The brothers kicked me awake next morning and from the looks on their faces, they were already pissed. I rolled out-of-the-way, stiff, sore and hungry. Jean-Claude told me to get my ass up and start bringing in water and fire wood before I even had a chance to take a piss. I stood up, the blanket falling off my shoulders and scurried toward the doorway. Before I could pass through it, the man who’d helped me the night before stuck his hand out, catching me by the chest.
“Been meaning to talk to you gents,” Harris said. “We don’t take kindly to your treatment of the boy.”
Both Jean-Claude and Pierre bristled at that. Their hands streaked toward their knives.
“You treat him like a slave, not a half-starved kid who’s lost his parents and his home. You got him doing a grown man’s work that you could do yourselves,” Harris said. “We gave you shelter, fed you, took care of your animals. But we’d appreciate it if you saddled up and rode on.”
Jean-Claude muttered insults under his breath in Abenaki and French but caught up his war bag. Pierre did the same. He spoke to me in French and told me to get busy saddling the horses. I slipped behind them and headed for the door. Mr. Harris stopped me.
“Without the boy,” he said flatly and held his hand on his gun. Now, they hefted their rifles. The minute they moved, the sound of other weapons being cocked could be heard through the log walls and papered windows. Harris backed up to the open door, dragging me with him. Once outside, the Frenchmen followed him to face the entire town’s male population holding their rifles and guns on the two. A couple of ladies, too.
Someone brought up their two horses, already packed and saddled. Dropped the reins in front of the Frenchmen. Harris told them that the trader from the Post had bought their hides for the going rate and the money was in the pack horse’s bag. He told them to leave. Grumbling curses and threats in three languages, they did so. Only once did Jean-Claude look back and that was to warn me that I would regret this.
Harris sent men after them to make sure they really left and then, he turned and regarded me. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Michel. Michel Renard.”
“You’re not French,” he shook his head. “I believe that’s a made-up name those two heathens gave you. So, what’s your real name?”
“Little Fox,” I whispered. “How did you make them leave?”
“I’m the Sheriff. But more important, they knew the folk were with me and against them. If they shot me, the whole town would have hunted them down and hung ‘em.”
“I am called Little Fox,” I said it in Rain’s tongue, and he shook his head again.
“You ain’t no Indian, either. Nor a half-breed. Your eyes are as blue as the sky and your skin as fair as milk under the dirt and bruises. Your name, son. No one here will hurt you if you tell, I’ll see to that.”
“I don’t remember,” I said frustrated. “All I remember was being hurt. Hot. Sick. Puking all over. Being carried by the lady.”
He rubbed his hands over my head and lingered on the spot where Rain had sewed a gash in my scalp using horse tail hair.
“Someone cracked your skull, I reckon,” he mused. “You got a scar here and the hair is growing in white. I heard of men losing their self when they hit their head hard enough to knock ‘em out. Sometimes, they never wake up. I reckon that’s what happened to you?”
“I guess,” I answered, wanting to please him. “What are you going to do with me?” My voice trembled even though I tried to be brave.
“I’m heading to St. Louis in a couple days. On the steamer. You ever been on a big boat?”
At my hesitant nod, he said. “See? No Indian or half-breed would have been allowed on one of the paddle-wheelers. You’re going to come with me to the newspaper office. St. Louis has a brand new one called the Post-Dispatch. I’ll put a notice in about you, maybe a picture, see if someone recognizes you. That okay if we try to find your people?”
“What if they’re like Jean-Claude and Pierre?”
“Then, we’ll find some nice people to take you.”
“You don’t want me? I can do chores. Chop wood, carry water buckets, feed your animals.”
“No, son. We got men who can do that. You hungry?”
I shuffled my feet and looked down, my hand grabbing my pants, embarrassed that I might not be able to hold it.
“I gotta pee,” I said, and he laughed.
“Outhouse is just over there.” He pointed behind the cabin and I flew. He called after me. “Come back to the cabin when you’re done, and we’ll have flapjacks.”
There were other kids in Chase’s Corners, but they kept to themselves. I’d see them walking toward the schoolhouse – a one room structure built or real lumber, not like the other buildings in town. Boys and girls carrying lunch pails and slates trudged up to the double front doors. Some were laughing, others singing. I wanted to go with them but was too afraid.
No one had told me I was supposed to go, too. I lingered outside the window and listened as the lady teacher taught them reading, writing and arithmetic. It seemed familiar, almost as if I had done the same things. I was boring quickly, my attention drawn elsewhere because I knew all the answers to her questions. I left the school and was on my way down street to the livery stables. I was drawn to horses, I loved their grace, spirit and power.
The man who ran the livery was Mr. Harris’ cousin, Mr. Larrimore. He let me hang around and brush the horses, and sometimes, I harnessed the teams for him.
The next morning, Mr. Harris called me to the cabin and walked me down to the Dry-Goods store where he bought me new clothes and boots. Even a heavy wool coat with gold buttons and mittens. I almost cried but he told me to keep a stiff lip and it sounded funny; like I’d heard it before. He even bought me a trunk to put the extra clothes in – long underwear and two other changes, plus heavy wool socks. We went to eat at a new café that had opened just that day, run by a real pretty lady with red hair and freckles. She dropped a big bag of flour when we came in and cursed.
(Ó, Liathróidí Dé.) she snapped, and I laughed after I covered my mouth. (Oh, God’s Balls.)
"Níor chóir duit curse mar sin,"I said, with my eyes wide. (You shouldn’t curse like that.)
"Labhraíonn tú Gaeilge!"she said to me, surprised. (You speak Gaelic!) She turned to Mr. Harris. “Did you bring this fine lad from the old country then, Sheriff Harris?”
He helped her with the 50 lbs bag of flour, carrying it into her kitchen in the backroom past the ten tables set with linen tablecloths and damask napkins. Each table was set with fine China and silverware.
“He speaks Gaelic? I didn’t know that. So, he’s...Irish?” the Sheriff asked.
“Irish and from County Clare by the accent I hear. Your da’s name, buachaill milis?" (sweet lad)
“I don’t know, ma’am. I didn’t know I spoke Irish, either,” I said softly. I liked her pretty face, dusting of freckles, her rosy cheeks, red lips and her bright green eyes. “You sure are pretty, ma’am.”
She laughed and brought us back out to the tables, pulling a chair out for me. I sat and tucked the napkin on my lap. Both of them watched me silently until I got nervous.
“What? Did I do something wrong?”
"Níl, buachaill milis,"she said. “You have manners and that’s not something I see very often out here. I just made some cinnamon buns and a pot of tea. Or would you prefer a chicken and dumplings plate?”
My mouth watered, and I looked at Mr. Harris, unable to decide so he ordered both for the two of us. We ate, me in silence but he conversated with the red-headed lady. At least until the place was so full that there weren’t any seats left. The word must have got out because before we were finished eating, the whole place was wall-to-wall diners.
She was kept busy bringing food back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room until she announced that we had eaten everything that she had cooked. Only then did she sit down with us.
Her name was Caitlin McFlannery, she had just arrived from Boston to open a dining hall on the frontier, a brave move for a single lady with little experience for her tender years. I could tell that Mr. Harris was smitten with her, he could barely take his eyes off. Finally, he dragged himself up and said we had to be at the docks by seven or miss our boat.
“Oh, and are you leaving Chase’s Corners for good, Sheriff?”
“Call me Daniel,” he smiled. “No, I have business in St. Louis. I’m also taking the boy to the Post-Dispatch. We’re trying to find his family.”
“Oh my. What happened?” She seemed to be interested in my plight.
“We don’t know the whole story. He told me he was sick. Injured and was cared for by an Indian squaw who was taken by fur traders. There were four or five of them in the group and two brothers – Frenchmen who took him away from the woman. Used him as slave labor. I didn’t like the way they treated him so i took the boy and sent them on their way.”
Mr. Harris took his hat, mangled it in his hands. He swallowed, suddenly shy. “Ma’am...”
“You may call me Caitlin,” she smiled. “And I’m not ma’am. It’s Miss Caitlin. Unattached and single, Daniel.”
“But not for long,” he grinned, dimples showing in his cheeks. He suddenly looked younger than I had thought.
"Arwain tarw gan y trwyn,” I said, teasing him. (Lead the bull by the nose) She laughed. She would not tell him what it meant. We said good night and went out the door. Made it to the docks with plenty of time to spare…by three or four minutes.
T
here were cattails near the edge of a swampy area behind the campsite. I could eat the roots, boiled they tasted like starchy potatoes. The trees were heavy with nuts; both beech and hickory. There were other trees whose inner bark could be eaten and was more nutritious than hamburger. I also knew how to set out snares for rabbits.
A big metal cage with a garbage can and best of all, one of those no-freeze water spigots that came out of the ground three feet high. I didn’t care that the sign said ‘non-potable water’. If I could boil it, I could drink it. The lean-to was basic and provided only a wind break but with a fire in front of it, I would stay warm enough to remain unfrozen if not comfortable. The one lack I worried about was something to boil water in. Lucky for me, the garbage can was still full. The Park Ranger hadn’t got around to this last campsite to empty the trash. I found discarded aluminum pans, tin foil, plastic utensils along with Coke cans and voila! An empty three-pound coffee can. Paper plates that I could use to supplement my fires starter, a crumpled-up piece of greasy wax paper that was just like pouring lighter fluid on briquettes. Somebody had thrown away returnable plastic water bottles. I found a handful of rusty metal skewers used to hold hot dogs over a campfire.
There wasn’t a lot of downed brush or fallen tree limbs, the place had been scavenged for any free firewood. I knew that the driest wood was still on the trees. Too bad that birch was so rare, the bark was the easiest one to start a fire.
It took me an hour’s worth of scrounging to drag enough firewood back to the shelter so that I had enough to last through the night. By the time I had broken what I could down to manageable size, I made a tee-pee shaped cone with small sticks and tucked the shredded paper and nicely greased wax paper into the center of the pile. I lit my last candle and used that to start the paper rather than waste my dwindling supply of matches. Once the small stuff caught, I added larger until I had a decent sized blaze going. Then, confident that it would keep burning, I did a quick check on my snares – made from the laces of my boots.
Nothing yet but I heard a big bullfrog chorus in the swamp. Frog legs were delicious, but I wasn’t about to wade through mud and water and risk hypothermia. Besides, I didn’t have a gigging fork although I could make one out of a forked tree limb.
I made do with the roasted cattails and tea made from raspberry leaves and wild rose hips – all boiled in the Folgers can. I was still hungry, but the edge had been taken off. By morning, I was sure to catch something even with the limited bait I had used. I could make a seine and go fishing in the swamp, still, I wasn’t looking forward to cold wet feet.
I found a small folding shovel in a half barrel. It was filled with sand. I took it, a useful tool in more ways than one.
I watched the flames even though I knew that it was bad, it ruined my night vision. But I was alone and lonely, I wanted to pull out Crispin’s diary and read. I was afraid that I might damage it by having to sit too close to the flames to be able to see. Instead, I leaned my pack against the pine poles of the shed and laid my head on it, curling my legs into my chest. I tried to make myself into a ball so to keep warm.
The fire’s warmth and snapping of the woods as the logs burned, the scent of pine pitch and wood smoke lulled me to sleep. I dreamed about mom and woke up crying. I heard the hoot of an owl and saw its ghostly wings as it brushed past my campsite. Its wingspan was enormous, over six-feet yet it made no sound. I heard the sudden cut off cry of a mouse as it was snatched by the owl and the mournful howling of coyotes.
Laying more wood on the lowering fire, I eyed the dwindling pile, hoping that it was enough to finish the night. The sky was no help in telling me the time, overcast so that I could see neither the stars or the moon. I had no idea what time it was. So, I went back to sleep.