be adopted by one.

  Day three. When you have nothing to eat for so long, your stomach seems to contract so that it forms a fist, punching away inside you: ‘Remember me?’ it says, ‘Fill me!’

  I told it to shut up. I was determined to honour the expectations of my Creek hosts even if I didn’t believe in the virtues of fasting. Besides, if I could survive the ship’s hold, I could survive this!

  The stars were particularly fine that night, huge sweeps of spangles sprinkled across the velvet heavens like the most expensive fabric in a dressmaker’s window. With a melancholy feeling of homesickness, I recalled how Frank had told me that the stars were each suns far, far away, but I could not imagine that. Pedro had once said they told stories – now that I could believe. According to legend, Greek heroes often ended up there when they died; I wondered if the Creeks thought that was where their great warriors went? The home of the ancestors with whom I was supposed to be making my peace? Well, the stars looked pretty peaceful to me, not bothered by my falsehoods or my little fretful life. They had better things to do.

  Lying under the magnolia, I began to wonder about my own ancestors – a short speculation as I have no idea who my parents were. But if they had died after I was born, did that mean they would be watching me now from somewhere up there? Were they wondering why their daughter was under a tree ignoring the attentions of a friendly turkey?

  The snap of a twig brought me to my senses. Something was approaching through the bushes behind me. Over the past few days, I had tried not to think too much about possible predators, but bears had never been absent from my imagination. It would be just my luck to find my spirit guardian wanted to eat me. I grasped the hilt of my knife and strained my ears. The creature blundered nearer, stumbled and swore – in English. My blood ran cold.

  Like a shot, I scrambled up the tree but a fist gripped my ankle and pulled me to the ground. Maclean – I had known the moment I had heard him swear.

  ‘There was a rumour you were turning Creek, you little savage,’ he said triumphantly, kneeling on my back as he roped my hands. ‘Undergoing the rites of passage, the Yankee said, under the tribe’s big magnolia tree. He said he’s going to dedicate a whole chapter to you when he writes up his notes.’ My ankles were now knotted viciously together. ‘Wants to talk to you for your unique cultural insights, but he’s not going to get a chance, is he? Shame, you could’ve been the toast of Philadelphia’s drawing rooms.’

  I turned my head away. I felt too weak from fasting even to curse – my spirits too depressed. All the fight seemed to have gone out of me. ‘Why did you come back?’ I asked. ‘You must know the Courageous has sailed. I can be of no use to you now.’

  Maclean plumped himself down in my spot and took out a tinder box. He lit a fire and made himself comfortable, filled a pipe and, between puffs, chewed on some salted pork from his pack.

  ‘Look at it another way,’ he said at last. ‘You’re all I’ve got now. I had the money for taking you out of the country, but, thanks to you, I won’t get nothing for seeing the job through to the end. I should’ve dumped you all in the Bristol Channel, not tried to follow the orders of my squeamish paymaster.’

  ‘So what are you going to do with me?’ I wriggled into a sitting position. He hadn’t killed or beaten me as I had expected – he must have some other plan in mind.

  ‘I’m going to ransom you.’ He brushed some crumbs to the floor. My stomach clenched but I knew better than to expect anything from him.

  ‘Ransom me? What do you mean?’

  He lay at his ease, head propped on his bundle. ‘That’s my reserve plan. I always had it in mind in case things went wrong, otherwise I would never have risked bringing you on to the Courageous. That young lord cares for you – that’s plain to see – so I’m planning to buy myself a new life, thanks to you.’

  ‘You’re taking me to Frank?’ De
spite being disgusted that I was to be bartered like a cow at market, I felt a glimmer of hope. ‘Do you know where he is then?’

  ‘Nope.’ Maclean started on a loaf of bread. ‘My guess is that he’s in the West Indies.’ He let the silence regroup around us as he chewed his mouthful, tantalizing me with crumbs of news. Hacking off another slice, he continued, ‘And for news to get back to his parents – well, let’s say it could be several months before he’s in funds. That’s unless he has the good fortune to fall in with someone he knows in Jamaica.’

  That was very possible; some of Frank’s schoolfellows came from the Indies. While not his friends, they could at least vouch for him.

  ‘My bet is that he won’t return to England by himself; he’ll be out looking for you.’ He prodded me with his foot and laughed. ‘And if I were him, I’d start where I last saw you. That’s why I’m taking you back to the fort. Just think about that: you’ve come all this way for nothing.’

  The thought seemed to please him mightily.

  At that moment, my turkey ill-advisedly wandered out of the trees to pay me his accustomed visit. He did not realize that the situation had dramatically changed. Seeing his friendly strut in our direction, Maclean went still and waited for him to peck within reach – then leapt upon him and wrung his neck before the poor bird knew what had hit him. My captor threw the carcass down in front of me and sat me up to release my hands.

  ‘My lucky night, eh?’ He prodded the still warm bird with his foot. ‘About time you earned your keep – pluck it for my breakfast. And don’t even think of trying to escape!’

  It felt the worst kind of violation of my four-day fast to rip out the feathers of the creature that was my closest thing to a spirit guardian. With my back to Maclean, I fought the temptation to give way to furious sobs as I prepared the carcass. It seemed so like a white man not even to think before taking for himself, having no interest or respect for the sacred place we were in. And what was I to do now? I was only one step better off than the turkey, trussed up here at Maclean’s mercy. I couldn’t stomach the thought of allowing him to drag me about for months, a passive hostage he could use to reward his own vicious behaviour. He’d soon fall to beating me again, I had no doubt. I felt sick with rage at my powerlessness.

  I pulled out the poor creature’s tail and slipped a stubby quill into my pocket as a keepsake, begging his forgiveness as I did so. It made me think of the fine goose feather pens I had enjoyed in Boxton. Why, I wondered, had I done so little writing when I had the chance, instead wasting my time fretting with boredom? It was too late now: the pen was out of my hand. On all sides I was beset with people who were trying to write my tale. But I wanted to be me again: not Creek wife, not bargaining chip, but Cat.

  As the feathers of my dead guardian fluttered in the air, the answer came to me. I had nothing to lose, that was my one advantage. If I stayed with the Creeks or Maclean, I might as well be dead. I was ready to risk everything to live as me.

  Maclean knew that the Creeks were coming back for me on the fourth day so he made us set off early. As we walked in file, my hands bound behind me once more, he chewed a turkey drumstick. Despite my hunger, I refused to touch the meat. My suffering put him in a good humour, making him more garrulous than usual. He told me he had left Chickamauga only to purchase a canoe at the trading post, always intending to come back for me. It had never entered his mind to respect the chief’s pronouncement that I now belonged to the tribe.

  He had moored his boat downstream of the village, which meant we were to skirt round Chickamauga and strike the river several miles from the landing stage, so avoiding all Creeks.

  ‘I suppose you should be thanking me, girl,’ he commented, throwing the bone into the bushes. ‘I saved you from these savages. I can’t see you relishing life with a husband who has a row of scalps nailed to the hut door and a bunch of little brown babies.’ He chuckled at the picture. My anger flared, this time directed mainly at myself, for part of me was grateful to escape marriage to Little Turtle. But to hear it in his words made me wonder: was I too proud, too prejudiced to accept an honourable man of a different race? They weren’t my reasons surely? Maclean was still speaking.

  ‘If your lordling stands by you, there’s no reason why you can’t see civilization again.’

  But I had my doubts my captor would let me live to be a witness to his treachery. Unless Frank was very careful, Maclean would cheat him: he would kill me and have another stab at Frank if given the chance.

  ‘The moment I see civilization will come as soon as I see the back of you,’ I retorted.

  He laughed at me. ‘Fancy yourself as a wit, do you, girl? Well, it seems to me you’re at least half a one.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  The trees were getting denser, festooned with the bearded growths that I remembered from the swamp. Maclean cut through them with a stout wooden-handled blade. ‘You know, I never understood how a girl brought up in the theatre could fall for it. I thought you’d smoke us out for sure, but he was right. You were all fooled.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Work it out – it doesn’t matter now if you do. I don’t care if he gets the blame as long as I’m paid for your ransom. In fact, I’d rather like him to be found out for all the trouble he’s given me.’

  ‘Blame? Blame for what?’

  Maclean gave a tug on my rope to signal a stop. ‘I tell you what: you guess who betrayed you and I’ll give you something to eat.’ He unwrapped his picnic and settled down to ease his legs.

  Hands still bound, I sat with my head on my knees, faint with hunger. Black blots swam before my eyes. I knew what he was saying was important but I couldn’t think, not like this. He must be talking about Frank’s enemy, but why would my theatre upbringing make me less likely to fall for their plot? Was he talking about some actor, someone assuming a character that wasn’t theirs? No, that didn’t make sense. He had to mean something else.

  I closed my eyes, thinking back to the time I spent in Bath. With every day that passed, the idea that Billy Shepherd had been behind the plot had seemed less and less likely. He certainly was no squeamish paymaster. If he wanted Frank out of the way, he would have had him killed in that alley, not risked sending him away. He would not be so faint-hearted – he might even do the deed himself. Then it suddenly came to me that Billy had always said he wanted the privilege of killing me himself, so he would not have handed me over to Maclean, surely? Too late for it to be of any use, I realized that it was safe to rule out Billy Shepherd.

  Who did that leave on my list of suspects? Unspecified jealous suitors? This seemed so very unlikely. The unknown second cousin and Mr Dixon? One I’d never met and the other had been gravely injured. The moment of my nightmares flashed through my mind again – the bloodied hands, the screaming, the blow.

  Wait a moment! I went rigid as it suddenly all made sense. The men who had run towards us had been armed with clubs; I’d not seen a blade anywhere. How could Dixon have sustained a belly cut when none of the rest of us had been threatened by a knife?

  I was so, so stupid. I bashed my forehead on my knees, thumping myself for my blockheadedness. Of course I knew how he’d done it. I’d lived behind the scenes, hadn’t I? I’d even helped strap on the blood pack, as we called it, to give the added touch of realism to the fatal ends of most tragedies – blood from Syd’s butcher’s shop, contained in a pouch and punctured by the actor or a well-judged thrust of a stage sword at the appropriate moment. Not popular with the laundresses but a favourite with the crowd.

  Dixon had tricked us! He had lured us into the trap so that he could get his hands on Frank’s fortune. Having staged our abduction, he ‘survived’ to give the worst construction of my part in the business. No wonder the magistrate had been after me so quickly! Who would doubt such an eyewitness? Not even the duke and duchess would think to question Dixon’s sworn statement that they had harboured a viper at the heart of their family. Indeed, th
ey had given home to one, but it had not been me.

  And I had thought Dixon a gentleman. I’d even liked him for his gallant attentions. It was disconcerting to realize that he had obviously had the lowest of low opinions about me from the start if he thought throwing me on board a ship suitable punishment for my pretensions. But that was nothing set against Frank’s love for his cousin: that was a betrayal of the worst kind.

  ‘Dixon.’ I said the word softly.

  A hunk of bread was thrown into my lap and my hands untied.

  I had guessed rightly.

  ACT V

  SCENE 1 – LIFE OR DEATH?

  The revelation as to who had caused our suffering revived my flagging spirits. I was determined now to risk everything to get free of Maclean and do my best to see justice done. A knot of hatred towards my captor formed in my chest, hard and fierce, stronger and more bitter than anything I had ever felt. I watched him as he strode so confidently ahead of me, pulling me along like a tethered calf. Always someone’s agent: first for Captain Barton on his murderous raid, now Dixon and his greedy ambition – it was about time the purser got his comeuppance. I prayed that God would see fit to use me as His agent in making that come to pass.

  By my calculations I had two advantages: one was a desperate desire to escape, and the second, something Maclean had completely underestimated: the Creeks. I knew that they would come after me once they discovered me gone from the magnolia tree.

  Late afternoon. Shafts of sunlight pierced the tree canopy obliquely, spotlighting a stream tumbling down the wooded hillside. The water sparkled and frothed, crashing from rock to rock, drowning out all other sounds. Incredibly to my eyes, brown fish flashed into the air as they leapt against the tide, struggling up the fall. Maclean gazed on the sight, greatly pleased.

  ‘Not far now,’ he said. ‘This is the stream I followed when I hid the boat and came in search of you.’ He checked our position on a map someone had sketched for him – that wretched artist, I guessed. It showed the magnolia tree, Chickamauga and the river.