The Canebrake Men

Cameron Judd

• Verlag: Open Road Media
• Jahr: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781497622968
• Thema: Literature
• Thema: Westerns

Finalist for the Spur Award: The author of The Overmountain Men and The Border Men concludes his epic adventure of Tennessee's early history. The United States of America has just been born from the fires of revolution. But in the wilds of Tennessee in the Southwest Territory, a fire still burns—especially in the heart of fifteen-year-old Owen Killefer. For Owen witnessed the massacre of his family by Tom Turndale—a depraved marauder who deserted the British during the war to live with the Chickamauga and plague the frontier settlements. And worse, Turndale took Owen's sister captive as his prize. Now, amidst the growing unrest and hostilities between the new Americans pushing ever westward and the native Indians who have trusted too many broken treaties, Owen must find a way to save his sister and avenge his family. "Judd writes a mean story." — Zane Grey's West

Book III.
Black Water Town

Chapter Eleven

Ulagu had always felt a tribal superiority over the Shawnees of the north, but today, as he rode back toward Running Water Town at the side of one particular Shawnee warrior who had come around the first of the year to aid Dragging Canoe, he had to admit he was impressed. This Shawnee, about two decades old, was different from any he had ever met. He possessed an inner power that seemed to radiate from him and generate trust, and his cunning and battle prowess was undeniable. In the presence of the Shawnee named Tecumseh, Ulagu knew intuitively that he was keeping company with greatness.

Ulagu felt the wind against his brow, and a burst of exhilaration surged inside him and forced a smile onto his usually placid face. For the past six days, he had ridden with Tecumseh and a band of Shawnee and Chickamauga raiders. They had struck two isolated farmsteads, and three scalps tied to Ulagu’s saddle pack gave evidence of their success. Their return to Running Water Town would be marked by celebration, and Ulagu looked forward to it. Judging from Tecumseh’s keen expression, he looked forward to it as well.

As pleasant as Tecumseh’s time among the Chickamaugas had been for Ulagu, Tecumseh himself had suffered a great tragedy since his arrival in the Tennessee country. He had arrived early in the year with his brother, Chiksika, to visit his mother Methotasa, a Cherokee who had moved north to live among the Shawnees after she married Pucksinwah, a chief of that tribe. In 1774 Pucksinwah was slain in the Point Pleasant battle on the Kanawha River, and the widowed Methotasa moved south to rejoin her native people.

Initially, Tecumseh and Chiksika had greatly enjoyed their visit with their mother and the Chickamaugas. Ulagu knew from conversation with Tecumseh that both he and his brother had found Dragging Canoe an inspiring, impressive man, whose talk of the need for unity among the Indians against the common white foe had closely matched concepts forming in Tecumseh’s own mind.

When the Chickamaugas attacked one of the Cumberland stations, both Tecumseh and Chiksika participated, as did Ulagu. The station was forted, the space between a double log cabin serving as the entrance. Early in the morning, while the children of the station were loudly singing under the direction of their schoolmaster, the Chickamaugas crept to the stockade and used the musical distraction to cover their noise as they knocked out some of the chinking between two logs. One of the raiders thrust a rifle through the hole and shot at the singing schoolmaster, striking him in the chin.

Pandemonium erupted. The children inside scrambled for safety as the Indians hacked open a window shutter with an axe. In a fateful move, one of the boys inside grabbed a rifle, ran to the window, and fired into the Indians outside.

The shot struck Chiksika. The Indians, shocked by the Shawnee’s fall, grabbed him and dragged him away, abandoning their siege.

Chiksika, employing a mysterious and prophetic foreknowledge that often made itself known in Tecumseh’s family, had predicted that he would die in such a way. Even so, Tecumseh was shaken by the death of his beloved brother, and vowed revenge. Ulagu was glad to aid him in obtaining it, and though he was saddened by Chiksika’s death, felt glad at least that it would result in Tecumseh remaining longer among the Chickamaugas to lead retaliatory raids such as the ones just completed. He was a capable man, the sort of ally Ulagu was happy to have at his side in battle.

At Running Water Town boys ran out to greet the returning warriors, whooping triumphantly at the sight of the scalps they bore. Ulagu sat up straighter in his saddle, riding into town with a look of great satisfaction on his face as cheers and war songs rose around him.

The celebration lasted long into the night. Ulagu was eager to return to his own home near Black Water Town and rejoin his bride Sadayi—but not eager enough to miss such a festivity as this. As the people of Running Water Town danced and rejoiced at the successful raid, Ulagu joined Tecumseh for a long overdue meal. The Shawnee, though obviously pleased with the success his band had enjoyed, seemed pensive and quiet. Ulagu knew he was surely thinking of his lost brother.

Two figures passed before Ulagu and Tecumseh, and caught the latter’s eye. “Who are these?” he asked Ulagu.

“That is a man named Thomas Turndale, an Englishman who fought the Americans and then stayed among our people,” Ulagu answered. “The young woman is his squaw. She is called Flower. She was taken from her people by Turndale, after his Cherokee wife died.”

“Do they live in this town?”

“No. Turndale’s house is off the road past Black Water Town. I do not know why he is here—it is likely he has been called to give medicine to someone sick or hurt. He is skilled as a healer. That is one reason he has never been molested.” Ulagu reached down and massaged the scarred place on his thigh where the broken bone had come through. The injury was fully healed now, but still caused him pain and had left him with a limp that he expected would be with him the rest of his life. “His medicine is strong, and is of great value to us. When my leg was broken and would not heal, Turndale alone was able to heal me.”

“He is a good man, then even though he is a white man?”

“He is a good healer, and he is loyal to his adopted people and not his own. . . but I do not know if he is a good man.”

“Why do you say that?”

Ulagu took another bite of roasted venison. “The women tell a story. . . they say his woman—he calls her Flower—bore him a daughter, and that he killed the baby because he wanted a son. I know that it is true she was carrying a child, because I saw her that way at the time Turndale was healing me. They say his woman did not want him to kill her child, but that he did. It is a hard man who could do such a thing over his woman’s tears. Turndale says the child died at birth, that he did not kill it.”

“What does his woman say?”

“Nothing. She speaks very seldom, and says little about herself or her life. She is the most sorrowful woman I have ever known.”

Tecumseh said, “You speak as if you pity her.”

“She is a sad creature. Her spirit has fled from her, but her life goes on. The women say that Turndale has used his medicines to make her like she is. But whether this is true, I cannot say.”

Tecumseh finished his meal and sat the remains of it at his feet. “There are many ways to steal the life of another, without herbs or strange medicines. To be taken from among one’s own and forced to live in a new way, without choice, without hope. . . that is enough to destroy the spirit of anyone.”

Ulagu thought about those words, and realized later that there was more in them than mere comment upon the subject at hand. Tecumseh had been speaking not only of the fate that had befallen Turndale’s woman, but also of the potential fate of all the native people, should the white men continue to prevail and force alien ways upon them. The meaning of most men’s words rode on the surface of their talk, like water spiders on a pond. Tecumseh’s talk was far deeper, and rewarding to those who searched beneath its surface. Every time Ulagu had done this, he had become wiser, and more inspired.

Ulagu was convinced anew that Tecumseh was a man worth watching and listening to. His company had already caused Ulagu to see that only through unity and brotherhood could the natives of the western wilderness hope to keep themselves from being overrun by the white encroachers. It would be fascinating to see what fate held in store for Tecumseh. While men such as Tecumseh lived Ulagu could yet hope for the future of his people.

Emaline Killefer sat alone at the hearth in Tom Turndale’s cabin and stared into the flames, exploring the familiar but frightening numbness inside her mind and wishing she could cry. But tears would not come. She had lost the ability even to grieve for herself.

Even the memory of the beautiful girl-child she had borne, only to lose, could no longer make her weep. How ironic it was that, after so long dreading the idea of bearing any child fathered by Thomas Turndale, she had felt such a burst of love for the squalling infant that had emerged from her body. Even though the girl had been partly the product of a hated man, Emaline had adored her, if only for the brief few minutes that Turndale had allowed her to hold the baby.

Afterward, he had taken the infant from her breast, declaring that she needed a washing. Emaline had watched him carry the child out of the cabin, and waited for him to bring her back. An hour had passed, then two. By the time Turndale returned—alone—Emaline had already accepted what in fact was true: her child would never return to her at all. Turndale told her the baby had died in his arms, that he had tried to save its life but couldn’t, that he was sorry.

Emaline knew the truth. The child had been a girl, not the son Turndale wanted. So he had killed her.

She hated him for it. More precisely, she felt the ghost of an emotion that would have been hatred had she not lost so much of her ability to experience, for any long period, the normal feelings of human life. Now she mostly felt a cavernous inner emptiness that remained with her even in sleep.

And fear. . . she still could feel fear. Mostly fear of losing what tiny fragment remained of Emaline Killefer. Every day, she watched little more of her true self dissolve and be absorbed into the person of Flower. She was continually more certain that once the absorption was complete, it would never be reversed.

That was what she feared. Emaline as Emaline was mostly gone now. Sometimes it was actually hard to remember her life before captivity, even when she tried.

She tried now. Squeezing her eyes tightly closed, she searched her memories until she came upon a scene from her childhood. She pictured the interior of the little North Carolina cabin in which she had been born and raised for the first years of her life. She saw her mother, laboring over the pot at the fire, cooking a stew of venison and vegetables. She was singing. . . what was the song? Emaline dug deeper, and found it.

An old hymn, sung to a Scottish tune. Eyes still closed, Emaline began whispering the words to herself.

“Within the Lord we find our refuge,
A lasting fortress, our God of might
Whose glory shines among his people,
The ransomed sinners in whom he delights. . .”

The firelight warmed her face. She pulled her knees up against her breasts and wrapped her arms around her legs. My name is not Flower, my name is Emaline Killefer. . . .

“. . . Who in his mercy have found their portion,
Whose darkest stains have been washed pure,
Whose lines have fallen in pleasant places,
Whose lot by free grace has been secured. . .”

Emaline smiled. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt a spark of the defiance that had marked her first months with Turndale, the assertion of who she truly was against the person Turndale wanted to make her. My name is not Flower, my name is Emaline. . . I am not his slave, I am not his wife. . .

“. . . Oh, Holy Father, why do you love us?
What merits man to know thy grace?
Only the merit unearned yet given
When thou wert born with human face. . .”

And then the cabin door opened and Thomas Turndale stepped inside, and it all went flying away, slipping from her grasp and vanishing into the void. She lowered her brow against her raised knees, heard the door close, felt him walk up to her.

“Flower, my dear Flower.” His voice had the soft quality he used at times when he tried to be affectionate.

My name is not Flower, my name is

“I’ve missed you, Flower. I’m in need of your company. Look, I’ve brought us food.”

He touched her shoulder. She wanted to cringe, but dared not. My name is not Flower. . .

“Stand up, Flower. I want to hold you.”

My name is not. . .

She stood, her back still toward him. He put his arms around her and kissed her neck. His whiskers scratched her cheek, and his breath was a sickening mix of the essence of rotten teeth and the cedar twigs and dried tea-berry leaves he chewed in a effort to cover the decay stench so she wouldn’t be repelled by him. His notion of a kindness, she supposed. It didn’t work.

My name is. . .

“Come with...