The R.N. had the improbable name of Honey Reason and had repeatedly told her colleagues to call her anything but that. She went by the name of Ginger, not because she had red hair (she didn’t) but because she could get as hot as the plant when she thought her patients weren’t being afforded the proper respect and care.
The boy called John was one of her favorites, she had taken care of him from the first day in the PICU and had been with him once he was transferred to the Neurological Suites. There was evidence of deep level brain activity, but not enough to call it cognitive. The Neurologist thought that the boy might be operating at a primitive level, where the most basic instincts were housed but nothing higher than that. He doubted that the child would ever wake from his coma and could live a relatively long life in that condition. If the child had parents, they might have been asked if they were ready to declare their child brain-dead and allow him to be taken off forced nutrition which was akin to slowly starving the boy to death. To some, that was as heinous a crime as murder. That was judging life by the quantity of it rather than the quality. Having to care for the boy in a skilled facility 24/7, 365 days for fifty years was more than a prison sentence.
Of course, the lawyers for the boy’s estate had crawled out of the wood-works. The doctor who had saved the boy’s life (on multiple occasions due to his injuries) made sure that the child had one of the best personal injury law firms in the world. They took the case and sued for an undisclosed amount, but the families of the dead had received awards upwards in the 100 million.
One of Doe’s lawyers announced to the Press that he would be cared for until he passed away and that the Trauma Hospital could afford to endow a new wing in his honor.
Ginger had taken John out of his room and into the solarium, a huge room closed in by thousands of glass panels that allowed the sun inside without the vagaries of weather. Filled with plants, it held some rare species that grew only in the Amazon Rain forest. Flowers were everywhere, and it was so beautiful that it was often used for weddings. The effect that place had on some of the patients were tangible and recognizable. Patients blood pressures dropped an average of twenty points and brain waves smoothed out. Patients said that their pain levels were often the lowest they could remember, and they needed less drugs to make them comfortable. She had made it a habit to take John there at least once each shift, not expecting anything but not giving up to no hope at all.
T
he murmuring of French in soft, sibilant whispers cut through the hitching sounds of constricted and tortured breathing. I held my breath listening and when I did, the noises also stopped. It was me then, that was having difficulty in breathing.
My face hurt. I licked my lips and found them swollen, split into bleeding cracks and tender. The worst pain was in my nose; when I tried to breathe through the plugs, all I could get out were snorts. Both sides were stuffed with blood and swollen so that my eyes felt as if they were glued shut to my cheeks.
When I tried to feel my face, neither of my hands would move nor would my feet as I tried to get up. I flopped around but that hurt my face and made me feel sick to my stomach and faint-headed. It felt as bad or worse than the time I’d thrown a toy and had it bounce back in my face giving me two black eyes. I was so scared that I couldn’t think past my immediate hurts and only wanted to deal with how I was feeling. I didn’t want to think about my maman or what these men would do to me.
Clearing my throat was enough to alert the two fur trappers that I was awake. The elder, Pierre leaned over from the log he was sitting on and peered at me through the flames of a small campfire. It was surrounded by rocks of slate and shale, granite flecked with mica that sparkled in the fire’s glow. Beyond the fire were the shadows of trees and not much else was visible. I could barely smell, just the faintest traces of coffee and roasting meat. My stomach growled.
“My brother don’ appreciate your teeth, wolf cub,” he grinned. His teeth were black, and many were missing. I wondered how he managed to chew his own food but then, Falling Rain had chewed the tough jerky for me when I was sick and fed me from her mouth. “You hungry?”
He threw a slice of something charred and black at me and it landed on my chest and bounced off. “My hands are tied,” I complained.
“So, they are. You make one of us chase you down and you won’t eat the rest of the trip.”
“My legs are tied, too,” I said.
He grunted, walked over to me, and cut my wrists free with a huge shiny blade that winked in the firelight. He wiggled it in front of my eyes and said, “Tinker made. Best damn knives in the whole country. Don’t you be making me show you how sharp it is.”
I rubbed my wrists until the feeling came back and the tingling, burning of returning blood hurt almost as much as my face did. I had torn off the skin and thin bracelets of blood replaced the cut leather bonds.
Bending over, I searched for the piece of meat he had thrown, finding it in the leaves and pine needles. Brushing off the dirt, I crammed it into my mouth, barely chewing before I swallowed. Once it was gone, I looked for more and LaSalle handed me another chunk of less charred meat.
“’Coon pretty good?”
“Not bad, but you burned it.”
“So, you’re a chef?” he sneered. “You can cook next time if you think you can do better.”
“An Englishman could do better than you,” I muttered. “A pig could cook better.”
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t say anything. Better yet, he let me eat my fill and when I was done, he tied my hands back together but wrapped them in soft deerskin first.
“Sleep. We got miles to travel tomorrow and got to cross the river.”
“Where are we?” I wiped my mouth off on my sleeve, noting that his rifle was near to hand and sitting upright at his side.
“Somewhere near the Ohio. Plenty of Ojibwa and Kickapoo around and they ain’t exactly friendly to whites. ‘Course, the Iroquois are the worst. Burn you on a pyre if they catch you. Alive.”
I called him a name in Rain’s tongue and his face darkened, indicating that he either spoke or understood it.
“Go to sleep,” he ordered and threw a stinky wool blanket over me. I wiggled until my head was uncovered as breathing through my nose and under the blanket was near impossible. I watched the flames for a while before my body gave in to the pain and exhaustion, dropping off into a sleep so profound that I didn’t even dream.
*****
Days passed. I ate, drank, and did chores for them. I cooked, set up camp and gathered firewood. I did everything but take care of their horses, for they did not trust me enough to risk my stealing one and riding off. Besides, they kept a leather thong tied to one ankle and frequently pulled me off balance when they wanted something done. Many times, they made me fall just to provide amusement at night when their other games grew stale.
I had asked repeatedly about Falling Rain and the other men. They told me that their acquaintances had gone South toward Cherokee lands, to visit their wives and would not be returning until spring. Once again, Pierre warned me to forget her as she would most likely end as a white man’s whore or slave.
“You know what a whore is, boy?” I shook my head. When he explained, I was both horrified and saddened. “The world’s a harsh and cruel place, boy. Best get used to it. What do they call you?”
“Little Fox,” I said listlessly. “What are you going to do with me?”
“You some nabob’s rich baby?”
“I thought I was Rain Falling on Rock’s son. She told me that I was hers and a white man’s.”
“Not with them blue eyes. Unless you one of those Roanoke Injuns but they’s all dead. You speak French and English. Don’t know no Injun kids speak more’n a few words of either. If you were to be some nabob’s son, we could sell you back to him.”
“Sell me back? To my pa?”
Jean-Claude snorted. “Shit-fire, boy. Your pa. You do know your name and your papa’s?”
I hesitated before I spoke. “No. I don’t know my name, my papa’s name or where I come from. I don’t remember anything but looking up at Rain’s face. She found me sick with a fever, told me that it robbed me of my memories and nursed me. She said my name was Little Fox and we run from the Ojibwa tribe because she was taken from her home. She’s an Arapaho and wants to go back to her people,” I explained.
“You said her people,” Jean-Claude stated. “Not ours.”
“Arapaho. Mon Dieu. That’s clear across the Big Muddy and over them tall mountains called the Rockies,” Pierre mused. “We only been as far west as St. Louie.”
“Is it far from here?” I asked.
“Take us two weeks or better on horseback,” Pierre said. “There’s the Ohio to cross and a few other largish rivers but none as big or as grand as Ol’ Muddy.”
“Old Muddy?” I asked.
“The Mississippi. Missouri river is a bitch at times, too.”
“Won’t it be frozen?”
He laughed. “The Muddy ain’t never froze but don’t worry, we ain’t swimming it. Naw, we be taking the ferry across.”
“Ferry?”
“Ferry.” I had an image in my head of a steamboat chugging across a bay of frothy, impossibly green water, smoke pouring from her stacks and fancy suited men and peacock ladies strolling the decks as they took in a city skyline. Tall buildings over ten stories high and built of brick and iron.
I could feel the roughly painted railing of the deck under my palms and sensed the presence of a man in uniform next to me but when I turned to look, all I saw was blackness.
“Hey, you sick?” Jean-Claude shook me and as I stared back into his grizzled face, I shuddered. I nodded, and he pushed me away. “We need more firewood.”
I dragged my feet and the leather apron with handles that I used to stack and carry kindling back to camp. It would take me at least an hour to find enough to last the night and I still had to cook, feed the horses, dig a pit for the latrine and take care of my own needs.
It was a while I was pulling a full load for the last dead branch still attached to the tree that I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Through the tree trunks, bare patches of skin showed, painted faces and chests, the strange hair styles of the Shawnee and Iroquois braves moved in a searching pattern. They were following the trail that two horses and my scuffing feet had made through their territory. I hesitated, thinking that I could let the braves take care of the two Frenchmen, but I wasn’t sure if I could retrace my steps back to Rain on my own. Especially without their protection and without supplies, weapons, knowledge of the area or any clue as to where we were.
I dropped the handles of the carry-all, eased back out of their sight and ran for the camp. I knew where I was going and beat them back only by a few minutes. Pierre caught me as I flew into camp screaming that hostiles were coming. To his credit, he did not argue or doubt me but led the horses into an area where trees had blown down putting them into a protected spot.
We hunkered down against a rock ridge and behind a bulwark of downed trees so that the only way the Indians could approach us was frontal. For the first time, I realized that both trappers always picked a campsite that could easily be defended against attack.
“Can you shoot?” he asked shoving a musket at me that was taller than I was. “How many did you see?”
I closed my eyes and counted. “Four, I think. Iroquois and Shawnee. Wearing ocher on their faces and red on their chests.”
“Hunting party, not war. Can you load the Hawkins? Flintlocks?”
“Dunno.” He explained how but before he could finish, they were upon us.