strong hands flattening Indian bread for the fire, of his daughter’s waddling walk alongside the creek bed. But then he imagined the first lance of the knife’s sharp blade, the picking of vultures through his bones after his broken body was left to dry in the sun. He could only hope the end came swiftly.
Osceola was quick with his knife. As if in one motion, he pulled at the tip of Cow Tom’s ear and sliced clean through from top to bottom, and held up the bloody flap. Red spurted, and dripped down to Cow Tom’s collar, and he cried out, as much in surprise as over the stinging burn where his right earlobe used to be. It came so fast Cow Tom barely associated the bloodied mass as his until the pound and throb brought him to focus, and he clutched at the right side of his head. Osceola watched him through narrowed eyes, and Cow Tom sensed an unexpected hesitancy. He forced himself to straighten up, as if momentarily caught off guard by nothing more than a wasp’s prick, of little consequence. He stifled both the scream of pain and the scream of terror competing to surface.
Jumper stepped forward. The counselor made no pretense of going through Micanopy, and the fat chief didn’t protest. He seemed as irrelevant as Cow Tom in the exchange.
“He did ask after Abraham this morning,” Jumper confirmed.
Cow Tom’s head wasn’t clear, some angle to figure he couldn’tquite grasp. If Jumper involved himself, there was indeed an angle. It took Cow Tom’s full concentration to remain upright.
“Where is Abraham?” Osceola asked Jumper.
“They took him to Fort Volusia with the rest of the Negroes,” Jumper said.
“We need our black warriors to fight by our side.” He turned again to Cow Tom. Osceola’s stare was fierce, but Cow Tom saw how deeply fatigue played at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, how hunger and want weighed down his features. “Are you government?”
Cow Tom allowed himself a faint flicker of hope. Sound came to him as if confused by its own echo, both muffled and clear simultaneously, but he willed himself to focus. “We go where our masters say we must, work for who we must. The general pays our masters, and we translate. That is the way of it. We are not government.”
Osceola thought about this. “Tell Abraham we wait for him to lead his people out to join us.”
Cow Tom nodded, mutely. He didn’t volunteer that he didn’t really know Abraham, and had no authority to go to Fort Volusia. He didn’t ask Osceola how unarmed blacks were supposed to break free from a fort surrounded by white men willing to siphon off any slave who couldn’t prove ownership by a Seminole. Osceola had already shifted his attention elsewhere, finished with the burdensome talk of blacks and Indians.
The braves who held them released their hold, and Cow Tom and Harry stood where they were. Harry touched Cow Tom, lightly, on the arm, and made the first slow move away from the congested center of the swarm of Seminole detainees organizing themselves to flee. Cow Tom followed, the flow of blood slowing, but still dripping down the side of his face and soaking his shirt, and they eased their way toward the stables.
Their horses were still there, put up for the night, and they claimed them, saddling quickly and walking them out toward the front gate of the fort, where they mounted and waited.
“Our chances are better in plain sight than trying to hide until Osceola clears out,” Harry said to Cow Tom.
The night wind played havoc with Cow Tom’s ear, a strange humming set to tune.
“If they leave us our horses, we might beat this yet,” Cow Tom said.
Chapter 9
COW TOM MOUTHED a silent prayer, his pony solid beneath him as they waited by the fort’s gate. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, he and Harry, but surely two hours at least. The pain on the right side of his head had settled to a constant thrumming, as if his heart sought escape through the absent ear. But they were still
Osceola was quick with his knife. As if in one motion, he pulled at the tip of Cow Tom’s ear and sliced clean through from top to bottom, and held up the bloody flap. Red spurted, and dripped down to Cow Tom’s collar, and he cried out, as much in surprise as over the stinging burn where his right earlobe used to be. It came so fast Cow Tom barely associated the bloodied mass as his until the pound and throb brought him to focus, and he clutched at the right side of his head. Osceola watched him through narrowed eyes, and Cow Tom sensed an unexpected hesitancy. He forced himself to straighten up, as if momentarily caught off guard by nothing more than a wasp’s prick, of little consequence. He stifled both the scream of pain and the scream of terror competing to surface.
Jumper stepped forward. The counselor made no pretense of going through Micanopy, and the fat chief didn’t protest. He seemed as irrelevant as Cow Tom in the exchange.
“He did ask after Abraham this morning,” Jumper confirmed.
Cow Tom’s head wasn’t clear, some angle to figure he couldn’tquite grasp. If Jumper involved himself, there was indeed an angle. It took Cow Tom’s full concentration to remain upright.
“Where is Abraham?” Osceola asked Jumper.
“They took him to Fort Volusia with the rest of the Negroes,” Jumper said.
“We need our black warriors to fight by our side.” He turned again to Cow Tom. Osceola’s stare was fierce, but Cow Tom saw how deeply fatigue played at the corners of his mouth and his eyes, how hunger and want weighed down his features. “Are you government?”
Cow Tom allowed himself a faint flicker of hope. Sound came to him as if confused by its own echo, both muffled and clear simultaneously, but he willed himself to focus. “We go where our masters say we must, work for who we must. The general pays our masters, and we translate. That is the way of it. We are not government.”
Osceola thought about this. “Tell Abraham we wait for him to lead his people out to join us.”
Cow Tom nodded, mutely. He didn’t volunteer that he didn’t really know Abraham, and had no authority to go to Fort Volusia. He didn’t ask Osceola how unarmed blacks were supposed to break free from a fort surrounded by white men willing to siphon off any slave who couldn’t prove ownership by a Seminole. Osceola had already shifted his attention elsewhere, finished with the burdensome talk of blacks and Indians.
The braves who held them released their hold, and Cow Tom and Harry stood where they were. Harry touched Cow Tom, lightly, on the arm, and made the first slow move away from the congested center of the swarm of Seminole detainees organizing themselves to flee. Cow Tom followed, the flow of blood slowing, but still dripping down the side of his face and soaking his shirt, and they eased their way toward the stables.
Their horses were still there, put up for the night, and they claimed them, saddling quickly and walking them out toward the front gate of the fort, where they mounted and waited.
“Our chances are better in plain sight than trying to hide until Osceola clears out,” Harry said to Cow Tom.
The night wind played havoc with Cow Tom’s ear, a strange humming set to tune.
“If they leave us our horses, we might beat this yet,” Cow Tom said.
Chapter 9
COW TOM MOUTHED a silent prayer, his pony solid beneath him as they waited by the fort’s gate. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, he and Harry, but surely two hours at least. The pain on the right side of his head had settled to a constant thrumming, as if his heart sought escape through the absent ear. But they were still
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