Excerpts of books Ghostwritten
by Cornelia Amiri
Sample 1. Lalita's Biography
In Kolkata, just like I was annoyed by school, my mom grew annoyed with her sister-in-law.
Do you know how some people like to tell others what to cook or to eat?
Did you know there are people who tell others how to sit when they eat?
That aunt was a picky person. She had a thing about not wanting young children to mess up her table.
She insisted we all eat sitting cross-legged on little wooden platforms, about the size and height of a pillow. And eat off plates set on the floor.
She was uncomfortable with us sitting at her table.
My mother wanted everyone to be comfortable, including us.
When you are used to sitting on chairs at a table, that’s more comfortable.
We always sat at the table for meals in Delhi.
You can’t move your legs around when sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Toddlers move their legs endlessly.
Have you ever timed a tot to see how long they sit still, crossed-legged, on the floor?
After about a year of that and living with her sister-in-law in general, Mom said, “This is it.”
We moved in with my mother’s parents.
My grandparents’ house in Kolkata was a flat with two bedrooms on the ground floor, a table in a sort of entranceway, and a kitchen. We were crammed in.
My mom and us four kids, my grandmother, grandfather, and my eldest cousin were in one bedroom.
My mother’s younger sister, Ila, her husband, and her three daughters slept in the other room. But it was fun having the cousins there.
My grandfather was a manager. That’s how he made his living.
Let me tell you, you need skills like that… when you’ve got a house full of 2 men, along with 3 women, plus 7 children. And 1 bathroom.
One tub/shower combo.
One sink.
One commode.
One tube of toothpaste.
One toothbrush holder.
Crammed every which way with all those toothbrushes.
Did I say two men, three women, and seven kids in one bathroom?
He had to manage all of us.
My grandfather was one of the greatest managers who ever lived.
Sample 2. Jeff's Memoir
An ear-rattling boom jerks me awake. The sight in front of my eyes paralyzes me. I can’t move my arms or my legs. I can’t speak. I can’t scream. I’m drowning in raw fear. Grandpa is pointing a twelve-gauge shotgun mere inches from Uncle Tony, who lies unmoving on the sofa bed. Crimson blood gushes from his chest. His eyes roll back in his head. Tony’s Dead. Murdered.
Michelle grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, so I know she’s awake. My heart’s hammering. I feel like my breath’s been sucked out of me. I’m numb. Shut down. I pull the covers over our heads. Hoping that by not seeing us, Grandpa will forget we’re there. But I also feel certain he’s going to shoot me. I’m sure I will die any minute. I’m overcome by the coppery stench of blood and the acrid, sour smell from the fired rifle my grandfather used to murder his only son. My sweat…soaks the sheets.
Because of the sunbeam shining through the window on the different colored, thin cotton squares of the patchwork quilt, I can see Grandpa. And, out of the corner of my eyes I see Grandma in the hallway creeping in stealth to the living room. I need to warn her. I try to scream but my mouth won’t open.
Grandma must sense the danger. She glances up at the huge shadow in a hunting stance, fast approaching. Her eyes grow rounder, her pupils dilate, and she shuts her lips tight in an expression of stark fear. “Calvin? Calvin? Is that you?”
His breath is loud, like a heavy wind in a rainstorm as he paces back and forth
“No!” Grandma’s gaze falls on Tony’s body.
Her wail is immobilizing. It cuts through my soul, giving voice to my pain, though my own body and voice turn their back on me, overcome with shock.
“Why? Tony wrote all those letters made all those phone calls to get you out of prison We wanted you here with us.” Somehow Grandma musters the strength for words, trying to get through to him, to reach the man she loves. “Why kill the people who love you? You have so much anger and pain you can’t tell we’re not your enemies.” In a flash, she breaks toward her bedroom.
My pulse is racing. He runs toward her door.
“Nooo!” My grandmother screams for her life.
A raw brutal boom pierces my ears. No other sounds come from the bedroom. I know she must be dead.
The floorboards groan and creak as my grandfather walks over to us. Michelle and I watch him through the colored patches of the quilt we’re hiding under. The long, hard barrel is pointed at my face, no more than an inch away. I feel the heat of his breath. I sink into a darkness, a dread so deep, no person should ever have to face it. That’s the only way to explain the feeling of knowing my grandfather wants to kill me and is going to do so, now.
Suddenly, Mom runs out of her bedroom, and into the living room. “Dad! Dad! Wait!”
He wheels around, aiming at her.
I’m going to explode from the tension and horror. No, not Mom. God, don’t let him kill her.
Mom races down the hall, heading toward the back door. He chases her. I hear the door open. I don’t hear the gun go off. Maybe she’s safe. Did she get away? Then I hear him fire a shell. He must have shot at her. I don’t know if he missed or if he hit her. Is she alive? Is she dead?
Sample 3. Steven's Memoir
One day as I’m driving 18-wheeler in Pass Christian Mississippi, around Gulfport, …things get a little crazy.
It’s morning, I just woke up. I’m steering an 18-wheeler half full of nails, big boxes of nails —in bulk for different hardware stores, down the highway that runs by the beach. The blustery, brine scented wind is stirring the white sand into flurries that its spraying onto the road.
Two cars are in front of me and I’m coming up on a bridge when I spot a little boy in a striped shirt on the beach playing with a ball. Suddenly, a gust snatches it out of his hands and whips it all over the place.
The ball flies out in front of the two cars ahead of me. The kid chases the ball into the street. My breath catches in my throat. I jerk my foot off the gas pedal.
He dashes in front of the cars driving towards him. He darts between the moving cars. The blast of their horns and the ear-splitting screech of brakes pulsate in the air.
Both cars swerve. My heart’s hammering. My stomach clinches. The drivers are doing all they can. Everything. To avoid hitting the little boy.
My eyes fastened on that small child in the striped shirt. I release a swoosh of pent-up breath. The boy catches his ball. Clutching it tightly to his chest he runs for the median.
He makes it. In that moment he’s safe. The two cars passed him by. They’re out of sight.
Now, it’s up to me. Steven. In an 18-wheeler. To navigate this. I’m on full-blast red alert. Every muscle in my body tenses.
I’m out of the driver's seat. In standing position, ready to go. Ready to step on the brakes. I pull the trailer brakes, so, they’re holding me down.
Sure enough, he dashes into the street. I lock everything up. It’s all screeching and going wild. I’m struggling to get this thing stopped so I don’t run over this kid.
I can do this. I’ve got the truck moving as straight as I can keep it. I’m standing on the brake, looking out the front. And, I lose him.
I look to the left, through my open window. I gaze down and see the top of the boy’s head.
Oh my god what am I going to do? My pulse is racing.
I step up on the pedal a bit more. I pull the trailer break even harder and lock it in place. I reach out the window and down trying to grab his head. I feel his hair. Then he’s gone. He disappears. I don’t know what the hell is going on. My body stiffens in shock.
I see Bo and Amy in my mind. They’re about the same age as that boy. I’m shaking, knotting up with fear inside.
All I can do is I spin my tires to the right. I hit the rail. Oh Shit! I’m ploughing through the guardrails. A huge metallic boom and crashing noise reverberates in the air. I hold on as tight as I can as I drive off the bridge.
Truck, trailer, nails, and me plunge off the bridge. The water rises in a titanic splash as the truck filled of iron nails and hardware flat out plummets to the bottom of the bay.
With 25 feet of saltwater above me I hear the metal trailer crumbling, cracking, breaking. Then the engine gurgled. Then no sound. I zone into survival mode. I hold my breath and my mind holds on to the thought that took me here. If I can get out of the truck I can survive.
I swim out of the open window. My adrenaline is pumping as I push myself out of the truck cab. Saltwater chokes my lungs, I thrash my arms and feet as hard as I can. I damn near drown.
Grasping for air I break through the water’s surface. I’m gagging from swallowing saltwater. I swim for the bank. Has to be at least 60 yards. I don’t know if I’m numb from the icy cold water or the shock of the accident, but it seems like I’m on the bank before I know it. Dripping wet and cold as ice. I turn back. Parts of the truck are sticking out of the Mississippi. Gulf Coast.
I climb back up to the road. I thought for sure the kid was between my tandems in the back. Just like an old dead squirrel.
Oh my god. what am I going to do if this happens to me.
I hear the kid screaming.
I gasp in surprise. Holy cow, he’s alive.
I’m good. I just stand and gawk for a moment. Frozen. Speechless.
When I’d spun my tire it struck the kid, knocking him clear of the truck.
That’s how I got past without running over him completely.
The boy’s running in circles. Drenched in black tire soo. I run to him.
Covered in blood from a large gash in his leg. He’s still bleeding.
I lay him down. I don’t know if he has internal damage or what. I shed my wet t-shirt, wrap it around his leg, and press it down to try to stop the bleeding.
His grandparents finally get across the road to us and scold him for running out in the street.
“Hey, let’s get him healed. Make sure he’s okay before you get on to him,” I said.
The grandparents tell me he’s down from Arkansas visiting them. And we’re all thrilled to find out, though the kid is bruised up pretty bad, he only needs 10 or 11 stitches in his leg. Other than that he’s fine.
The police, state troopers, EMSs and the ambulance arrive. They check me and the kid and take him to the hospital. Then, sure, enough, they drag me over to the trooper’s car and give me a breathalyzer test. And of course, I pass because it was like 10 o’clock in the morning.
They review the driving hours on my logbook and see I’m legal because I slept more than 8 hours last night. So I had plenty of rest.
People from everywhere start showing up. It is crazy. There are lots of witnesses. Across the street, the front wall of this restaurant is a window with the biggest view you could ever see of the gulf. The whole thing happened right in front of everyone eating there like it was a damn tv. At about that time customers from the restaurant come out and start patting me on the back and shaking my hand. They all said they’d never seen anything like that before.
Come to find out in the city of Pass Christian and Gulf Port Mississippi, that entire area, this is the first 18-wheeler pedestrian accident where the pedestrian survived.
Somehow, I come out of the whole thing in pretty good shape. But the company truck and all its contents are sitting in the gulf and filled with saltwater. And at least at that moment, I’m stranded in Pass Christian. So, Handy Hardware sends me to a hotel and while I’m there my boss gives me a call in my room.
“How are you?” His tone is slow, measured—concerned.
“I’m okay though I’m a little shaken up. I was wondering if you’re still having me finish the route?”
“That’s one reason I’m calling. Do you think you’re you up to climbing back in an 18-wheeler and making those nail deliveries down to Florida then all the way back to Houston? Can you do it?”
“Well, if I don’t, I’ll never drive again.”
“Okay, well I’ll get another trailer down there.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll get the truck pulled out and get all this unloaded and put in a new trailer.”
So, another crew comes down there and pulls the truck and trailer out of the water. And, when everything is ready to go, I’m on my way again.
So, I don’t know what else to say about this, but it’s pretty emotional and more so when I get home and see my own kids.
About three days later, I’m back, sitting at my desk at the hardware company, and the phone rings. It’s the little boy’s parents in Arkansas calling to thank me for sacrificing myself to try to save him.
Their gratitude fills me with a mellow warmth and also has me choked up. I’m so happy their son is all right and that I was able to prevent an accident that could have taken that child’s life.
I not only kept from killing him, I managed to survive my truck going over the bridge and into the Mississippi Gulf Coast. That was pretty wild and crazy. And, that is the 10th time I escape the brink of death. My nine-plus-one life.
The biggest difference between me and a cat is felines only have nine lives. You can see at this point that I have more. And, you’ll soon see I have even more than ten.
Fiction - Historical Fiction
CHAPTER 1—BOONESBOROUGH
1778 Chief Black Fish’s War Camp Near Boonesborough
We can’t rise on our own, since we’re strung together like the bear claws on Black Fish’s necklace. Two warriors pull us to our feet, take us to the flickering vermilion campfire, and sit us down.
My mind is spinning. Daniel Boone can be mighty persuasive. But can he convince the Shawnees to show mercy?
Without a council house, the discussion and the vote will be hold near the central fire. A warrior lays a buffalo pelt on the snow. Chief Black Fish sits on it, cross-legged. At his side sits Chief Munseka, Cornstalk’s replacement and leader of all septs of the Shawnees. Representatives of the British governor of Detroit: Peter Loramie, fur trader and Charles Beaubien, British Agent of the Miami Nation. Their presence shows the British government is backing the plan to attack Boonesborough.
Noticing the warriors on the Chief’s other side, I say, in a hushed tone, “Those three must be important. They are the only warriors sitting with the chief.”
“Those aren’t warriors. They’re the Girty brothers.” Cage Callaway scowls.
“I couldn’t tell they were white at all. They dress like Shawnee and wear war paint.”
“Blast those White Indians,” James Callaway huffs. “Traitors.”
“Turncoats,” William Brooks says under his breath. “All three of them.”
Everyone in Virginia has heard of the notorious Girdy brothers. Kidnapped and adopted by the Seneca as children. They support the British loyalist and their native American allies. Branded renegades and turncoats, settlers see them as white Indians. Not white men. And the Shawnees consider them their Seneca brothers.
Pompey sits at their side and translates for Black Fish. “We will decide if we should kill all the militiamen except Boone, make him have the settlers at Boonesborough surrender, and take those captives with us to Chillicothe.”
Black Fish nods at the nearest warrior, who stands, mimics firing a riffle at us all as he speaks, then sits down.
Sitting at Boone’s side, Pompey translates in whispers. So, we can’t hear our enemies, who war against us and scalp our kind, discussing our fate. And none of us speak Shawnee. All we have to go on is what we’re seeing. Other warriors aren’t as clear with gestures as the last one. But I figure the scowling, shouting ones want to kill us. The softer speaking, calm warriors might think we’re worth more to them alive. Either way, many warriors have a lot to say.
Captain Boone is the last to speak. He’s put his open collar, buckskin fringed shirt back on and tied his blonde hair back from his face to defends us.
Can’t retaliate. Unable to escape. Helpless. I look at Boone, our only hope.
“Brothers, I can better fulfill my promise to you in the spring when the weather is warm. The women and children can travel from Boonesborough to your towns and live with you as your people.”
His chiseled nose, strong jawline, confident posture, and expression add to the strength of his defense.
“You have young men, good men here. Killing them will displease the Great Spirit, then he won’t grant you success in hunting or war. If you spare them, they will make fine warriors and excellent hunters. And the Great Spirit will smile upon you.”
Hopeful, my ears cling to every word he says. We teeter on the cliff of death. Boone is our only means of balance on this dangerous edge.
“These young men have done you no harm. They surrendered without resistance upon my assurance it was safe. I consented to their capture under the condition that you take them as prisoners of war and treat them well. Spare them to please the Great Spirit.”
My mind grasps for hope that his eloquent speech will save all of us.
Chief Black Fish gestures for the voting to begin.
Fort Boonesborough 1777, 4 Months Earlier
The buffalo break into a thunderous stampede. In a dirt-kicking gallop, we’re with them. My heart is pounding as hard as the buffalos’ hooves hammer the prairie dirt.
Two buffalos veer from the herd. Jesse and I spring into action. Spurring our horses to cut off the two stragglers. We isolate them from the herd. Hot energy bolts through me. The rush is amazing.
Clutching the reins, I grab my rifle with my other hand. My horse snaps his head toward the buffalo by me. Its eyes lock straight on the beast. It dashes. My horse sidles up to him. The buffalo darts in the other direction. With swift, fluid steps, my horse is beside him.
It’s me and the beast. I gaze into its large, shiny eyes. Black as an abyss. I drop the reins, level my rifle, and shoot. The bang is ear-piercing. The smell and smoke of gunpowder hangs in the air.
The buffalo drops with a ground shaking thud. The noble prey’s death steals my breath. I slide from my horse, drop beside my prize, and let a loud, vibrating whoop fly. At 21, my hands still trembling from the chase, I’m miles away from the family farm, that hasn’t felt like home since Ma died in childbirth four years ago. So, I left my pa, eight sisters, and my brother John—too young to join. And enlisted in the Bedford County Virginia militia to protect Captain Daniel Boone’s Fort of Boonesborough. To kill the British and their allies. In Kentucky, that means the rampaging Shawnees.
Today, when Captain Gwatkins called out Joseph Jackson, and my cousin’s name Jesse Hodge, and said, “You two are on food detail. Bring in some fresh meat for the fort.”
I am no longer a boy but a man forging for his own in the wilderness. Facing dangers head on. Hunting buffalo.
Frontiersmen and Indian fighters, Simon Kenton and Israel Boone, said, “We’ll go with you two. Show you how to do it.”
I hear the crack of a rifle. Breathe in the rotten-egg, sulphur stench of gunpowder. Look up and see a puff of white smoke. Jesse’s shot falls short.
By the time he reloads, that buffalo will be long gone. So, he rides over to help me slaughter the meat and carry it to the fort. Drawing out my knife, I start dressing my kill.
I give no thought to the dense, dark forest bordering the prairie. Abruptly my horse whinnies. Then gallops off. Spooked. Why? A smell or a sound?
Jesse spurs his horse, kicking up grass and dirt to catch mine. A rumbling, guttural growl triggers icy shivers in my veins. I jerk my head toward the woods.
In a flash, a colossal black bear burst from the cover of trees. Charging at lightning speed. Muscles rippling beneath its fur. Eyes of wildness and rage, say, My territory. That meat and you are mine.
The ground quakes under its weight. It’s almost on me.
No time to load powder and lead. He’s here.
Its massive jaws gape open. I gape at razor-sharp teeth.
Waving deadly splayed claws. Rising on his hind legs. Looming over me. Deafening me with a reverberating growl. Clutching my knife. My only lifeline. I plunge a lethal thrust through thick fur and tough muscles. Stabbing a vital spot. Crazy.
Those few moments are an eternity. I hear the sharp crack of a rifle. Time speeds up. In the next second, another bang pierces the air. Instantly, in mid-attack, the massive bear topples over. Crashing on top of the buffalo. A cloud of dust erupts.
Kenton and Israel gallop to me. I gather they’d cleared the herd from the other side, and with rifles still loaded, fired. One of their bullets, striked and slayed the massive brute.
My heart thuds. I can’t talk. Can’t tear my gaze off the large heap of beast. Still. Harmless. Dead.
“Wow.” Jesse rides up leading my horse by the reins. “I saw that. Lawd have mercy! Israel shot just in time.”
I take a breath to get my voice back and tell Israel, “You saved my life.”
“Glad to do it. Now we have bear and buffalo to eat and two nice pelts after skinning. Not bad for your first Buffalo hunt.”
Kenton juts his firm chin out. “It’s good we’re all here now, because it’s goanna take all four of us to get this meat gutted and back to the Fort.”
Jesse, Kenton, and Israel ease off their saddles. Kenton unties rolled up pieces of burlap and rawhide strips he’d attached behind his saddle. He leaves all four horses to graze, peacefully munching away on the lush prairie grass.
I continue dressing my kill while Jesse and Israel draw knives from their bullet pouches and unsheathe them. Israel prepares the bear meat and pelt, while Jesse helps me with the buffalo. Kenton walks over, lays the stack of burlap down, gets his knife, and helps Israel dress the bear meat.
“That’s what must have spooked the horse. He smelled bear or heard its growl way off, before you could,” Jesse said.
“But why charge at me from the woods like that?” Jess and I quarter the buffalo meat.
“Mad hunger. It’s that time of year.” Israel cuts the bear meat in segments.
“He’s storing up fat for hibernation. Eating every juicy piece of meat he can,” Kenton says as he helps Israel cut the bear meat.
“He saw that fresh kill and came to get it,” Israel says.
Pulling my canteen out of my bullet bag, I pour a little water on the buffalo hide to wash it. “I thought they tried to stay clear of humans.”
“Nah, bears aren’t too respectful of giving humans their privacy if they’ve got something a bear wants.” Israel turns his blade on the side to scrape the bear hide.
“Anything he wants is his. That’s all a hungry bear knows.” Kenton wraps half bear the meat in it, rolls it up and ties it with a long strip of rawhide.
Israel wraps the other half in one of the burlap cloths and ties it.
“I reckon he’s not scared of us. Why would he be? He’s bigger, faster, and stronger. And has no idea what a rifle is.” Jesse finishes scraping the buffalo hide clean.
I help Jesse wrap some of the buffalo meat in its hide and tie it. “Nah, but I was plenty scared of him.”
We’re rolling with laugher at that. Keaton ties two portions of buffalo meat behind his saddle, while Israel secures the two portions of bear meat on his horse. I tie one portion of buffalo meat to my horse and Jesse ties the other to his.
We ride into the fort. I’m thrilled by the adventure. Other than almost being eaten alive by a bear, it was the best day I’ve had as a soldier so far.
We dismount at the Boone’s cabin. Each of us carry in one portion of the wrapped meat at a time since they weight about 60 pounds. We lay them down with a thud on a long wooden table Rebecca uses for cooking preparation, and Jesse and I head back to our other duties.
* * *
Captain Boone, Captain Gwatkins, and Lieutenant Milan’s lips and cheeks spread into cheerful grins as they face all the militiamen, frontiersmen, settlers, wives, and children in the fort.
Boone begins. “A traveler brought good news about the war effort.” Silence falls as Captain Boone continues. “On October 17, 1777, the United States of America crushed Britain at the Battle of Saratoga. Held control of the Hudson. Captured 6,000 red coats. And impressed France so much they’ve allied with us against Britain. We’ve turned the war in our favor.”
We toss our hats in the air. Kids leap up and down. Captain Boone’s voice booms over our whoops and hollers. “We’re lighting a bonfire, cooking up a frontier feast, and dancing till the cows come home.”
I and the other militiamen are all smiles, piling logs for the bonfire in the center of the stockade. Soon the blaze is roaring, shooting sparks toward the stars in the indigo sky. We open every cabin door, allowing the tallow candlelight to blend with the bonfire’s glow, illuminating the stockade.
We kick off the celebration with a feast of juicy, spit roasted elk and venison, as well as generous portions of paw-paw cobbler, and pumpkin pudding (baked in and served from the pumpkin).
A scout for Boone, Thomas Brooks, has a fiddle. He flutters his fingers across the fingerboard and slides the bow across his fiddle so fast, the friction almost lights it afire.
This lickity-split fiddling music makes me want to dance up the side of the fort wall and back down again. I clap and stomp to Soldier’s Joy as I sing along.
“The doctor came and looked at me and this is what he said,
Your dancing days are done son, it’s a good thing you ain’t dead.
Then he went to work with a carving knife,. Sweat fell from his brow.
About killed me, trying to save my life when he cut the lead ball out.
Give me some of that soldier’s joy.
Ain’t you got no more?
Hand me down my walking cane.
I ain’t cut out for war.
Give me some of that soldier’s joy.
You know what I like.
Bear down on the fiddle boys.
Just like Saturday night.”
Tom’s dark eyes, the color of blackthorn wood, gleam with merriment as he drives and jumps his bow across the strings, playing everything from Old Jawbone to Leather Britches to Cabin Creek.
Jemima and Flanders kick up their heels, dancing a lively jig. Susannah and William shuffle across the floor. And Daniel gives Rebecca a twirl. Even Captain Boone’s granddaughter, 16-month-old Elizabeth, jumps and claps, moving to the steps of her own little dance.
I sway, bob, step, and glide with every woman there. But the best dance is with the redheaded girl I noticed my first night here. Now, I know her name. Sally.
I hear loud laughter. Jerking my head in that direction, I see Captain Gwatkins and Lieutenant Milam near the gate wall, their backs to the rest of us. I walk toward them as quietly as I can, eavesdropping. Milam cocks his head to the side. “Burgoyne has no choice, he marches forward, to Bemis Heights, where the second battle of Saratoga occurs. And Morgan and his Virginia riflemen strike first, falling upon the British right. Morgan continues supporting our infantry, and they do the same for him.”
Gwatkins says, “General Benedict Arnold appears on the field.” Between chuckles, he adds, “No official place in the chain of command, but there he is, taking over Learned’s troops.”
“Yeah.” Milam bobs his head. “Arnold orders three of Learned’s regiments to charge the enemy line.”
“General Fraser rides over to the British light infantry to steady them, since Morgan’s men are picking them off. “
Milam shrugs. “So, Benedict Arnold orders Morgan to kill Fraser.”
“That’s the way to do it,” Gwatkins’ laugher is light and carefree.
Though equally amused, Milam holds his chest, suppressing his chuckles so he can say, “One of Morgan’s riflemen climbs a tree for a clear view, takes one shot, and Fraser topples from his horse.”
“His men, shocked and confounded, ask, “Oh, no, what happened to General Fraser?” Gwatkins’ laughter returns.
“He’s dead. How did that happen?” Milan mocks.
They both throw their heads back, chuckling.
Gwatkins gets control of his laugher and says, “No British army ever lost a battle before. Before Burgoyne.”
“Burgoyne is gone.”
Both men rock with laughter.
Once it subsides, Gwatkins says, “Seriously, Morgan’s Virginia Rifleman are exactly what these boys are. But no one knows what battle is like until you’re in it.”
Milam’s tone rises as he says. “Chaos.”
“And at the end of the battle, the Hero of Saratoga, Benedict Arnold is shot. He and his horse.” Gwatkins releases a heavy sigh.
“When the horse falls it shatters Arnold’s leg.” Milam’s tone takes on the strained, higher pitch of sympathy.
“Leaving Arnold seriously wounded.”
“Might walk with a cane, in pain…for the rest of his life.”
“I doubt he’ll get a medal,” Gwatkins says.
“I’m sure he won’t,” Milan replies.
“Don’t know what it’s like.”
“Until you’re in it.”
“And Morgan and his men were up against it at Freeman’s Farm at Saratoga.” Gwatkins snorts. “Dearborn’s infantry was supposed to be with him. Rifle units offer longer range and more accuracy. Infantry with muskets can load faster and have bayonets. They work together. But it didn’t happen that way.”
Milam crosses his arms. “Unexpectedly, Morgan and his riflemen are the first to face the center column of the largest body of British troops, alone. Well ahead of Dearborn’s protection.”
“It was hot and heavy. The Brits forced Morgan and his men back. But reinforcements arrive, giving Morgan’s boys an actual chance. We don’t hold the field at battle’s end, but we took it from Burgoyne several times throughout the day and killed 600 of his men. In that time span, more reinforcements arrive. We are ready for the next battle of Saratoga in which we triumph,” Gwatkins says.
“These boys will be tried and tested like Morgan’s were at the onset of the fight at Freeman’s Farm,” Milam says.
“Truly. We like to say Morgan’s Virginia riflemen shoot further and a more accurately than any troops the British have. However, we cannot discount General Fraser’s sharp shooters and Indian allies,” Gwatkins points out.
“But we can discount Fraser. He’s dead.”
Milam and Gwatkins share a tentative laugh.
“How did that happen?” Gwatkins rubs his chin as he mocks the British.
“I don’t know, but blood’s gushing from his stomach.” Milam throws his arms up in the air.
“Might be from a lead ball in his gut,” Gwatkins jeers.
“Must have fallen from the sky.” Milam points his finger to the heavens.
“Or a tree?” Gwatkins chuckles, then taking control of his funny bone, grows more reflective. “But what Morgan and his men have that keeps saving us is pure tenaciousness and resolve. That’s what it takes. These boys have a hard road ahead of them. Like Morgan’s men and Arnold and all of us. It’s good they got a chance to enjoy tonight.”
I recall my ultimate duty as a militiaman. Chewing the inside of my lip, I wonder, do I have that it takes?
I return to the celebration but stand quietly to the side as the others dance the buckles off their shoes.
I can’t turn off my spinning thoughts. Facing an enemy without the aid of infantry. Men in trees shooting at me. Can I rise to my best amidst chaos?
* * *
I haven’t run into the Shawnee or even seen one yet. In mid-December, I’m transferred to Boone’s command.
Our slim rations of cornbread, turnips, and venison spoiled. And we can’t grow crops in the dead of winter. We have some jerky. But fresh meat from trapping and hunting must be cured with salt or it’ll go bad.
In early January, Captain Boone gathers the men he’s chosen from the three forts in Kentucky.
“Our stores are low. We can kill game, but we can’t preserve it. Shawnee attacks throughout last year made it impossible for pack trains from North Holston to supply us with salt like they usually do.” Captain Boone flashes a wide grin. “So, we’ll make our own salt. Luckily, the salt spring at Licking River is just fifty miles away. I’ll take thirty men with me to make salt for a month. Then Gwatkins, with his thirty men, will relieve you.”
The snow is deep and still falling. Weighing down branches, blanketing cabin rooftops, fields, and ground. But working and sleeping in the cold is better than starving. That’ll will be our fate if we don’t get salt. Soldiers sleep, work, and fight in the frigid conditions. So, I have nothing to complain about.
I hear Daniel Boone call, “Joseph Jackson.”
He’s announcing the first shift of salt makers. I clutch my arms to my chest, bracing against a nagging sense of dread. An icy shiver that has nothing to do with winter runs down my spine.
Shoving aside these misgivings in my gut, I fix my mind on sensible thoughts. Captain Boone assigned me this duty. It’s only for five weeks. And Shawnees don’t raid in mid-winter. Everybody says that. So, it must be true.
CHAPTER 2 — DANGER AT BLUE LICKS
I slip my haversack over the frock coat I’m bundled in, as dawn’s light cast a warm glow on the snowy Kentucky frontier. I, Daniel Boone, and 30 other men trudge fifty miles across frosty snow. It crunches under my boots and numbs my toes. I feel like I’ve sunk into a lake covered with broken ice, floating bits, biting into my skin.
A frigid wind shakes the gray barren branches of the gaunt trees looming over sluggish Licking River. Dragging my feet across the snow is as much a struggle as pulling a boulder. I, and the other men collapse on the bank, in whatever sitting position is easiest.
But Captain Boone won’t rest. Without pause, he scouts the area. while we catch our breath and ease our aching muscles.
Time flies and Boone is back on the bank of Licking River, watching us languish in the snow.
“Come with me, boys.”
Forcing my leaden hips and legs to stand, I follow him, along with the rest of the men.
“This is the spot. This spring puts out as strong a flow of brine as you’ll get anywhere near the fort.”
I’m glad the water isn't frozen.
We unload the pack horses, pitch our tents on the south bank, and gather firewood.
Settled, we huddle around the amber campfire as it pops and hisses, rubbing our numb hands.
“It’s cold as a witch’s teat,” James Callaway quips.
Rippling laugher erupts from us. But at seeing Captain Boone approach, it fizzles out just as fast.
“Good job setting up camp, boys.” Smiling, he looks each of us over in his usual easy, relaxed manner. “Half of you, get your axes and start chopping trees. It takes a lot of wood to keep a blaze under the kettles non-stop. The other half can tote water from the salt spring. When that’s done some of you will need to volunteer as fire watchers to feed the flames, so they burn hot at all times.”
He sets his hand on his hip and shakes his head. “There’s good reason a bushel of salt is worth a cow and a calf. It takes 840 gallons of Blue Licks spring water to boil out a bushel of salt.”
“Captain Boone, sir, I’m glad we’re making salt for the fort, but ain’t this the sort of spot Shawnees like to lie in wait at for surprise attacks?” Cage Callaway’s eyebrows draw together.
“Good question, staying sharp there. Warriors have ambushed hunters at several salt licks. But Shawnee attacks in mid-winter are rare.” Boone leans toward Cage and James. “Flanders Callaway, your brother, and another man I choose, will scout with me for any signs of Shawnee while we hunt to supply you men with fresh meat. Trust me, you’ll need plenty for this heavy work.”
I grab one of two cross saws we have. John Holley takes the other. The rest of the woodcutters shoulder their axes, and we tread across the thick snow into the dense forest.
Cage points out the rough gray barked trees towering against the azure sky. “Hickory. It burns hot, good for what we need.”
In of need someone to work the cross saw with me, I nod at him. “Let’s do it.”
With a practiced eye, Cage turns his ax upside down and raises it high, next to the tree, gauging the lean. “It’s going to fall that way.”
I nod in agreement and slide the blade into the tree.
Cage pulls it toward him then I, toward me, building a steady rhythm.
“Not what I had in mind when I enlisted. Cage replies, “I came to fight Indians.”
“From all the trouble they gave the fort in the spring and summer, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances.”
“That’s the truth. They’re retaliating about Chief Cornstalk’s murder at Fort Randolph and Long Knives, us white men, settling beyond the Cumberland gap.” He pauses talking but keeps sawing in the same rhythm as me.
After a loud, slow inhale and exhale of breath, Cage ’continues, “They say we’ve got enough of their land. Won’t let us take any more.”
“From what I hear, no one is sure how much land there is. But yes, people risk all, travel across the vast ocean, and like my grandparents, even indenture themselves into years of servitude to get a piece of this land. Once here, nothing will stop them from their dream. Owning land. To grow crops and raise livestock so they can feed their families.
“Unalienable rights.”
I can’t glance away from the sawing to see Cage’s face, but I can tell from his tone he must be grinning like a mule eating briars. “And with all these trees for lumber, game of every kind, salt licks, clear streams, rivers, and just the beauty of Kentucky, no one can stop settlers from coming in here. Not even warriors as fierce and vicious as the Shawnee.”
“I reckon you’re right there.” Cage let out a huff. “And, you know, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and our governor, Patrick Henry, all say westward expansion is good for the country,”
“But the Native Americans haven’t grasped that. It seems they mean to fight us until they're all dead.”
“It’s going to fall.” Cage let go of the saw.
Gripping it firmly, I step back, as he does.
A loud creaking, spine tingling cracking noise cuts through the silence of the winter forest.
The tree crashes to the earth. Nothing but a stump remains of where it stood for so many years. All because we cut it down for firewood.
We strip the branches, chop it into logs, and do the same after chopping down three other trees. We bundle the firewood, secure it onto packhorses, and as we enter the camp, I hear the rumbling hiss of boiling water. The salt making has begun. I am on guard and fire watch duty from that day on.
* * *
One day, on a break from guard duty, I sit around the campfire with Arabia, Ansel, Jesse, and a few other men. “I’d imagined battling war-painted Shawnee side by side with Captain Boone. Fighting for our right to live free on the frontier. Yet here I am, trying to keep these fires alive to make salt.”
“That’s why we call salt making it the distasteful duty,” Arabia quips.
To our surprise, Captain Boone, just returned from scouting and hunting, was walking toward us in full ear shot.
He burst out laughing. “The distasteful duty. I like that, boys. That says it all.”
* * *
The day before our month is up, we have five more bushels of salt for cousin Jesse and Stephen Hancock to pack on two horses. It is snowing hard as they ride off to Boonesborough.
And we are running out of food ourselves.
In the morning, Captain Boone says, “We need meat. I’m going to take Old Betsy, check some traps, and do some hunting.”
I watch Boone, Flanders Callaway, and Thomas Brooks ride off to hunting grounds about a dozen miles away.
Everyone’s in good spirits. Our relief’s coming today. And tonight we’ll have fresh meat.
“No camping on snow. No more of this godforsaken salt lick,” I say.
“The snow is a leg deep after that storm last night.. I t was a doozy,” Ansel exclaims. “I thought the tent was going to come down on us.”
“I’m surprised it didn’t. But who cares? The sun’s out and Gwtakins and his crew are taking our place. We’re going back to walls, beds, and the blazing hearths of Boonesborough.“ The warmth and energy of pure joy is pulsating in me.
“That’s all I care about on this glorious Sunday.” Jack Dunn flashes a toothy grin.
Samuel Brooks, his brother William, Daniel Asbury, and Bartlett Searcy, walk toward us swinging their buckets as if they are empty.
“Why are you back so fast?” Arabia asks.
“The river surged its banks, flooding the salt spring.” Samuel collapses into a sitting position beside us. “Ain't no way to draw brine to boil out salt. Not anytime soon.”
“So, no salt making today.” Jesse Copher’s eyes shine with satisfaction. “And hopefully…never again.”
“Let’s sunbathe on the snow.” As Arabia walks to his tent, he adds in a cheery tone, “Come on, everyone, get your blankets.”
“Sunday is the day of rest.” Ansel dashes to his tent, fetching his blanket.
Before I know it, we’re all sprawled on blankets spread out on six-inches of snow. Basking in the sun’s warm rays.
William Brooks shuts his eyes in total relaxation.
My eyes are open and alert, watching for signs of trouble. It's unlikely the Shawnee will attack, but wild beast could wander into camp. If for no other reason, being on watch means I'll be the first to spot Captain Gwatkins and our replacements. “The sunshine feels good.” Crossing my arms against the chill air, I add, “But it’s still too cold out.” At that moment, I spot a distant figure. “Hey, I think that's him. Gwatkins.” I raise my hand out, flat above my eyes to shield them.
“Right on time,” Arabia stands up. “We’ll be singing Sunday hymns with the settlers today, after all.”
“That’s not Gwatkins.” I rise to my feet. “Captain, is that you?” He keeps his distance and doesn’t answer. “Something’s wrong.” I notice The Captain’s holding his hands behind him as if they’re tied.
A warrior, lurking behind Boone, emerges. Blood-red, painted plumes of hair shoot up from his crown like flames. His face, streaked with black lines like the marks of bear claws on tree bark. With cold fierceness he wields a tomahawk, raised high, ready to scalp Boone at a moment’s notice. The sight sucks the breath from me. Terror chokes me. My words escape in a faint, haunting whisper. “Captured by the Shawnee.” Mustering courage from deep within, I retake my full voice. Like a rallying cry on a battlefield, I blare out, “Shawnees!”
We scramble for our rifles. The Callaway brothers, the first to load their long rifles, aim at the warriors.
Boone comes near enough to call out, "Don't fire. If you do, it will be a massacre."
I trust Boone. He’s the best frontiersmen and Indian fighter here, which makes me wary. If they captured Daniel Boone, then what can we do against them? So, I don’t fire. Neither does anyone else. But I don’t lower my rifle. Neither does anyone else.
“Men, this isn't a raiding party. It's a war party. We’re facing over 100 Shawnee, two chiefs, and British officers. They came to take Boonesborough. But Chief Black Fish promises, if you surrender, they will not harm you or attack the fort. If not, all of us and everyone at Boonesborough are dead.”
We’re trapped us like badgers in a pit. I feel numb.But Boone’s right. We can’t let them attack the fort. Held mostly by defenseless women and children, Boonesborough doesn’t have a chance. We don’t either. We can’t shoot our way free of 100 and more Shawnees. I don’t know trust the word of Chief Black Fish, but I’ve got to trust Boone. What choice is there?
We shift our gazes from one to the other, trying to decide what to do. Time warps, stretches out.
Suddenly, we act. Stepping forward, we fall into a circle, sit as ordered, and lay our rifles down.
But two men stand outside the ring, clutching loaded long rifles. Ansel Goodman and James Callaway are ready to fight their way out., preferring death to surrender.
My breath stops as I wait for Ansel and James’ next move. If Edith, Ansel’s wife, was here, she’d tell him to surrender. That woman loves Ansel, and is expecting him to come home to her, not make her a widow.
James is just 16 or 17, hotheaded, and prone to foolish ideas.
Ansel's knees bend as if buckling.
They turn their heads toward each other in silent communication.
Ansel steps forward, then stops. Hesitating, he tightness his grip on the rifle's stock. Then, he releases a pent-up breath and lowers his weapon. I fix my gaze on James. His movements mirror Ansel’s restraint.
Shuffling their feet, they step into our circle, sit with legs crossed, and lay down their weapons.
I and the other salt-gathers inhale at the same time with a swooshing sound.
In a flash, warriors dash out of the forest and other hiding places. Over 100 Shawnees, each clutching either a rifle, tomahawk, or war club encircle us. At our backs and facing us. We don’t have a chance.
A Shawnee, so close, his breath blows hot on my cheeks. His sharp glare, charged with hate. I stare into his face, streaked with black horizontal lines. His ears, split, stretched, and pierced, with earrings of silver disks. Head plucked, except for a tuff of hair, a feather or two, stuck into it from an eagle, hawk, or owl. Birds of prey with powerful hooked beaks that tear flesh.
A heart jolting thought throbs in my head—they will scalp all of us.
CHAPTER 3—CAPTURED
Captured. Tied at waist and hands to 23 other salt makers. A warrior in the lead and at the rear march us through a snow flurry into Chief Black Fish’s nomadic camp at Hinkson Creek. Frozen, unable to flow, the creek mirrors my desolation. Trapped. Muted. A creek that can’t babble. Water that can’t flow. Caught beneath a solid, frosted pane of translucent ice. Seeing what’s happening. Unable to control it.
As I jerk and squirm, rawhide bonds bite deeper into my flesh. Circumstances pull taunt the invisible ties binding my fate to these savages, who torture then scalp white men just for stepping through the Cumberland gap. They decide if I live or die.
Anxiety squeezes my ribs and stomach. My heart hammers so fast my chest hurts. I steal a glance at Boone—stoic, calm, inspiring. I shut my eyes and concentrate on breathing. Quick and shallow give way to long and soothing.
Looking like eighty huge turtle shells dumped on the snow, domed shaped wegiwas crowd our temporary prison. Unlike our canvas tents, these small wegiwas only hold two people each. But the bark, covering the sapling frames, sheds water, as well as waterproof canvas does. And they build these temporary wegiwas almost as quick as we set up tents.
Black Fish approaches. His ferocious reputation belies his understated appearance, slighter than average height, and a slender physique. Yet he looms over most men because of the respect he’s earned from his people and the power he holds as War Chief. Hordes of diehard, blood rushing, rifle brandishing, war painted, Shawnees follow this man’s charge into scorching volleys of blazing musket balls.
Dread grips my gut as warriors clear a gauntlet lane. My veins are icicles.
“Pompey,” Captain Boone calls. “Tell the chief what I say.”
The interpreter steps up to Black Fish and translates Boone’s words. “Now, Black Fish, you promised you would not harm my men.”
Then Pompey translates Black Fish’s words. "I assured you that your men would not be harmed. I said nothing about you.”
We mummer amongst ourselves.
“Boone has to run to the gantlet.”
“Will beat him something awful.”
“If he falls beneath the blows…they’ll beat him to death.”
A warrior unties Boone’s hands. Two others guide us to the end of the gauntlet lane where we sit.
My blood curdles from ear-blasting, keening, shrieks and deep, reverberating chants of Shawnees on both sides, facing each other. Brandishing sticks and clubs, each one competing for the fiercest war cry.
Four warriors light torches, piercing the darkness. One stands by us, casting light down the lane so we can see. Others position themselves behind the Shawnees along the gauntlet, illuminating the daunting trial soon to take place.
The Shawnees make Captain Boone strip to britches and moccasins. No coat or shirt in the icy wind. Crouching, hands on knees, launching forward, running bent over, his back waist high with the warriors, his head safe from blows.
Leaning in, I latch my gaze on Boone. Running the gauntlet edge, he evades the full force of the blows. His zig zag swagger places him further down the lane, skipping some warriors. Halfway through, his pace slows. Bombarded by the swings of clubs and sticks. He staggers. Then, defiantly propels forward.
“He’s going to make it,” I say with joy and relief.
In a flash, a warrior, with a face of black diagonal stripes, leaps out. Towering over Boone. War club raised, poised to strike a killing blow. As ferocious as a cornered beast, Boone latches onto the warrior’s shoulders. And pivots. Flipping him, helplessly pinned to Boone’s back. Boone spins. Catapulting the Shawnee to the cold ground with a resounding thud. And a loud grunt from the defeated Shawnee.
My chest swells with pride. All 23 of us tied together, holler, cheer, and let out loud whistles. To my surprise, the Shawnees are laughing at the warrior.
Captain Boone speeds to the end of the lane. Our cheers amplify into a climax of aspiration.
Boone holds his head high and shifts his shoulders back. His eyes gleam as warriors shake his hand, congratulating him on a good run of the gauntlet.
Chief Black Fish addresses Boone with full flourish, and Pompey translates. “You are worthy of my promise to not harm your men. But the final verdict is not mine. All my people have a voice on matters like this. Now, we hold council and vote on what will become of your men.”
A moment ago, Boone beamed from his gauntlet victory. Now his eyes dim. He tilts his chin down. “Who votes?”
Pompey translates. “Everyone but you and your men.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.” I shake my head.
Boone asks the chief, “Will I at least get to speak on behalf of my men?”
Pompey translates Black Fish’s response. “Yes. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”
“I could have told the captain you can’t trust Black Fish or any Shawnee,” James Callaway blurts out.
“You think Black Fish gives a darn about what Boone has to say?” Benjamin Kelly’s face reddens, and his lips flatten in anger.
Our conversation comes to a halt. We are taken to the Central Camp Fire and sat down there. We listen to Pompey’s translations of savages wanting us condemned to death.
Can’t retaliate. No way to escape. Our lives. My life. Suspended on a dangling rope held by 121 enemies. Foes, voting for my death or my life.
The Girty brothers vote for mercy. To let us live. Some of the tension in my shoulders and neck eases. It boosts a faint hope that I might live. I cling to that outcome. But…the odds aren’t good.
The 50th man votes. Panic engulfs me. I grind my teeth.
At the 100th vote, dread.seeps deeply into my bones. I bite my lip.
The 120th vote is taken. I unravel inside. My leg muscles tense so tight they cramp in a spasm. I let out a moan, unable to rub my tied hands. The next vote will push me off the edge to my death. Or pull me back from cliff I’m teetering on.
The 121st vote is cast.
This is it. The balancing point. I can’t stop quivering. I huddle with the other salt makers.
In a faint, breathy tone, I tell myself and them, “Be brave. We are American militiamen. If we die, we die with honor.” I repeat those words over and over, trying to convince myself it’s true as I wait for the tally.
Pompey translates, “59 for death, 61 for life.”
All of us let out long sigh of relief. A sound louder than a gush of wind. It sweeps away our greatest fear. But also hints at our isolation from our loved one, our world. Held by the Shawnee. This was just one test of our resilience and strength. Chief Black Fish announces there will be another vote.
This one will decide whether to split the outside portion of each or our ears—top to bottom, then stretch the lobes nearly to our shoulders.
I bite my lip. I knew these savages had many harsh challenges planned for us. I didn’t know another would come so soon.
We aren’t the only men experiencing overpowering, vibrating tension. I don’t need to understand French to know Beaubien and and Lorimer, glaring at each other jutting their chins, exchanging sharp gestures, and shouting words that have to be razor-edged are arguing about the vote. I don’t know which one is for stretching. Or which one is against. But their gestures prove their bickering has escalated to insults. My mind whips to the question—will they duel? Right here. In front of the Shawnees and us.
Lorimer raises his arms, palms out as if to push.
Beaubien strokes the back of his fingers across his beard.
The inflamed debate erupts into a dangerous blaze of raw anger.
Lorimer swipes his hand over his head.
Beaubien, his arm forward, fingers clenched, palm up, snaps it back, slapping his bicep.
They spring to their feet, hands on sword hilts. Ready to cross blades.
Every muscle in my body tenses. Expecting a duel. Hoping it either stops the vote or that the victor is the one choosing no stretching.
Both chiefs, knowing them well from trading, step between them, dousing the fiery exchange before the Frenchmen draw blood.
With tempers cooled, Black Fish orders the vote. I know that without even listening to Pompey.
Trembling from both fear and bitter cold, we huddle together. Baffling Frenchmen working for Britain, who are now enemies of France. And the puzzling Girty brothers, once children of white settlers, now grown enemies of white settlers. And an overwhelming number of war-painted Shawnees. All vote on deforming us, permanently.
This time, Boone can’t to defend us or himself.
Time crawls from the first vote to the next. On and on. I blow out short breaths and twist my neck. The wait is torturous. At last, the 120th vote is cast.
Pompey translates the verdict Black Fish announced.
I close my eyes as relief sinks in, I hear gasps, shaky laugher, and cries of, “Thank god,” from the other salt makers.
Our ears will not be mutilated.
Five minutes later, tied together like a string of corn hung up to dry. We’re taken from their camp to the Blue Licks.
Warriors gather all our haversacks, then dump the kettles over, wasting precious salt residue. They leave the massive cast iron kettles that two men to have to carry. But take the others.
* * *
We reach Limestone Creek. Hands still bound. Our captives untie us from each other. Feed us a few rations of our own jerky. From the haversacks. Nothing else.
Warriors tugging tightly on furs and blankets wrapped around their broad shoulders stoke ruby and amber flames stretching toward the black velvet cosmos studded with sparkling stars.
Beneath the beauty above, frigid snow bites my flesh. Forced to lie on it. Raw. Unyielding. Cold. No blankets to shield me. My body presses against the harsh numbing chill. Frost sinks to my bones. Guarded by Shawnees with rifles. Sleep evades me. My exhaustion is unyielding.
Ansel’s hands are bound. The rope around his waist secured at each end to a warrior. They tie rawhide strips around his arms to his neck. Truss him to a tree. To sleep in misery.
I need to help him.
I can’t.
My throat tightens. A huge lump has formed there.
I struggle with why they abuse Ansel worse than the rest of us? Are those warriors seething because they can’t kill us? But can torment one of us.
Bristling with bitterness and anger. Helpless. Unable to protect my friend. I turn my mind to a way I might change things. Focusing on my goal—surviving and returning to my family. Shutting my eyes. My breath slows. So does my racing pulse. Vivid images flow through my mind. My family. Fair, ruddy Scottish complexions. Pa’s light brown, receding hair pulled into a queue. Tied with black ribbon. Topped by his wide-brimmed leather hat. His friendly, subtle smile, like mine. Piercing sea-blue eyes. My 15-year-old brother, John, with chestnut brown shoulder length hair. Doesn’t tie it. Says it’s more natural. Girls like it.
I told him it was rebellious that way. He said, “That’s why the girls like it.”
He’s in my mind. His straight nose with a rounded tip. Bluish-green eyes lifting upwards at the outer corners. Defined jawline. Full lips easily curling into a relaxed smile. But he’s not here.
I shiver from loneliness…anger…sadness. As much as I do from frigid snow and icy air.
With my eyes, I see my sisters. Jemima. Upward-tilting blue eyes, freckles, and sandy waves. Sarah Elizabeth’s sea-green gaze and chestnut mane. Ann's striking, large, sparkling eyes. Lucy's heart-shaped face. Elizabeth’s oval face framed by sandy locks. Eleanor’s dimpled cheeks. Young Jane's wide-eyed innocence. A warm sensation flutters in my stomach. I envision little Mary Elizabeth’s coppery pigtails, freckles, and joyful smile showing her baby teeth.
The ache to be with them intensifies. I last saw them standing on the main street in Bedford County. People line both sides of the street. To see us off. The militia. Marching to war. To Boonesborough.
My sister, Ann, clutches her baby, little Stephen, two-years-old, looking all around. Ann’s eldest child, my niece, Francis, is standing with the twins, Eleanor and Mary. On Ann’s other side, my nephew, Ambrose, stands with his little brother, Moses. Like Ann, they’re waving at me one minute and at John Milam, Ann’s husband, my lieutenant, the next.
Solomon, my nephew, perches on his father, Ben Milam’s, shoulders. Ben is John Milam’s brother. They wave at me and John. Ben’s wife, my sister Elizabeth, is holding my niece Deborah’s hand. They wave at everybody.
Jemima and William, waving both their arms at me, stand beside my father and stepmother, clutching the baby. In front of her are my other little sisters.
Jane yells, “Farewell Joseph.”
Eleanor calls out, “Stay safe.”
John, shouting, “Get those Shawnees,” wants to volunteer but is too young.
My eyes prickle with silent tears. I may never be with them again.
The warriors have us rise to our feet, ready to move onward as a ribbon of yellow gold streams across the purplish-blue pastel sky. Casting a warm glow on the serene surface of the creek and its snow-covered bank.
The astounding beauty of sunrise breaking. The reminder it occurs every day renews my determination to survive. To embrace my loved ones again. My resolve is bolstered. Tied at the waist to other militiamen, Jack Dunn behind me, William Brooks and Boone in front of him, we are marched toward Chillicothe.
* * *
William Brooks and I are pack animals to the Shawnee. Weighed down with heavy kettles and other goods. Forced to carry a heavy as hell, salt making kettle. My muscles strain under its weight. As I hold it, my hands, bitten by winter’s frost, feel jabbed by a thousand sewing needles. I’m not complaining to the Shawnee. That’s a death sentence.
I recall a gruesome tale. A raiding party taking captive children to their village, killed a little boy and girl. Punishment for crying and walking too slow. Their small bodies left on the ground. Coyote food.
William throws his salt kettle to the ground and spits on it.
Shocked. I tense up with fear. What will the savages do to him?
Captain Boone whispers, “If you don’t carry your load, they’ll kill you faster than an arrow shot from a bow.”
William’s shoulders slump. He holds his head in his hands. Then straightens and picks up his kettle.
Seems William plans to survive. But raw-boned, close to a skeleton, the load may be too much for him to bear.
Boone realizes that. Because he moves to William’s side to help. The two of them carry the burden together.
The Shawnees don’t give us food other than what they took from our haversacks. Captain Boone shares his ration of jerky with the weakest men. William Brooks receives a generous portion of Boone's meager fare. My stomach growls. I tread on. My fingers and feet numb from the frigid cold.
We began at dawn. Never stop until dark. Nine days to go.
* * *
The amber sun peaks over the horizon. We’re on our feet, marching again. I look around for Ansel. I spot him. But can’t wave to him, clutching this massive salt kettle.
I was relieved last night to see Ansel sleeping on snow like the rest of us. But the warriors who tormented him the day before, head towards him. They tie themselves to either end of him and walk away with Ansel.
I need to learn Shawnee fast, so I’ll know what these warriors are up to. I call to Pompey, hating that I have to depend on the enemy.
I instinctively turn at an angle rather than face him directly. “Why are they taking Ansel?”
“They go to get a cache of game meat they left. They’ll meet up with us at Little Chillicothe. Ansel will be with them. Don’t worry.” Pompey walks away.
My stomach knots. No matter what Pompey says. Something is wrong. He is a black man. Yet his soul is Shawnee. But if they were going to torture Ansel or kill him, I think Pompey would enjoy telling me.
My muscles strained, and body stooped from carrying this cast-iron kettle. Weaponless and up against over 200 warriors. I can’t help Ansel. I take a deep breath and hope with all my heart, I will see my friend, unharmed, at Chillicothe.
We sleep on the snow, our stomachs cramping with hunger pains. Wake at dawn and trudge onward.
A warrior, carrying a salt kettle, shoves the cast-iron pot into his James Callaway’s arms. Says something in Shawnee. Anyone can tell it means,“You carry this now.”
“No.” James snaps.
The warrior bristles, shouts, and pushes the kettle at James again.
He shoves it back and crosses his arms.
The red and black war painted Shawnee bares his teeth. Draws his tomahawk. And raises it above James’s head.
My breath catches in my throat. Will James die over this?
He pats the top of his hair. “Right there. Slash me. Scalp me. I’d rather die than live with Shawnees.”
Squinting his brown eyes, the warrior glares at James. Dead on.
James thrust his chin out. “I won’t carry your kettle!”
The warrior curls his tight lips into a sneer, turns away, and forces someone else to carry the kettle.
I turn to Boone and Thomas Brooks. “I have an eerie feeling that was some type of test James lost.”
“The only reason he didn’t kill James is British money. They’re going to sell him at Fort Detroit. The British pay $100 for prisoners. Only half of that for scalps.” Boone focuses his gaze on me. “And they will not kill Ansel. It’s as Pompey told you. You’ll see him with those two warriors when they catch up with us.”
Later in the day, other warriors approach James. They don’t let him off as easy. His lanky arms are weighted down with an auger and a musket. James is burdened by more than that load. While he trudges alongside a stream, he suddenly stumbles as if by accident. But I don’t think so.
He falls and slyly pitches the tool and the gun into the stream. Then, he’s quickly on his feet, walking with the rest of us, his arms free of any burdens.
We must endure hunger pains day in and day out. The warriors don’t find anything to hunt. Not a single animal comes near our path. Some Shawnees kill and eat their own dogs.
We end up eating the cream-colored inner layer of Slippery Elm. I never ate bark before. But the slimy texture coats my throat and eases my hunger.
Soon we run into the after effect, loose bowels. The remedy is more bark, but from a white oak tree. We shave the bark down to the eating layer and chew the cure. Finally, our empty stomachs settle.
The Shawnees laugh and smile a lot. They truly find us funny.
The next day, we see the first animal we’ve come to on this Old Indian trail, a white-tail deer. A warrior brings it down with one shot, and they soon prepare it to eat. They cut out the entrails and boil them into a jelly for us to drink.
Pompey instructs, “You must eat this first. If not you will die when you eat the deer.”
The sickening jelly stinks. I pinch my nose as I pour it down my throat. As soon as I swallow, I throw it up. Snickers from a hundred warriors fill the air.
Captain Boone wretches. The Shawnees double over with belly laughs.
All of us salt makers gag on the disgusting jelly. The warriors roar with laughter because we can’t keep the entrail drink down.
After several tries, each of us drink about half a pint and are given a tiny portion of venison. No more than two spoonfuls each. That’s all we get. That one deer is shared with all the warriors and us.
Finally, we reach the Ohio river. The warriors yelp in delight. The land across the river, unexplored by white men, is home to the many native nations: the Cherokee, Mingo, Ottawa, Delaware, Wyandot, and Shawnee.
The Shawnees pull out a large canoe framework, stored there to cross the water to battle the long knives in Kentucky. White men. They fasten four buffalo hides with holes along the edges to the canoe frame by tying the leather strings. Boone, William, Jack and I cram in with sixteen Shawnees. A warrior in buckskin and moccasins sits almost on top of me. A Shawnee with a blanket draped around him is pressed against my back.
The warriors push long oars through gently rippling greenish-blue water that glistens like sparkly fish scales in the sunlight to the other side of the bank covered in snow, tall leafless trees, and a snow-flocked evergreens.
Once the warriors ferry everyone over, they lead us to their village, chattering excitedly, eager to go home.
I shake my head. I’m not eager. Wondering what the Shawnees will do to me. I feel like a bear’s got a grip on my chest and is squeezing me mercilessly.
Yet, during the grueling journey, I discover an inner fortitude I know I’ll need for whatever fate awaits me and my fellow salt makers at Little Chillicothe.
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