“There was a time when our people covered the land as the waves of a wind-ruffled sea cover its shell-paved floor, but that time long since passed away with the greatest of tribes that are now but a mournful memory…”
- Chief Seattle’s oration
“Soon there will come from the rising sun a different kind of man from any you have ever yet seen.”
- Spokane prophecy.
The girl ran, ran and kept running. For three days she was observed, from a distance, by a scouting party, more out of curiosity than from any desire to find out why, or what, she was running from. The scouting party, made up of braves of the Mandan tribe, had strayed somewhat from its normal route and had not, in the past, come this far east. The girl the braves were observing was of that new breed making incursions into the lands of the Sioux, a white. One of the first tribes to have contact with whites, this group was intrigued, but not concerned, they kept their distance however, wondering about the cause for such alarm and fear. And of course, they were men and had not, in their memory span, had any contact with white females. They had dealt with and were almost used to white trappers, but the latter always traveled alone, sometimes with a male companion, of if any females were with them they were squaws. So it was, with piqued interest, that they watched the girl.
Her clothing was commented on and laughed at, somewhat nervously, for it was not laughable but the braves were unused to such clothing and color, and of course her hair intrigued them too. Red like the flames of a fire, it caught the rays of the sun as it bounced about her shoulders and cascaded down her back. In fact, the braves were a little more than intrigued. They also had some concern over her obvious panic and fear and wondered, among themselves, as to what could cause one person to be so agitated and run as though for her very life. And why was she alone and without any means of hunting of self preservation? These facts were also discussed and puzzling to the braves and so, they stayed their journey, and observed.
On the third day it became obvious. Four white men, one accompanied by yet another white young woman, were seen, off in the hazy distance, following the young girl’s tracks. From the braves’ vantage point the pursuing men, as they neared and were easier to make out, seemed overweight, rough, ill-kemp and red of face. The young woman with them, seemed to be attached, by some kind of restraint, to one of the men, and wore a blood-stained skirt and a torn upper body garment. Her physical appearance was no better, for her lower lip was split open while one of her eyes was half-closed as though from the impact of a heavy blow. Her hair, dark like an Indian maiden’s, was disheveled and had not been tended to in quite some time. It was obvious to the observers that she was an unwilling member of the hunting party.
The pursuit took place way out on the prairie just before it gave way to the undulating hillocks which stretched out before the steep, dark and foreboding hills which rose in the background. It was as though the hillocks were there to give pause to any traveler who might consider venturing further and coming within reach of the stark and seemingly menacing black hills.
The pursued girl, who had sustained herself over the three days with some bread, an apple and hard tack, finally ran out of food. The braves had watched as she came to a small river, and after bending down to quench her obvious thirst, had then tried to catch a fish with her bare hands. She seemed to know what she was doing too, for she would lie out of sight, of the fish, on an overhang and wait for a fish to swim under it. When the fish did not reappear the girl would lean over and make a quick grab, but the fish were too quick and she came up empty-handed. Defeated and tired she sat down with her knees drawn up and her head resting on her arms. The braves were about to turn away and give up on the scene unfolding beneath them when the girl sat up, her body tense. The braves looked off into the distance, beyond the girl, and that was when they had their first sighting of the pursuing horsemen. The girl had obviously heard, or felt, the approaching hoof beats of her pursuers’ mounts for she stood up her body posture denoting hope and anticipation. Her stance, however, quickly turned to one of terror, when she saw who the four approaching horsemen were, and she began to run once more. She made for the protection of a nearby thicket, right beneath where the braves were sat on their mounts in the shade and protection of a small copse whose dappled shadows hid them well. The girl’s clothing, face, arms and legs were caught and scratched as she stumbled through into the heart of the thicket and she began to whimper, like a cornered animal, as the horsemen rode up laughing.
Taunting and shouting out to the girl they began to dance their horses around the thicket, their poor mounts protesting every harsh pull on their bits.
The girl tried to stifle her sobs and crouched down as low as she could, all the while peering around, with terrified eyes, for a way of escape.
There was none.
Unobserved, the intrigued scouting party dismounted and, having left their mounts in the charge of a young buck, silently approached the thicket from above. They kept themselves well hidden in the process and concealed themselves behind some boulders, just above the white men, which afforded them an unobstructed view of everything happening below them.
As night fell the four white men, who seemed to have time on their hands, started up a fired and decided to flush the girl out!
Laughing, they set fire to the thicket and began to dance around it, whooping and pretending to be Indians, much to the bemused, and somewhat confused, onlookers.
As they danced, getting wilder and more out of control in their gyrations with each passing minute, they passed a container around from which they each, in turn, took deep draughts, while waiting for the girl to emerge from the burning thicket.
Horrified, the girl watched their gyrations and antics until she realized that the dry thicket, surrounding her, was burning out of control. Fingers of flames began licking at her hiding place and the invading smoke-laden air made breathing harsh and painful. She began to cough and gasp for air, while tears streamed from her smarting eyes. Terrified at being burned alive the girl decided to make a run for it and, shielding her face with her arms, she dashed through the encircling arms of flames and probing fingers of fire into those of the waiting men. They laughed at her, swaying unsteadily on their feet, as she tried to staunch the flames licking at her skirts, while tears coursed, unstopped, down her singed face as she tried to fend off the men’s unwanted advances.
The man holding the other girl by a leash drunkenly flung her aside and she fell, her hands tied, unable to help herself. She cried out as her head hit the ground, then lay still, a small trickle of blood seeping out of the corner of her mouth. The pursued girl stood, in pain and despair, looking from the fallen girl to the men, then dropped down to her knees on the hard ground, her head bowed. The men advanced and started drunkenly squabbling and fighting over the right to be the first to ravish her and to finish the liquid in the container that one was still holding onto and which seemed to be made from some kind of shiny pottery unlike any the Mandan braves had ever seen before. At least that was what the scene represented to the braves watching from above. So intent were the white men on fighting one another for the bottle, that they did not see, nor hear, the braves approach - until too late. Knifed, garroted, and clubbed, they all fell around the passive body of their intended victim. As she looked up, in disbelief and horror, at the falling bodies, the braves took out their hunting knives and quickly, deftly, scalped their victims, one of whom still twitched where he lay while the blade cut away at his scalp and the brave held up high his gory, dripping trophy.
The braves then approached the terrified girl who whimpered and fainted, her last sight that of the bloody scalps, freshly taken, in the braves’ blood-stained hands.
The braves began arguing among themselves, undecided as to what they should do next.
“We can’t leave her here, she will have to go with us,” said one.
“White men won’t like us taking one of their own,” said another.
“They won’t like the fact that we killed some of their own, either,” stated yet another, matter of fact.
“True, we had best leave here quickly before more of them come searching,” said the obvious leader of the group.
As they spoke and argued among themselves, the one who seemed to be their leader, walked over to the fallen dark-haired girl who had been flung to the ground, and after checking up on her, shook his head fatalistically before rejoining his companions. As he passed the fallen white men he picked up the dropped container the men had squabbled over. He lifted it up to his nose, and threw it far from him, in disgust, after one whiff of the amber liquid which still remained therein.
“We will take the young woman, with us,” he said, as the container, a glass bottle, hit the ground and shattered, its remaining amber liquid seeping out over the hard dry ground. He went over to the prone red-headed girl, bent down and, with one effortless motion, picked up her inert body. He and his men then quickly retreated back up into the hills and to their mounts, taking their victims’ four horses with them. Reaching their mounts the braves quickly mounted, the leader holding the limp body of the young girl in the crook of his arm as he rode off at the head of the group, the grisly reminders of their confrontation with the white men dangling from either mounts’ bridles or from around the brave’s waists.
Behind them, the amber liquid, from the shattered bottle, met up with the fire from the thicket and a conflagration started up and quickly spread. Unawares, the braves had crested the rise of the hill and were well down the far slope when the fire, on the other side, spread out across the prairie devouring everything in its relentless path.
Some time later the braves stopped to rest their mounts and set up camp by a slow flowing river. After dismounting, while some went off hunting, three of the braves helped their leader carry the unconscious girl into the stream and began to bathe her arms, legs and face in the cool, crystal-clear flow. She opened her eyes, dazed, not knowing where she was or how she came there. When she saw that several of the braves were holding her, while the others looked on, she cringed and began to whimper, looking around wildly and then back to the men who stood hovering, uncertain, over her. She then began to struggle so that those braves bathing her burnt limbs let go of her, and she fell, awkwardly, into the stream getting completely drenched in the process.
Now totally alert, her look of fear turned to one of puzzlement when they did nothing and kept their distance, except for the one nearest to her who proceeded to bend over and drink from the water. She watched him and looked at the others who still did nothing. When the one closest to her raised his head, he indicated, by mime movements, that she too should drink. Fearful and wary, she took a quick drink, being scared almost out of her wits when the other braves began to talk in a language she couldn’t understand and then smiled hesitantly at her when, clearly frightened, she looked at them each in turn. They all appeared fit and well fed, even if their lack of clothing left much to be desired, in her eyes. She then looked from them to the one by her side. He again indicated that she should drink some more and also splash her face, arms and legs, to the merriment of his companions as he demonstrated on his own legs and fell into the water for his pains! He stood up, shaking the water from his body and hair, the drops of water glinting in the sun.
Still wary, the girl gingerly stood up, somewhat hampered by her soggy clothing and aching, painful limbs. She dabbed at her arms and face while keeping her eyes on the braves. Then, straightening up quickly, causing them to back up in alarm, she waded into the middle of the stream, looking around her in despair.
“She tries to find an escape,” said one of the braves.
“She is resourceful,” commented another.
“She is scared for her very life!” remarked yet another.
Finally, the braves gave up watching her and walked back to their camp fire to dry off and where the youngest brave was busy tending to two rabbits, and a plucked bird of some kind which he had skewered on a makeshift spit over the fire. Sitting down around the fire the braves began discussing the girl.
“Well she can come with us, or not, I don’t care.”
“She’d never survive out here, there are no white eyes for many days’ journey. Too far for her to walk,” said another.
“We could give her a horse,” suggested one.
“You’re crazy! A bride’s price is sometimes only one horse. Have you taken leave of your senses!” exclaimed another.
“Well, what do you suggest? We did pick up four new ones from the white eyes.”
“Those are booty, not for giving away. They must be shared. She will come with us,” said the leader, forcibly, as he turned to look at the girl who still stood, afraid but defiant, in the middle of the river.
“Well, she could ride one of them then, if you plan on taking her with us. They still have the white men’s trappings on them, she will know what to do with them,” said a young brave.
“No, she is in no condition to sit on top of a horse, by herself, and, she might try to make a run for it. No she will ride with me,” said the leader, firmly.
“Phew! I wouldn’t want to be in your moccasins when you reach home and Grey Squirrel finds out!” said one, as his companions laughed.
“What if she doesn’t want to come?” asked one.
“She will come, where else could she go? When the white men come to our camp after the winter for trade, we will send her back with them. They will know what to do with her. And I’m not afraid of Grey Squirrel, what does she have to worry about a white eyes for?”
“Pouah! White men are all animals where squaws are concerned. You’ll see they will do to her what those pursuing her wished to,” said one, spitting in disgust as he rolled over in his blanket.
“Not all,” said the leader. “But we will let her decide, when she is ready. See, soon she will give up and join us. Turn the spit boy, maybe the smell of cooking meat will tempt her empty belly. He head may be full, but it won’t argue with an empty belly for long! Besides, we have her pouch,” he said, holding up a small leather drawstring pouch. “She will want something familiar to hold. It will keep her spirits up.”
“Do whites have spirits?” asked one brave. “Surely the Great Watonka does not look favorably on them, otherwise they would be same color as we. Yet they are pale, pale as moonlight.”
“Maybe their great spirit is of the Moon,” said one.
“Maybe they are really Pawnees and worship the Morning and Evening Stars!” laughed another.
All the braves laughed and most of them laid back, relaxing, against their blankets while the young buck continued to turn the spit, and their mounts stomped around tethered to scrub oak as the sun rose ever higher in the blue sky.
They had all finished eating and were resting when the girl tentatively approached them. She eyed the remnants of their meal, licking her lips hungrily, but stayed close to the river’s edge.
“Si un de vous bouge, je m’enfui,” she shouted defiantly, the words meaning nothing to the braves, who looked at one another puzzled.
“What does she say?” asked one.
“Who can tell?” said another, with an indifferent yawn, as he rolled himself up in his blanket and went to sleep.
“She doesn’t liked your cooking Little Sparrow,” commented one, laughing at the young brave.
“The smell makes her angry!” said another, softening his words with a grin.
“The smell makes her hungry you mean,” said the young brave named Little Sparrow, almost defiantly.
Slowly, their leader stood and the braves were silent as they watched him use mime signals, to indicate to the girl that she should sit down and eat.
By now, shivering, maybe from the shock of her ordeal and burns, the girl slowly approached the fire. Looking at the brave she nodded to him in acknowledgment and slowly, painfully sank, to a kneeling position by the fire, somewhat encumbered by her wet skirts. Gingerly, she extended her arms and gradually the warmth from the fire seeped through to her gelid limbs as steam began to rise from her wet clothes.
The braves smiled and chatted among themselves, those that were still awake or alert enough.
“Just look at that, she looks like she came out of a sweat house!” said one, grinning.
“Why does she not eat? She is strong this one,” said another, his voice showing his amazement.
“She’s crazy, you mean,” snorted another one. “Women!”
“It’s Little Sparrow’s cooking!” teased the one, who had spoken of the cooking previously.
Seeing that they meant her no harm, the girl gingerly leant forward and picked up a small piece of rabbit which she ate delicately, savoring each small mouthful she took, and licking her fingers clean before she took another piece, after an approving nod from the leader. Like the piece before, she ate it slowly, relishing every bite and licking her fingers at the end.
“See! She likes my cooking, maybe it was the company she couldn’t stomach!” said Little Sparrow, defensively in the teasing brave’s direction, but if the latter heard he paid no heed and seemed to be sleeping. The girl seeing all but a couple of the braves lying down backed herself up to a tree and sat down at its base, keeping a wary eye on the group around the fire.
As the sun warmed the earth and the fire died down, even the young girl stopped shivering and slept fitfully.
It was mid-afternoon, and there had been several changes among the outlooks when the leader finally stood up and covered the dead fire’s remnants over with dirt and dragged broken branches and leaves over the spot, effectively hiding it from all but the most inquisitive eyes. Soon, all the braves had seen to their mounts and waited, prepared to leave. As they mounted the young girl woke up and looked around wildly. She stood up, somewhat painfully and unsteadily, and looked at the braves seeing that they were readied to leave.
The leader looked at her and indicated she could ride with him.
Timidly, the girl advanced. The brave leapt nimbly onto his mount’s back and then extended a hand to pull the girl up. Wincing in pain, as her burnt arms and legs protested her every move, she finally ensconced herself behind him. Still holding onto her hand he indicated that she should place both her arms around his waist and hold on to him.
Hesitantly, she did so and sitting up as straight as she could behind him, shivered as she wondered where they were taking her and what fate would await her when they reached their destination.
As they journeyed, she looked at the back of the brave in front of her. His skin was sleek, hairless, a deep brown in color and, like his front, was scar riddled for her fingers could feel the tell-tale raised welts of scar tissue. She wondered who could have inflicted so many scars on such a man. She had also noticed when he was in the river with her that his legs bore the signs of many scars too. Obviously, she thought, he must have been in many hand to hand combats to incur so many scars. She trembled at the thought and wondered what could lay in store for her with these savages. She had heard nothing but tales of horror and terror of the red man’s practices, very little else had been said other than that they were hunters and skilled scouts and horsemen. Where were they taking her and what would they do to her when they reached their destination? She trembled and resigned herself fatalistically, deciding there was nothing she could do, her fate was in God’s hands.
After a while, she turned her attention to her captor’s hair, which hung down past his shoulder blades. It was a rich, deep, dark brown, almost black in color, to which a white, black-tipped feather was attached on the left back side by a strand of beaded hide. The beading was echoed in an arm band above his left elbow and his deer-hide boots were fringed and also bead decorated. His only garment was a breech cloth. His body beneath her touch was hard and well-muscled and exuded a somewhat spicy and pungent aroma. He was like no man she had ever met. She only wished she could understand what he and his companions said when they spoke and what they had in store for her.
During the ride, as she clung to her companion, the scalps hanging from his waist kept bumping into her and she thought she was going to vomit when she felt them, still slimy, on her leg. But she steeled herself and was soon able to shut out the sensation as they traveled on.
Thus the small group journeyed for several hours, alternating between a slow trot and walking their mounts, only stopping occasionally to rest their mounts and slake their thirst. She had no grasp of the distance traveled but when she turned and looked back the way they had come the mountains of the day before weren’t even a line on the horizon.
Dusk was falling and the sky was tinged with red, pink and purple plumes, when they finally stopped at a rocky outcrop. She saw no signs of life but heard several bird calls before ten or so braves advanced, out of the shadows, to greet her party and make comments about her, in so far as they could be heard above the yapping of several dogs which ran around their legs excitedly greeting the newcomers.
“This is the best you could do? Four horses and a white-eyed girl?”
“She won’t feed many mouths!”
“Did you start to cook her and realize how bad white meat is? What happened to her?”
As the young braves laughed and joked they turned serious upon sight of the fresh scalps of the white men, which they examined, with curiosity and not a little envy, while an older brave, with grey-streaked hair, approached the girl and took her hands into his rough, gnarled ones. He peered down at the burned areas of her arms and then up at her face and hair and, finally, down at her exposed legs. He assisted her down from her mount. Wincing in pain she slithered gingerly to the ground.
As her escort melded into the other braves and told them of their adventures and sightings, the old man helped her stand up and looked her over again. Deciding that she could walk, he signaled her to follow him and walked over to a cave in the rocky outcrop.
She followed him but then stopped dead in her tracks as they reached the cave’s entrance. The overpowering and pungent ferrous smell of blood accosted her nostrils and, fearing she was to be sacrificed, she stopped and would go no further. The old man turned, looked at her and, perhaps understanding her fear, shook his head in resignation before entering the cave by himself. He reappeared a few minutes later with a pouch from which he proceeded to pull out a piece of hide wrapped around some kind of salve. Gently he applied it to the girl’s face and arms and then put the remainder on her legs.
Her face and arms tingled at first and then the balm did its magic and she felt soothed. She cried, she knew not why, and the old man gently wiped her tears away with his gnarled fingers. He then tucked the now empty piece of hide back in the pouch, gently took her by the arm and led her over to the cave, this time she did not resist.
It was hard for her to see since there was no light in the cave and, apart from a few stars above, night was complete, but she realized, as soon as she stepped into the cool interior of the cave, that it was not a sacrificial sanctuary but rather a larder, for it was full of dead animals. This then was a hunting party she was with, and this must be their store, which would account for the lack of habitations, women and children. Feeling relieved that her fate was not yet to be decided, she then followed the old man back to the others.
After a light meal, which consisted of some roasted fowl and stringy dried meat that she couldn’t recognize the taste of, they all, except for the look outs, laid down around the fire, numbering about forty in all, and slept until dawn.
When the girl woke and painfully stretched, she was surprised to see, in the dim shimmering light of predawn, that all the braves were ready for the day’s journey and that several travois, many pulled by the dogs that had greeted their arrival the night before, were packed with the carcasses from the cave, as were several mounts.
The leader indicated that they were leaving and the girl and several of the braves, whose mounts carried carcasses, began walking, while three young braves rode on ahead, scouting the land and leaving markers of their passage, for those of the main party following behind and who, in turn, destroyed the markers after their passing.
The day was uneventful and that night was passed like those that had gone before. Again, the old brave put salve on the girl’s legs, arms and face and the relief from the pain and itching was so wonderful that she held his old gnarled hand and kissed the back of it. The old man looked slightly embarrassed and made some comment she did not understand when a young brave teased him. She didn’t care. He was gentle and kind and made her pain go away and she would be eternally grateful to him.
The next morning everyone was up before dawn and ready for the day’s journey, only today the girl could feel an excitement running through the men, an excitement that had not been present before. Even the dogs, who had, on the whole, behaved themselves the day before, caused several incidents when they had fights which threatened to topple their loaded travois had not some braves intervened and separated the fighting dogs in time. Were they almost at their destination she wondered? She had her answer in the late afternoon.
Suddenly whoops and cries were heard up ahead from the advance scouts. Their party, those on foot, picked up their pace and hurried forward.
The girl, bone-weary and apprehensive, dragged behind the last brave as a substantial palisaded village appeared up ahead situated in, and above, the curve of a very large river.
Soon, more barking dogs, creating havoc with those pulling the travois, as well as shouting men, women and children could be heard and it was not long before the hunting party clattered into the welcoming warmth of the camp. The travois were quickly taken charge of, as were the carcasses on the mounts, the latter being led down, by eager young hands, to the nearby river for a wash down and to quench their thirst. The braves were made much fuss over by welcoming men, happy women and squealing children, who all stopped and stared in wonder as the girl appeared and stood uncertain, somewhat apart, and at a distance from the returning group.
Not a person spoke as everyone looked her up and down and around. A few children fearfully clung to their mother’s skirts and still no-one spoke.
The girl, tired, sore, bedraggled, dirty and still in aftershock from her burns, gradually sank to her knees and keeled over in a faint as dogs neared and sniffed at her inert body.
She did not feel the gentle hands that picked her up and carried her into the village.
* * *
“Often in summer I rise at daybreak and steal out to the cornfields; and as I hoe the corn I sing to it, as we did when I was young. Sometimes at evening I sit, looking out on the big Missouri. In the shadows I seem again to see our Indian village, with smoke curling up and from the earth lodges.”
- Buffalo Bird Woman, Hidatsa
CHAPTER 1
I remember the day, like it was yesterday. I don’t know the exact date, but I do know the year and my age at the time. It was the year of Our Lord, 1831, and I was fifteen years old.
My father, a military man by profession, had all but given up on the new regime in France for it was said that the King, Charles X, was relentless in his pursuit of the glories of the past to the detriment of the future of France. He was as unlike his easy going brother, whom he had succeeded, as night was to day. For my father, a true patriot, there was only one solution. Having survived the revolution, and its aftermath, he saw the New World as a salvation and felt that therein lay the future of France, for he was convinced that the France we had left behind was doomed to repeat the errors of the past with a backwards looking king at the reins. My father was often heard to say “There’s no future in the past, we must go forward, always forward.”
Thanks to advances in science we had crossed the Atlantic in one of the new steam powered ships, in relative comfort and had reached the shores of the New World little the worse for our long journey. In leaving France and the Old World behind my father also hoped to leave war and petty disputes between the old nations as well. Since the military was his livelihood and passion I failed to see or understand his feelings, but I was young and eager for new experiences. The thrill of discovery of the New World and all its wonders dispelled any doubts I might have harbored about my father’s reasons for bringing us this far from our home.
And so it was that my parents and I were traveling from Minot to Fort Diablo, where my father was to take up his duties, when our coach, and small escort of six, were set upon by a band of outlaws.
My mother and I clung to one another as we watched, in horror, along with our maid Marie, the massacre going on around us. As my father fell, seriously if not mortally wounded, and our escort was savagely cut down, my mother handed me our small pouch of provisions, tore her locket from around her neck, pulled off her rings and inserted her small La Page blunderbuss-pistol, along with her jewelry, into the pouch and pushed me out of the carriage’s far door.
“Run and don’t look back,” she exhorted me. “Go, run, escape! Please, my darling Anne, run. You too, Marie, now!”
“But mother!” I protested.
“Go, go!” she urged, as I held onto her hand. “I must stay with your father, please go!” And with those last words she pushed me out of the coach.
I half fell, half stumbled, from the coach, holding onto the items she had given me and began running across the land which stretched out endlessly before me. I didn’t look back but knew that Marie was not following. The land stretched before me, wide open, alien and endless with no sigh of habitation as far as the eye could see. The tall grasses of summer were almost as high as I and closed up behind me as I ran through them. They were brittle and harsh to the touch and soft gold in color. My pale yellow dress blended in with them perfectly. I thought I heard my mother scream and I hesitated, but momentarily, before running on. Tears streamed down my face and I gasped for breath as I ran. My soft shoes were soon shredded by the harsh, hard, dry ground and my hair had long since fallen down by the time I stopped to take a breath, my lungs and sides both aching.
I turned to look back the way I had come. I had to stand on tip toes to see over the top of the golden grass and I saw, off in the distance, like miniatures from my dolls’ house back in Minot, the men who had attacked us. The next thing I knew I was running anew for I saw several figures mount horses and come in my direction in pursuit of me I thought with terror.
Fear gave my legs wings, for I fairly flew across the prairies, the vision of what I had just witnessed dancing before my eyes and my mother’s screams ringing in my ears. I would never forget the faces of our attackers - never.
Suddenly, I tripped on a rock, or a root, I know not, and I fell, in a sprawl of skirts and petticoats, dropping all that I was clutching so tightly.
My hose was torn, my knee bruised and bleeding and my hair had fallen over my face blinding me as I searched for my mother’s rings and locket. I found them all, after a few frantic moments. I looped the chain through the rings, latched the clasp and with locket and rings dangling from the chain, I held them all with fingers that fumbled and seemed to have a life of their own, for I could scarce control them, so much did I tremble. Then, as I was trying to recover the small pouch of provisions and my mother’s pistol, I heard the sound of horses and men’s voices fast approaching as the ground beneath me echoed their coming.
“She can’t be far!” yelled out one, in English.
“Aye, that she can’t we’ll find her for sure,” responded another.
I thanked the Good Lord for my parents having sent me to a convent where I had learned my English lessons well as I lay perfectly still, curled up in a ball, hoping that if I didn’t move the men would pass me by.
I heard them riding all around my hiding spot flattening the grasses. I even heard one swishing a crop, or a sword, I know not which, as he searched.
“Maybe she didn’t make it this far,” said a voice, so close I almost cried out. In fact the man and his mount’s shadow crossed over my hiding place. They were so close I could smell the man’s acrid sweat as well as the pungent odor of his mount!
I desperately felt around for my mother’s pistolet, knowing that though she had given me rudimentary lessons in its use, that I would be scared to my innermost being if I really had to use it. My hands finally found it’s smooth polished handle with the gold inlaid name of its maker and I clasped it comfortingly to my breast prepared to use it if I had to.
“How could we lose her, we could see her as we rode after her, being higher and all. Damn, it’s like the ground has swallowed her up!” exclaimed one of the men, also in English. So they were perfidious Albions! My father had said there would be war between our two countries before long, as though there hadn’t been enough, to decide who would really rule this vast dominion. The famous Quebec Act of 1774, the so called “Magna Carta” of the French Canadian race, in actual fact had given us little or no say in our future, nor even a governmental representative assembly, though it did guarantee our rights as regards race, language, religion and institutions. But Canada was largely French and if unity hadn’t been a necessity when American troops invade during the War of 1812, internal warfare would have raged on unabated. As it was, small bands of marauders, both English and French, lay in wait for unwary travelers and made a living preying on them. The fact that we were French and the attackers so obviously English made the attack that much more lethal, for both sides had scores to settle that had festered for many years.
Finally, the men, arguing that I must have doubled back, turned their mounts around and rode off. I felt the ground pulsate beneath me as they whipped their mounts into a gallop and raced back to the massacre site.
When I could no longer feel the ground move beneath me and, as night began to fall, I felt around, with arms stiff and cold from not moving, trying to locate the small pouch of provisions. My hand grasped the pouch, but all that remained in it were a small loaf of bread, an apple and a piece of hard tack. Feel and grope around as I might, I could find nothing more. Placing the pistol inside the pouch along with my mother’s jewelry I held it by its strings between my teeth as I carefully parted the tall grasses before me, and in a low crouch, warily made my way forward, away from the carnage behind me.
I traveled that way most of the night, only stopping to have a piece of now hard bread, a bite of the apple and chew on the hard tack. I snoozed fitfully. Once or twice I was woken up, terror griping every fiber of my body, when some creature of the night rustled nearby or an animal bayed at the moon, which slid in and out of the clouds like a ship on a velvet sea. By the light of the moon I could make out hills or mountains in the distance, but between them and where I was lay a large, rocky, open space, relieved occasionally by scrub oaks and other small trees. I realized I would have to make it across the open space before daylight or risk being seen by the men seeking me. I crawled wearily on and then stood and ran, from outcrop to outcrop, resting when my breathing became labored and difficult.
I heard a small stream and made my way over to it, my clothing catching and tearing on thorn bushes as I went. A couple of startled deer bounded away as I neared the stream and something slithered in the underbrush as I knelt down to drink. I tried, unsuccessfully, to catch some fish, but without the wherewithal… it was rather pointless. Besides my brother and I had tickled for trout back in France and I did not think that the fish I saw darting away from my grasp were trout. Oh how I missed my brother Pierre and my parents. I wept silently, rocking back and forth on my heels until I could weep no more. I then splashed water on my hot face and drank the crystal clear liquid in large gulps from hands that trembled uncontrollably.
Much refreshed by the cool water I sat back on my heels and wondered what I should do next. We had only been in this vast, wild land a few weeks when my father was transferred from Minot to Fort Diablo to be the commander of the fort there. We had been warned about savages but no-one had told us to be wary of our own kind! What would my brother Pierre do, left alone in Minot as aide-de-camp to General Le Claire? Would he know where to look for me? Would I survive to see him once more?
Sadly I reflected that I did not know where I was, or which direction to take, but I knew for sure that I wanted to distance myself from the horror I had been witness to and therefore decided to make for the mountains. If I managed to reach them and ascend them maybe I would have a view of the land and see some sign of habitation. My mind made up, I walked towards the distant hazy blue mountains. By mid-afternoon I had progressed almost across the open rocky area and was nearing the scrub oak when my befuddled mind and ears registered the sound, and felt the vibration, of horses’ hooves on the ground beneath my feet once more.