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  BROKEN TRAIL

  OTHER WORKS BY

  JEAN RAE BAXTER

  A Twist of Malice

  Seraphim Editions, 2005

  The Way Lies North

  Ronsdale Press, 2007

  Looking for Cardenio

  Seraphim Editions, 2008

  BROKEN TRAIL

  Copyright © 2011 Jean Rae Baxter

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue, Vancouver, B.C., Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Minion 12 pt on 16

  Cover Art & Design: Nancy de Brouwer, Massive Graphic

  Paper: Ancient Forest Friendly “Silva” (FSC) — 100% post-consumer waste,

  totally chlorine-free and acid-free

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Program, the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Baxter, Jean Rae, 1932–

  Broken trail / Jean Rae Baxter.

  ISBN 978-1-55380-109-2

  I. Title.

  PS8603.A935B76 2011 jC813′.6 C2010-904456-8

  At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy (formerly Markets Initiative) and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.

  Printed in Canada by Marquis Printing, Quebec

  to my grandchildren,

  with love:

  Trevor, Riley, Patrick,

  Karen, Nathan, Jay,

  Naomi and Thomas

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My main source for information about Patrick Ferguson is Dr. M. M. Gilchrist’s Patrick Ferguson: “A Man of Some Genius” (Edinburgh: NMS Publications, 2003). My thanks to Gretchen Runnalls for putting me in touch with Professor Gilchrist. I am also indebted to The Indian How Book by Arthur C. Parker [Gawaso Wanneh] (New York: Doubleday, Doran & Company, 1941) and to the Diary of Lieutenant Anthony Allaire, of the Loyal American Regiment, assigned to the command of Major Patrick Ferguson. Out of respect for Dr. Gilchrist and other scholars whose work I have consulted, I must emphasize that any historical inaccuracies are my responsibility and mine only.

  I am especially grateful to Ronald B. Hatch for his perseverance in guiding my manuscript through its various drafts and for pointing the way that my journey ought to go. My thanks, also, to Erinna Gilkison for her skill in ferreting out flaws and adding a final polish to the story. A big thank you to Thomas Baxter for reading the first draft. I am also grateful to Janet Myers and to Karen Baxter for their helpful suggestions. Thanks are due, as always, to my friends in the Creative Writing Group of the Canadian Federation of University Women (Hamilton Branch) for their valuable comments on particular scenes. Finally, my love and gratitude to my daughter, Alison Baxter Lean, whose natural affection has not dulled the edge of her keen legal mind. I especially appreciate her honesty in identifying weaknesses and suggesting ways my writing can be made better.

  Prologue

  JUNE 1779

  AFTER MANY DAYS on the trail, it was good to return to the village. There was meat to share and there were skins for the women to clean and make soft. Broken Trail had killed a deer, not just rabbits and grouse like the other boys in the hunting party.

  His uncle, Carries a Quiver, stood in the centre of the dancing circle, with everyone watching, and made the boast, “It was Broken Trail’s arrow that brought down this deer. He is a hunter who brings meat for the people.”

  Broken Trail had trouble keeping a straight face when he saw the scowl on Walks Crooked’s face. Let him scowl! He was angry because it was not his clumsy son Spotted Dog who had killed the deer. Walks Crooked’s anger made the triumph sweeter still, for his voice was the loudest among those denying Broken Trail’s fitness to be a warrior. Now Broken Trail had proved him wrong, for everyone knew that a boy who killed his first deer at eleven years old was destined to become a mighty hunter.

  The women were dragging away the deer to butcher when Black Elk approached.

  “We have been waiting for your return,” Black Elk said. “We have taken a captive. A white girl. She speaks only English. We want to question her.”

  This news dulled the edge of Broken Trail’s joy. Although his command of English made him valued as an interpreter, he hated any reminder of where he came from.

  “Where is she?”

  “You will find her in Wolf Woman’s lodge.”

  “Wolf Woman is old and weak. How can she guard a captive?”

  “The girl needs a healer, not a guard. Our warriors found her lying injured on the side of a steep ravine. She appeared to have fallen over the edge, and a tree stopped her from tumbling all the way. We want you to speak with her before we question her. Win her trust.”

  Broken Trail looked down and shuffled his feet. He didn’t want to talk to the white girl.

  Black Elk continued. “Tell her that we shall not harm her. Say nothing more. The elders will decide what to do with her. I will take you to her now.”

  The girl was sitting on a log just outside the entrance of Wolf Woman’s lodge. She wore a fringed, beaded doeskin poncho over a short leather skirt. Her dark hair hung in two braids, with a red stripe painted along the centre part. In every respect except the colour of her skin, she looked like an Oneida maiden. Yet Broken Trail recognized her at once. This was Charlotte Hooper, the girl who had befriended him two years ago when he and his first mother and his brother and baby sister had camped by Oneida Lake during their journey north to the safety of a British fort. That was before he ran away.

  The girl did not notice their approach. She was staring off into the woods, toward a clump of alder bushes, as if her thoughts were miles away. Black Elk and Broken Trail were standing right in front of her before she turned her head to face them. Her eyes widened as she stared at Broken Trail.

  “I remember you.” Her voice was barely audible under her breath. “You are Moses Cobman.”

  The name hurt, like an insult or a taunt. “No longer. My name is Broken Trail.”

  He kept his face rigid, as a warrior should. After they had stared at each other for a few moments, she stated firmly, “But you’re Moses Cobman all the same.”

  She had no right to speak to him like that. He turned his back on her and stalked away.

  Chapter 1

  SEPTEMBER 1780

  FOR TEN DAYS BROKEN TRAIL had fasted in the wilderness. Only water had entered his mouth. He had chanted. He had prayed with all his soul to see his totem animal, his oki, who would be his protector throughout life. He had opened his heart to the whisperings of the unseen spirits and his eyes to the vision he would behold.

  Broken Trail had completed all the rites of purification, bathed in cleansing water into which boiled leaves and ferns had been mixed, swallowed bitter emetics to remove every bit of waste. Body and soul, he was clean. His uncle, Carries a Quiver, had assured him that he would be acceptable to the Great Spirit, even though white by birth. And his uncle was the wisest man he knew.

  Then why had no vision come to him? The only whispering he heard was the wind in the tall trees. The closest thing to a vision was a shower of fal
ling stars. But that often happened in late summer, when the stars shook loose in the sky.

  His friend Young Bear had fasted nine days before his vision came. His oki was an osprey. After the osprey had spoken to him, the spirits revealed a glimpse of Young Bear’s former life, when he had been a chief among faraway people who hollowed their boats from logs. His vision had also foretold his heroic death in battle. It was good to know these things. At thirteen, Young Bear had already made up his death song, to be ready in case his first war party should be his last.

  What if Broken Trail’s vision should fail? He tried not to think about that. Ten days was a long time, yet he knew that some waited even longer before their vision finally came to them. It was rare for no oki to appear, but it did happen. The man who dug the village garbage holes had failed to receive a vision, so of course he could not be a warrior.

  Broken Trail stood up and stretched. He had spent the entire morning sitting under an ash tree beside a creek, doing nothing but waiting and praying. His body was weak with hunger, but he must not eat until his oki appeared to him. Maybe he would not feel quite so famished if he filled his stomach with water. A few steps away, there was a quiet pool at a bend in the creek.

  As Broken Trail leaned over the edge of the pool, a water spider swam through his reflection. He studied the face that looked up at him. Brown hair, blue eyes, skin bronzed by the sun yet paler than the skin of his friends. I look like Elijah, he thought, before immediately trying to drive the thought from his mind.

  Broken Trail imagined that he could hear Elijah’s voice and feel his hand upon his shoulder. “I’ll take you hunting,” Elijah had said. But he never did. All white men were liars.

  I must not think about him, Broken Trail told himself. He plunged his hands into the water, and the reflection vanished. Lifting his cupped hands to his mouth, he drank the cool, fresh water. Then he stood up, raised his face to the sky and chanted the prayer that Carries a Quiver had taught him:

  O Great Spirit, my heart is open.

  Let my oki come to me.

  Let me see his visible form.

  Let him promise me his protection.

  My heart is open, O Great Spirit.

  Show me a vision of my future.

  Show me the path that lies ahead.

  As he finished the prayer, his heart felt suddenly light, and his head as well. A dizzy sensation came over him, but he forced himself to stay on his feet.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Let my vision come to me.”

  As if summoned, a wolverine walked out of the bushes and stood looking at him—the biggest wolverine he had ever seen. It had the shape of a bear and the size of a wolf. Its shaggy fur was dark brown, with two broad yellowish bands, one on each side, reaching backward from the shoulder to meet at the base of its tail. Broken Trail smelled its pungent musk. The wolverine looked at him sideways. Opening its mouth, it showed Broken Trail its sharp yellow teeth.

  Broken Trail waited, afraid to speak lest he offend it.

  It spoke to him in thoughts, not words, so that he heard its message not with his ears but with his mind. “Broken Trail, I am your oki, come to protect you from all harm. Hear what I say, and remember well.”

  “I will,” the boy whispered.

  At that instant, a rifle cracked. Within the rush of noise, Broken Trail felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. He grabbed at his leg, but his eyes were still on the wolverine as it raised its head, turned aside, and loped into the forest.

  As he watched it disappear into the undergrowth, Broken Trail tried to call out, to summon it back. No sound came from his lips. His mind was numb with disbelief. At the very moment of revelation, he had been shot, and his oki had run away.

  Broken Trail felt his knees give way. For a moment his eyes were still directed toward the spot where the wolverine had slipped away. Then the pain of his wound forced him to look down at the red stain spreading around the hole in his legging where the bullet had entered. He felt wetness run down his leg.

  Should he go back to the village? He took one step, and then another. Despite the pain, he could walk. But he was not sure what he wanted to do. If he returned home, he would have to tell his uncle that his oki had gone away before revealing his destiny. Had such a thing ever happened before? It might be a terrible omen. Yet the wolverine had appeared to him, and it had spoken. His vision had not completely failed. If the elders believed more was needed, maybe they would let him try again.

  Through the turmoil of his mind came the crashing sound of men’s boots. White men.

  Someone shouted, “You got him, Frank. We’ll find the brute and finish him off.”

  Broken Trail flinched. Better slide into a thicket where they would not see him. But before he could hide, two men burst through the undergrowth. Redcoats. Each carried a rifle. Both looked ready to fire.

  When they saw Broken Trail, they lowered their guns. They stared at him. He drove the pain from his expression to return their stares. They were young men. One was tall and thin, with fair hair pulled back in a queue. The other was short and sturdily built, with black hair.

  The short soldier laughed. “Frank, that’s not a wolverine.”

  “No. God forgive me. I aimed at a wolverine, but I shot a boy. He’s hurt. Sam, what are we going to do?”

  “We’d better see how bad he’s hurt.”

  Broken Trail felt his body swaying. In a moment, he would faint like a girl.

  “Hey, there!” The tall soldier grabbed one arm, and the short soldier took the other. Broken Trail tried to shake them off, but they had a firm grip. When they had him sitting down, Frank undid the thong that attached Broken Trail’s right legging to his belt. He pulled down the top of the legging.

  “Not too bad.” Sam gently touched the area around the wound. “The bullet passed in and out. A flesh wound. He’s lucky it never touched bone.”

  “But he’s bleeding, and he’s looking mighty weak. We’d best take him back to camp so the surgeon can bandage that leg. I shot him. I can’t just leave him here.”

  “No!” Broken Trail blurted.

  “Hey!” Frank exclaimed. “The little savage speaks English.”

  Broken Trail looked up. Two pairs of blue eyes met.

  “You’re no Indian,” Frank said slowly. “You’re as white as me.”

  Broken Trail decided not to say another word.

  “There’s a mystery here,” Sam said. “Captain will want to meet this boy.”

  Chapter 2

  WHAT A STRANGE DAY this had been! And it was not over yet. First, his oki had appeared to him. But before it could show him a vision of his future, the crack of a rifle had driven it away. At the same moment, a bullet had struck his thigh. He had only a hazy recollection of what had happened next. Two soldiers had carried him to an army camp. The surgeon, an officer wearing a smock over his uniform, had bandaged his thigh. Broken Trail touched the bandage with his fingers. Yes, this really had happened.

  And now he was lying on a narrow cot in a tent, wondering what would happen next. Clearly visible against the white canvas was the shadow of a soldier standing outside the entrance, holding a musket. Broken Trail could think of no reason why he should be under guard. It must have something to do with the captain who the soldier had said would want to meet him. But why? Because he was white? He had heard of captives who had been adopted by Indians being forcibly returned to their white families. If anybody did that to him, he’d run away again.

  Maybe he ought to run away right now. From where he lay, he could see his tomahawk, his sheathed knife, his pouch, his leggings and his moccasins neatly piled on the tent floor. One legging and one moccasin were spattered with blood.

  All he had to do was rise from the cot, put on his leggings and moccasins, assemble his other possessions, and make a dash for it. If he was fast enough, he should be able to escape the guard standing outside the tent.

  Sitting up carefully, Broken Trail swung both legs over the side of the cot.
He stood. He took two steps. Despite a sharp twinge, his right leg worked as well as his left. Four more steps brought him to the pile of his possessions. When he stooped to gather them up, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He knew what it meant; ten days’ fasting had taken away his strength. He was too weak to go anywhere without first having something to eat.

  The world seemed to be tilting and shifting as he staggered back to the cot. For several moments he sat still, waiting for his head to stop spinning. Then he put on his leggings and moccasins, attached the various items to his belt, and lay down again.

  Someone was coming. A second shadow moved against the white canvas. The tent flap opened, and a redcoat entered. It was the tall soldier, Frank, carrying a tin bowl and a spoon.

  “Here’s your vittles,” he said, setting the bowl and spoon on the small folding table that stood beside the cot. “Hope you’re feeling better.”

  The soldier stood awkwardly for a few moments, shifting from one foot to the other and looking as if he were waiting for Broken Trail to say something. But Broken Trail, who had no intention of speaking to him, turned his face away and scowled.

  “Well, good luck to you, anyway,” the soldier said. “You know I meant no harm.”

  Broken Trail waited until the soldier had left before sitting up to grab the bowl and spoon. He inspected the bowl’s contents. White man’s food. Pork and beans simmered with molasses. He lowered his nose and sniffed. Hmm! The rich aroma made his mouth water. Long ago, pork and beans had been his favourite meal.

  As he gulped down the food, his white mother’s face arose before him and he could not drive the memory of a warm farm kitchen from his mind.

  He had finished eating before two other redcoats entered the tent. These were men he had not seen before. One was a young officer with a stubby, turned-up nose. He carried a writing tablet. The other was a senior officer, a thin erect man wearing a white periwig. This must be the captain whom Broken Trail had heard about. He was glad that the British had him, not the rebels, for it was the rebels who had driven his people from their land. Yet it made little difference. He hated both.