Language of the Bear Page 5

  Pyke said, “If I hadn’t gotten involved, I’m sure your father would have.”

  Damaris laughed ruefully, in the same way her father had earlier. In that moment, he realized she was much older than her seventeen years. “I do admire your antiquated form of chivalry, Lieutenant. It suits you.”

  The words were complimentary, but they didn’t sound it. “Thank you, Miss Bennett.”

  “It is the least I could do. And please, in the future, do not duel for the sake of my honor, I beg of you. It is silly for men to kill each other over words.”

  “Maybe over words, but not over lies.”

  Pyke had never seen Damaris’s cheeks blush before, but her face turned a shameful crimson. He worried that he’d spoken of too delicate a matter.

  She quickly recovered herself. “I’m afraid I must be so impertinent to ask you what you and my father discussed today. I know I am intruding, but I only do so for the best of reasons.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Bennett. It was a private matter, and the Colonel has sworn me to secrecy.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she tilted her head to the side, an almost mocking grin touching her lips. “Surely you can trust me, Lieutenant. My father doesn’t speak to me so much any more, and I am trying to look out for him. He is sixty-one years old and doesn’t think so clearly, I’m afraid. You can understand a daughter’s concern for her father?”

  “I most certainly can, but I have sworn an oath to him.”

  “I see.” Damaris inched ever closer. If polite society had permitted it, he would have put an arm around her shoulders. “Let me share something with you and be blunt. After all, it is the colonial way, is it not?”

  Pyke agreed and normally he didn’t care for it, but he was more than willing to make an exception for Damaris.

  She continued, “There is a man very dear to my heart. He is an intelligent, peaceful man, but also misunderstood. My father and a good many others despise him. I fear that my father is going to deal with this man in the, um, harshest possible way.”

  Pyke said nothing, though the words flooded his tightly-sealed mouth and threatened to burst through the weak dam of his lips. As her husband, he could share all sorts of things with her.

  “I have always had a great affection for you, Hugh. I wouldn’t want to see you become embroiled in one of my father’s foolish plans.”

  His head was swimming. “Miss Bennett—”

  “Hugh, call me Damaris when we are alone. For goodness sake, you just fought a duel for me.”

  “As much as I would like to tell you, I cannot. I am a man of my word.”

  “And that is one of the reasons why I respect you so much. But let me warn you: Azzy is not a man to be trifled with. He may sound mad, but I assure he is not. He is a beautiful man with a beautiful dream of peace and harmony.”

  Pyke was taken aback. “Azariah Bennett is a murderer and a good number of other things I cannot repeat to a lady.”

  “Oh, Hugh, you have fallen prey to that ugly beast called Rumor. Because he is different, because he dares to challenge authority, he is branded all sorts of false things. It is done this way to discredit him.”

  Still in a swoon over her proximity and familiarity, Pyke tried to recover himself. Before speaking again, he reminded himself that, while she was old beyond her years in many ways, she was also still very young. Azariah’s ideas of peace and equality would no doubt appeal to her adolescent mind and romantic nature. “I do not know why we are speaking of your cousin, but I can assure you my mission has nothing to do with him.”

  “Oh my, it’s a mission now, is it? That sounds so intriguing!”

  He’d been hoping to throw her off the trail, but then he’d used the word mission. Already he was saying too much. This woman had an unnaturally powerful effect on him.

  “I must bid you adieu, Miss Bennett. But when I return, I hope to speak to you privately of a personal matter.”

  “Hugh, you are such a mysterious man! Can you give me a hint as to what this private communication will be about?”

  He was very tempted. But the Colonel’s agreement to the marriage proposal was only conditional: Pyke had yet to provide the man with proof of his family’s holdings and of course had yet to complete his mission.

  “I’m afraid I cannot.”

  “You tease me so, Hugh!” Her gloved fingertips touched his forearm. But even through the fabric of her gloves and his cloak, he felt the electricity in her touch.

  Before he did something rash, he got back on his horse. “I will return in a week or so, Miss Bennett.”

  “Bon voyage, Lieutenant. I will be waiting here for you.”

  His horse galloped down York Road, taking him to the grainery. Smith was there waiting. Next to the Lieutenant stood the a man Pyke assumed would be his guide.

  “Lieutenant, this is your man here,” Smith said with a sneer.

  The savage stood a head taller than Smith, who himself wasn’t short. The Indian wore a cloak over a tunic, and his hair was ridiculously shaved, exposing much of his scalp. He wore the hairs of some animal in what little hair hadn’t been shaved off his head. Pyke caught a glimpse of that strange and barbaric weapon, called the tomahawk, on the savage’s person.

  “I am Wolf Tongue,” the savage said.

  The audacity of the Indian! Speaking before being spoken to! Pyke grit his teeth and reminded himself that the Indian’s ways were different. Though lessons on proper bearing would be in order. “I am Lieutenant Pyke. Now, we had better make use of what little daylight we have left.”

  Three – Storm-of-Villages

  Wolf Tongue looked once over his shoulder at the English town behind him. The odd, squat houses belched smoke from their roofs while horses pulled carriages through the half-frozen mud between them. It seemed to be a busy place, Jenkins Town, and from what little he’d seen, it was filled with strange people and buildings. It was much larger than the towns on the frontier the Susquehannock usually traded with.

  He looked then back to the man he was to guide who rode on a horse beside him. Lieutenant Hugh Pyke was English, quhanstrono, and was a light-skinned and sour man who was missing the small finger on his left hand. He frowned straight ahead at the road before them. He had a similar face to Wolf Tongue’s own father, lean and thin and long, though his eyes and hair were lighter, slate gray and golden brown.

  He carried a musket with him, as well as a pistol and a sword that he kept secured tightly at his hip so that it didn’t rattle as he rode. He did not wear the formal costume of their soldiers, but instead had opted for more practical riding breeches, boots and heavy overcoat. That, at least, showed a little more sense than most of the quhanstrono Wolf Tongue had met.

  “Are you going to tell me where I’m to guide you?” he asked.

  Pyke turned a level, appraising gaze on him. “You’re only to know what you need to. Right now, we’re leaving Jenkins Town.”

  Wolf Tongue shook his head. “You English do love secrets, don’t you?”

  When Pyke didn’t answer, Wolf Tongue continued. “First, a messenger comes to my people and asks for the best warrior and tracker in the tribe to go with him. He won’t say what he wants or what’s expected. When I go with him, he takes me here to you and tells me I’m to guide and translate for you. But you don’t tell me where I’m supposed to lead to or what we’re doing.”

  As he talked, they passed beyond the outermost signs of the town. The last of the houses fell behind them and the road, a packed-dirt path that had been cleared through the forest wound out of sight before them to the west and south. On either side of it, a mixture of bare locust and oak trees crowded with the evergreens.

  Pyke cleared his throat and seemed to steel himself to speak. “I’m under the authority of the Crown for a delicate matter. I am your commander and you need not worry about anything until I give you your orders.”

  Wolf Tongue laughed aloud and the soldier snapped a frowning gaze back to him. “You’re not my
commander. I’m the chosen warrior of my village. I come to aid you out of friendship. And the first thing I would tell you, if you’d listen, is to slaughter that horse and have a feast tonight.”

  Pyke swung his mount to look him fully in the face. Wolf Tongue could see his jaw clenching and unclenching and his hands in fists on the reins. He wondered for a moment whether he would need to let his hand drop to his tomahawk.

  Pyke did not attack, but growled back, “I am a lieutenant in the British Army, with the full authority from the Colonel and the Province. Beyond that, I am obviously your senior and you will not speak to your betters this way.”

  Wolf Tongue fought back a smile. Perhaps this one was immune to laughter.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Pyke’s eyebrows frowned. “What?”

  “The Province. How long have you been here?”

  The Englishman’s eyes narrowed, but he did not answer. Instead, Wolf Tongue continued, “If you’d lived here more than a year, you’d know that wherever we’re going, your horse will be of little use except to carry supplies. And you carry little enough already, so it will only be a burden as you scramble through the forest.”

  Wolf Tongue waited as Pyke gave him an appraising glance. “And how do you know we’re to go through the forest?”

  “If we weren’t, you wouldn’t need me.” Wolf Tongue let a hint of a smile creep into his voice. “My people are friendly with the English and sent me to aid you. And I can do that best if you tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing.” Then, with a shrug, he added, “Besides that, the sooner we finish what we need to, the sooner I go home and we don’t have to look at each other anymore.”

  A breath escaped Pyke then that might have been construed as a chuckle or a grunt.

  “Very well,” he said as he reined his horse around to continue down the road. When he didn’t speak again for some time, Wolf Tongue wondered whether he’d changed his mind and would stay silent after all.

  Then, after a long pause, Pyke continued. “We are seeking someone. An Englishman who lives in the wilds. You’re to help guide me where I need to go and to speak with the other … Indians.”

  Wolf Tongue stifled a chuckle. If that was Pyke’s notion of sharing information, then they would have a very long road ahead, not least because Wolf Tongue wanted to know exactly what he needed to do. He had no desire to lead around an English soldier who wasn’t smart enough to go on foot any more than he had to. He had challenged Kicks-the-Oneida so that he could fulfill whatever specific duty the English had asked of him, then return with his honor and take his place among the Susquehannock.

  This unclear journey did not sit well in his stomach. Still, he might be able to sway the Englishman soon enough. He had gotten some information already, and he wondered how long Pyke could keep everything from him.

  “We should head first to the Lenape,” he said, as he thought it over.

  Pyke shifted in his saddle and glanced once out of the corner of his eye. After a sigh, he said, “The what?”

  “The Lenape. The English call them the Delaware. They will know where to find your man if he is anywhere nearby.”

  Pyke studied him from the corners of his eyes for a long moment, as if suspicious. Then, he said, “No. I understand there is a small town west of the Schuylkill River. Millers Town. We go there.”

  Wolf Tongue shook his head. This Englishman would go speak to his own who only cared for clearing the land of trees and praying to two crossed sticks. The Lenape would know if there was a lone Englishman living in their woods, especially if it were someone of import to warrant a search for him.

  “If it’s knowledge you’re looking for,” said Wolf Tongue, “then we go to the Lenape. You did ask me to be your guide.”

  “I did not ask for a guide,” said Pyke, his tone dry. “Regardless, guides do not choose the destination. Take me to Millers Town. We have no need of the Delaware right now.”

  Wolf Tongue raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you want to visit the Lenape anyway if you continue to call them that. They don’t like the English or the strange English names you have for them.”

  “And you, sir? Is this how you feel about the English and our names?”

  Wolf Tongue shrugged. “Your people bring steel and muskets to trade, much like the French. But we trade more easily with you. We’re friendly enough with you. As for the names, I find them strange but I have my own English name. My father called me Isaac.”

  “You have a Christian name?” Pyke seemed less surprised than puzzled. “Why don’t you use it?”

  “Because I’m not a Christian.” Wolf Tongue eyed the soldier. He rode on his horse so that he sat taller, but afoot the man would barely come to his shoulder. Pyke watched him with curious eyes for a moment before Wolf Tongue spoke again.

  “My father was English.” He chuckled to himself at the surprised look in Pyke’s eyes as the soldier reappraised him. “So I don’t hate you. But he may have.” He winked with a smile, at which the soldier frowned and turned his attention back to the road ahead.

  They walked on for a time with the footfalls of the horse slapping in the mud. Wolf Tongue mulled over the information he’d learned and wondered exactly what they were about. If he sought a man who lived in the wilds? Perhaps some childish English grievance had angered their leaders.

  Truly, it didn’t matter what it was, so long as he eventually found the challenge he expected. The messenger had asked for the best warrior, and it must have been for good reason. Wolf Tongue frowned at the thought that he’d return to his people without having seen battle or without a story to tell.

  Then he smiled ruefully as he thought of it. He’d actually beaten Kicks-the-Oneida in a test of strength. The older warrior had seen more battles and led the Susquehannock against some of the Iroquois nations. He’d seen real, heavy battle, killed men, and led men—a fact that seemed to carry weight at the council. Even Wolf Tongue’s uncles Bone Snake and Strikes Twice had followed him against the Oneida. Wolf Tongue had fought mock battles with the other warriors and raided villages, but he had yet to test his spirit in a true battle.

  Wolf Tongue stopped as the road swerved around a hill to lead to the south.

  “Here’s where we find out how good your horse is,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Pyke said as he reined his mount around.

  “There,” Wolf Tongue pointed to his right where a small opening in the trees overarched a path to the north. “This is the path to your town.”

  Pyke’s eyes narrowed. “This does not seem the way to a proper town.”

  “Proper or not, it is the fastest way.” Wolf Tongue stepped off the muddy, groove-worn road and onto the trail that led through the tangle of bare branches. He beckoned over his shoulder with one hand. “Owahe,” he called back.

  Pyke turned a wary gaze on the scant trail. He loosened his pistol at his belt before nodding. “Very well.”

  Even without the leaves yet on the trees, the trunks huddled close to one another and were interspersed with the thick green of hemlock so that Wolf Tongue could see only thirty or forty strides ahead. Even the shoulder-high mountain laurel bushes, still bare and starkly brown, knotted in clumps to obscure his vision.

  “Am I to protect you if we’re attacked?” asked Wolf Tongue.

  “Leading the way and translating will be enough.”

  Wolf Tongue smiled and shifted his musket to his other hand. He heard the horse’s pace slow behind him as Pyke followed into the woods. Once, a hoof clattered over a rock and the horse shook its head, its bridle ringing steely and sharp in the moist air.

  ***

  The night had come quickly after the two turned north. Wolf Tongue chose a small glade of birch at the base of a hill that rose to the west to camp for the night. He’d feared rain, or snow, but Gohem, the winter, had held back his fury, at least through the night.

  The soldier had seemed to sleep easily enough after their brief m
eal around a meager fire, barely large enough to warm Wolf Tongue’s hands. Though he did notice that while the Englishman settled into a bedroll quietly, he’d checked the breech and lock on his pistol and kept it as near as his sword.

  Now that the morning had come with a light frost and they had resumed their journey, Wolf Tongue looked over his shoulder and back at the winding path. At places, the trail narrowed between the trees barely allowing the horse to fit through, while elsewhere, it widened to allow them to walk abreast. Here, it was a long tumble of half-hidden rocks and mud down the side of a slow slope. Hugh Pyke had finally dismounted and led his horse by the reins.

  Silly to bring a horse this way for how slow it could make their progress. But Pyke carried only his sword and pistol on his person while Wolf Tongue shifted at the pouch straps across his shoulders that carried his food, water, tobacco and other provisions. He set the butt of his musket on the ground and crossed his arms over the barrel as he waited. The Englishman seemed unfamiliar with the terrain and the forest, though he did not seem terribly ill-at-ease.

  When Pyke noticed him watching, he clicked his tongue at the horse and picked up his pace. As he came alongside Wolf Tongue, the Susquehannock resumed walking so they might go side by side.

  “How much farther to the town?” asked Pyke.

  It was the most he’d said since the night before. Wolf Tongue had tried to speak to him a number of times, of the few birds they saw, of his life back in Jenkins Town, of Wolf Tongue’s village. Each time, he was met with a polite, but curt, acknowledgement that he spoke without any room for further conversation.

  “I don’t know.”

  Pyke glared at him. “I was under the distinct impression that you were my guide.”