Wind Dancer (18 page)

And they were afraid.

The song ended, suddenly, as if someone had said, “Enough!” But no one had said anything aloud. They had only watched.

Samuel stood beside her, panting. “That was good.”

Isabelle raked her long hair from her face, shook it back and smiled, leaning against him. “Yes. The best thing we've shown them yet.”

Another drum began to beat. Only this was different. Not as light and fun. More masculine.

Now the men would choose.

This was the Horse Dance.

The drumming began again. Isabelle stood, not knowing what to do, as the tribe regrouped. The women once again gathered around the drummer. The men faded back into a tight group, watching them, their eyes dark and wide, their lips curved in smiles. A song was sung by the men now. They gathered closer, intention on their faces as they sang to the women.

Then the song was over.

Several of the men were looking at her, making her wary.

Sunukkuhkau approached her. He held out a single arrow with dappled feathers at the end. Looking down, she recognized it; it was from their kill. It was his dance fee.

His eyes were intense as he stretched out a sinew-thin arm.

She wanted more than anything to reject him and his gift, looking around for Samuel and what he might advise. There he was, being detained by a seemingly benign group of friends who appeared to be congratulating him on his skill as a dancer. He
looked up, saw her dilemma. His amber-lit eyes were slashes of pain and caution. Then he nodded once, telling her to accept it.

They both knew an ambush when they saw one.

Isabelle had a feeling of being measured. Even though these were their rules, that the woman could pick the man and now, the man the woman, she knew they fully expected compliance. It was part of the deal she had made at the river's edge. She reached out and took the arrow, her head down in every appearance of modest acceptance.

But they didn't know her.

They thought they did, but she was about to prove to them the name they had given her—That You Cannot Imagine. She smiled to the ground, the shadowy grass. She would dance with Sunukkuhkau and, she determined within her heart, they would not know how to reckon it.

The drumbeat was similar to the last dance but stronger, more like a horse, its powerful hoofs beating the earth as it galloped. She'd always loved to ride. She had always made an instant, uncanny connection with any horse she mounted, making this particular beat familiar as though remembering a dream. It beat in her chest now, making her want to ride … or at least dance. Isabelle turned and led her enemy to the center of the grassy floor.

She followed their simple steps at first, hearing cheers from the onlookers who had no partner. This was a test. Eyes watched to see if she would hold to her end of the deal. She exhaled a private smile. Sunukkuhkau may fight like no one else, but this was a plane where a man's physical strength did not reign.

This was the realm of grace.

Soon she abandoned the simple steps. She closed her eyes, ignoring her partner, and said quietly, “Be it my last dance, my Lord, I give this to you.”

No one understood, nor even heard her simple prayer, but it didn't matter.

She moved to the center of the group, her arms undulating over and around her head, eyes closed. She mouthed a quiet praise, like she had at the river's edge, or in her yard as a child, in the quiet, God-moments of her life. She turned their drumbeat against them.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lamb. Forever and ever to be praised. No one has gone before You and no other will go after You. The beginning … the end … the beginning … the end,” she breathed against their unknown tongue. “There shall never be another like You.” She smiled, joy filling her. “There shall never be another like You.”

She wasn't dancing with Sunukkuhkau, and he must have known it, for when she finally opened her eyes, he had stopped dancing and was watching her with suspicion of her power … as had everyone around them. Once again they didn't know what to make of her wild ways. Once again she held them all enthralled, reflecting God's glory.

A halt was called by none other than the chief. He looked at her askance, as if she'd committed some grave crime. She didn't care. She glared back at him, back at them all, save Samuel, willing them to do something about it.

The chief approached her, motioning Sunukkuhkau over to translate.

“He says you have much power.”

Isabelle exhaled a small laugh. “It was just a dance.”

“He wishes that you learn a special song and sing it to us.”

Isabelle smelled a trap. “I do not know your language. What is this song? What does it say, and what does it mean?”

Her questions were ignored.

“It is a great honor, Cocheta.”

The name again. The reminder.

“It is called ‘Danna Witchee Nachepung.'”

“Tell him I will sing a song I know for him. In his honor.” She bowed at the chief, with all seeming deference. “I will sing ‘Amazing Grace.'”

Sunukkuhkau translated. The chief shook his head in defiance, his eyes ablaze as he gazed into hers. “Shawnee now. Sing Shawnee now,” he commanded to the grumbles of the tribe.

Isabelle felt the noose tightening. She couldn't sing their song. She knew it. It would be worshipping another god. As Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had been ordered to bow to the golden idol in their land, she too was being tested. Her gaze caught Samuel's on the outskirts of the crowd. Would it mean his death if she refused?

He stared at her with determination, then briefly shook his head. He was willing to deal with the consequences, knowing them as well as she did.

She slowly shook her head. “I cannot.”

The tribe riled, a ripple of disquiet and fear, friends suddenly become foes. She saw that they still abhorred her, that they abhorred her God and everything that she had in Him. They seemed, now, ready to kill her.

But the chief quieted them with his upheld hand. In a loud voice, he said, “Sunukkuhkau and Cocheta will marry. When the moon is full. And then Cocheta will know our ways.”

There was a great cry from the Shawnee, their shrill yelping causing waves of fear to travel up and down Isabelle's spine.

Isabelle searched for and found Samuel's frantic gaze. God help them, now everything was lost.

A sound broke from the trees, a great crashing sound, as
many horses pounded into their midst. And there, at their fore, on a white stallion, was the flame-haired George Rogers Clark.

The Americans had come to rescue them.

* * *

CLARK'S MEN HAD been waiting among the tree whispers, the rustling of forest leaves and gusts of wind covering any sound they made as they watched from the outskirts of the Shawnee village. They had taken in the moonlit scene with weapons drawn and ready, their breath short and expectant in their chests.

Clark had kept his hand upraised in the quiet stillness, feeling their combined straining to rush forward and affect rescue but holding them back until he fully knew the moment. So they watched, undetected, for a long time, seeing a play as it were, a worship service where an outsider had stolen a heathen stage. They wanted to cheer Isabelle on, many of them knowing the God she worshipped. Most of the men had never met her, and yet, suddenly and completely, they were on her side, eager to battle for her. Isabelle didn't know it, but she had just won another kind of warrior to her side, and they were the loyal sort, the kind who would fight to the death for her.

Clark saw Samuel sitting off to one side watching the dance. Now he understood. He couldn't blame Samuel for his eagerness to lead such a woman and her brother back to Vincennes. She was like no woman he'd ever seen.

He'd left Kaskaskia to personally lead this rescue. Father Gibault and the good doctor Lafont had convinced him that they would lead the conquest of Vincennes. And so, with a few of Clark's best men, he'd allowed them to travel to the fort in his name and secure it, without guns, without a fight, but with a message of peace and hope for the American cause. Not that he
hadn't had doubts or sleepless nights over it, but he trusted the priest for some reason that he couldn't quite understand. He was giving up his element of surprise, leaving so much into the hands of strangers.

But right now, Samuel, his friend, needed him.

He was glad to see the man intact and seemingly in good health. Now he would have to decide: Should he rush and attack—take him and this woman by force and surely make enemies of this tribe and others aligned to them? Or should he pursue the path of diplomacy? Everything in him shouted the latter, and yet he knew his men wouldn't be too happy about it. They had been eager finally to engage in a fight, and this scene had no doubt fired them up.

Now Clark sat atop his prized stallion in front of the startled tribe, having seen and heard the moment he'd been waiting for and knowing that if they'd waited one more second something terrible would happen to the woman. So he'd given the signal to charge forward.

Clark held up two belts of wampum—the red of war and the white of peace—one in each hand. He shouted into the clearing, holding them enthralled. “Will the Shawnee choose the side of peace … or the side of war?” He bellowed it as a conqueror, as if ten thousand men were at his right hand, as if he could singlehandedly take them all, so sure of the rightness of his cause.

Several of the tribe backed into Samuel, fencing him in, but Samuel was a full head taller and just grinned at Clark.

Someone yelped something, and then two younger braves went to flank the chief as he moved forward. It took some time before the old chief made his way to the front of the group. Stopping in front of the white horse, the chief motioned for Clark to dismount. Sunukkuhkau materialized at his side, seemingly to interpret.

“Why would this man bring us wampum?” the chief asked in a croaky voice, which Sunukkuhkau asked in stilted English.

“Do you not know?” Clark demanded in a loud voice. “Are you old dogs slow of hearing? The Americans have taken the British forts. The French are aligned with the Americans. We wish to make an alliance with the native people and bring peace to this land.”

The old chief looked askance at the fire-haired man. “We know only that the white man has come into our land, slowly taking our hunting grounds until there is nothing left to fill the bellies of our women and children.”

“The white man has many faces, great chief. I have come to show you the face of honesty and truth. Will you hear this face?”

The old chief considered Clark, looking tired and defeated. Finally he nodded. “We will smoke the pipe of peace and council together.”

Clark nodded in respect, then directed his men to dismount. They were led, slowly and with much study from the villagers, to a wigwam. At one point Clark came abreast of Samuel and whispered, “I have seen Isabelle, but where is her brother?”

“Julian is dead. Burned at the stake in front of her.” Samuel looked square in his leader's eyes. “Whatever deal you make with them, know that I will not leave here without her.”

Clark measured the moment, then nodded.

They made their way into the lodge, sitting in a crowded circle of men, about ten braves, some of Clark's men, and Samuel. Once everyone was settled, the chief motioned to Samuel. “You know this man.”

Clark nodded. “One of my best.”

The chief smiled, showing a few missing teeth in his tanned face. “One of
my
best,” he corrected.

Clark nodded acquiescence. “Yes.”

The chief seemed to like that. They all waited while a pipe was filled and lit.

Clark began, talking with wide gestures of the American cause, about what he had come here for. His words were solemnly interpreted, sentence by slow sentence, explaining the vast change that was occurring on the frontier. Then Clark motioned to Samuel.

“Samuel Holt is my scout. He was commissioned to me by the Virginia government. If you agree to join our side, you must see that he is mine but on the side of good for both.”

The old chief stared hard at Samuel. “He is Patamon now, of the Shawnee.”

Clark nodded solemnly, staring at the old man, waiting a long minute in the silence of the curling smoke. Then he said quietly, “He has been Samuel Holt much longer than Patamon of the Shawnee. He is where his heart lies.”

The old chief appeared to consider these words, looking at Samuel then back to Clark. “Our way is the old way. Patamon has replaced our dead brother, bringing justice to our fallen and peace to the family of our fallen. He is Shawnee now.”

Clark nodded, then argued, “We believe a man can only be truly adopted if he is bereft of family.” He nodded to Samuel. “I see the value of such a warrior and that you would not want to lose him as a son. But this man, Samuel Holt, has sworn an oath to my service. He is mine.” The last was spoken with authority, with an underlying threat.

The chief pursed his thin lips together. Then, after a long pause, he nodded, “Another then shall have to take the place of our dead brother. Do you have another among you?”

Clark stalled, taking a long drag from the pipe, peering up into the smoke hole of the lodge house. Turning to the chief, he
leaned toward him. “There is more at stake here than a dead brother's recompense. You must choose sides in this war between the British and the Americans. We will not make you our harlots as the English would. If you do not choose the side of the Americans, you will lose far more than Samuel. You will lose everything.”

The statement was prophetic; they all felt it, as if it were a common fact—so simple, so true—and this kind man was merely pointing it out to them.

The chief looked down into his lap, his old thin legs crossed, his white hair wispy around a tanned and deeply wrinkled face. He nodded. “I can see that Samuel Holt,” he used his English name, “is your son.” He paused for a long moment, then looked up to Clark. “But Cocheta is ours. She belongs with us.”

Clark saw the determination in the chief's eyes, knew a verbal battle lost, and nodded in agreement. “We thank you, for the return of our brother.” Clark rose and reached out his hand.

The chief looked at him a long moment, judging that outstretched hand, then nodded again, and shook it. “We will take the white wampum. We will not fight against the Americans.”

Clark thanked him, bowing out of the lodge house, his men and Samuel following close behind. Once out into the night air Clark turned toward Samuel. “We'll come back for her. Ransom her.”