chairs as well as buckets, ladles, spoons, and baskets.
And then we found the Indian.
It was Abigail who saw him first. She had gone with Lila to the edge of the
forest to gather herbs. The morning was warm and still, but under the trees that
bordered the swamp it was dark, mysterious, and very still.
Abigail had stopped inside the edge of the timber, to listen. Somewhere out
across the swamp a woodpecker was working on a tree. Out upon the ship someone
was hoisting something with a block and tackle. She could hear the squeak and
groan of it. At the fort she could hear someone sawing … here all was very
quiet.
She saw the big alligator first. He was a huge, old fellow, all of ten or twelve
feet long and when she saw him only his eyes and snout were above water. He was
moving toward the shore, moving toward where she stood with a purposefulness
that told her he was coming for something, or somebody.
“Lila?”
“I see him.”
He was coming toward her. Maybe if she threw something into the water … ?
She stooped to pick up a stick or chunk of bark … and then she saw the hand.
For an instant she stood silent, holding her breath. It was a hand, a man’s
hand, and it lay half-clutching the damp leaves at the edge of the brush.
The hand had an arm. Then, half-concealed by the low-hanging leaves, she made
out the body. A man’s body, a man terribly wounded, bloody.
“Mam? We’d better go. He’s coming!”
“Throw something at it. Anything.”
Abigail looked quickly around. There was nothing. Catching hold of the hand, she
pulled. It was all she could do to stir the body, but she did, she drew him
slowly from the brush.
“Lila? Help me!”
Suddenly, Lila screamed. She had never heard the Welsh girl scream and she
dropped the hand and ran quickly.
The ‘gator was a big one, and he was coming out of the water, evidently drawn by
the scent of blood from the man’s body.
Abigail, who had lungs of her own, screamed also.
There was a shout, then running feet, and I was the first to reach them,
running, sword drawn, expecting to find Indians or Bardle men.
Jublain was only an instant behind me, and Watkins came from the woods further
along the shore.
“Look out for his tail,” I warned. Where had I heard that? “He’ll use it to
knock you into the water or break your legs.”
The big beast stood, half out of the water, staring at us with gleaming reddish
eyes, his jaws opening and closing. The smell of blood and death drew him, yet
our increasing numbers must have brought some thread of caution into his brain,
for he stared at us, his eyes going from one to the other until I thought he
might charge.
At my feet was a broken, rotting chunk of wood, and picking it up, I dashed it
against his head. My shot was good, and it struck hard. He snorted and made an
angry dash of no more than two feet, then retreated slowly, reluctantly, into
the water.
“What is it, Abby?” I asked.
“There’s a man … he’s not dead, I believe.”
I walked past to where her finger pointed, and Jublain, sword still in hand,
came to stand beside me.
The wounded man was an Indian, and of a type I had not seen before. He was a big
man, well made, but from the marks upon his body he had been wounded, then
tortured, and had somehow escaped.
“Get four men,” I said, “and have them bring a litter. We’ll take him to the
fort.”
“A savage? Inside our fort?” Jublain protested. “If he lives he’ll betray us.”
“Nonetheless, we’ll try to save him. He escaped them somehow; he’s come a long
distance. If a man in such condition can do so much, he deserves to live.”
17
That the Indian had lost much blood was apparent, for he had been shot with an
arrow in the back of the head, the stone arrowhead almost burying itself in the
bone behind one ear.
From the looks of his skull he had been struck with a club. His black hair was
matted with blood. There were many minor wounds and burns.
When he was bathed and cleaned and his wounds treated as well we might, I spoke
to him, in the few words of the Eno tongue that I had learned, and he grunted
something in reply, from which I gathered that he understood.
Then, touching my chest, I said, “Barnabas,” very slowly. Indicating Lila, who
stood over him, I said, “Lila.”
Then I pointed to him. “You?”
“Wa-ga-su,” he said.
He was wary as a trapped animal, but he was not cringing.
“Abigail and Lila,” I said. “Be very careful. We are strangers, and to him every
stranger is a possible enemy. He does not know why he is here, or why we try to
make him well. He may think that we make him well only to torture him again.”
“What kind of Indian is he?” Lila asked. “He seems to understand you.”
“Aye … a word or two. Perhaps we can learn from him about the country to the
west, for I do not think him an Indian of this area. I think he is from far
away, for his stature is different, and even his facial structure, and he is of
larger frame than the Eno that I have seen.”
For three days, then, I saw him but rarely, for my work was great and the time
of the season was short. Our gardens were growing, and there was hope in me that
we would make a good crop. For I was worried about winter.
Of furs we had but few, for most of the skins were needed in the preparation of
clothing for the winter. Yet we had the skins of several foxes and some small
dark animals of the weasel type that were called mink.
On the fifth day after the discovery of the savage, I went to the room where he
was kept and cared for. Jublain had come with me, and suddenly the Indian began
to speak in broken Spanish. It was a language Jublain well knew, having been a
prisoner among them at one time.
“He is a Catawba … whatever that is, from the west.” Jublain paused,
listening. “From the edge of the mountains.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, with pleasure. This was what I had wished for. “Ask him about
the mountains.”
“He asks about you. How, he wonders, do you speak some words of his tongue?”
“Tell him I was once a friend of an Eno named Potaka.”
The Catawba looked at me several times as Jublain explained how Potaka and I had
become friends, and how we had traded there.
“Tell him we are his friends and we would like to be friends of his people. Tell
him that when he is well enough we shall, if he wishes, help him to return to
his people.”
Several times I sat with him then, each time learning a few words or phrases
that I might use in speaking his language. Yet I am afraid he learned my
language more swiftly than I learned his. There came a day when I took him with
me and showed him about the small fort.
Wa-ga-su looked at everything, but he was especially impressed with the cannon.
“Big voice!” he exclaimed suddenly.
“Aye,” I showed him one of the balls, but he was not so impressed as I had
expected.
“Too big for man,” he said, “throw away too much!”
Of course, he was right. I explained to him that the gun was for use against
stockades or ships, and when he seemed to question the presence of the gun
inside the fort I told him ships might come of men who were not friendly to us.
“Wa-ga-su,” I said, “someday I shall go to live in the mountains.”
“Is good,” he said. “I show you.”
He drew lines in the dust to show me where his country lay, and the rivers that
bordered it. He showed me as well the trading paths leading cross the country
that were used by all Indians. Little by little, each of us learned more of the
language of the other, and he warned me that his enemies would be searching for
him, and even now might be lurking in the woods around us.
“What enemies come after you?”
“Tuscarora … they are many. Great fighters.”
“You are safe here, Wa-ga-su. And when you are well, we will take you to your
people or put you far upon the way.”
Little by little I got the story of his escape. They had captured him while
hunting, had tortured him for three days, making each day worse. Then they had