A/N – Joker's Lover inspired me to write another story. The Fox and the Robin is still ongoing, have just been busy with life. I have chapters ready, just fixing grammar and plot ideas.
Rosamund is an English spy. Escaping in French controlled territory with valuable information, she must make it to Fort William Henry before it's too late. Yet a certain Huron chief is determined to stop her.
6 months…
6 long, dreary months Rosamund had spent embedded in the heart of French territory. Uncover the guise of a French allied nurse, she had been following their militia movements, meticulously documenting their activity and riffling through any unguarded documents she could find. Her mission was of the upmost importance, from King George II himself. She was gain vital intelligence on the French forts and military mobilisation but most importantly, find their covert trade routes; the key to choking their major source of support. She was to return to Britain before the beginning of winter and report back her findings to the king in person. But she had been discovered. An important general, Marquis de Montcalm, was stopping at the fort to replenish supplies and brief his subordinates as to recent develops and new commands. The temptation was too great.
Under the cover of darkness with only a slither of light from her lantern, Rosamund crept through the fort's inner hallways. Quietly, she entered the Marquis's temporary office and began rifling through documents and maps still lingering on the table. It was exactly the kind of information she had been waiting for. The French were changing their covert routes in accordance with the changing seasons. They were going to utilize a mountain path near Lake George, close to Fort William Henry. If the British generals knew how close and vulnerable the supply route would be, they could prepare and send reinforcements before the start of winter. The French would be strong armed into submission and the war could finally be brought to an end.
In her musings, Rosamund had become careless. Adjusting the allowance on her lantern for better light, her presence had been discovered. A guardsman burst in and challenged her. She could have lied, but with sensitive material in her hands and her personal journal filled with notes and map drawings, she looked as guilty as sin. She had only one choice. Run.
Grasping a discarded half full bottle of cognac brandy and dashing it across the floor, Rosamund flung her lantern down and ran as the flames ignited. But the alarm was already raised, guards began to stir and arm themselves. She had limited time to escape before the fort's gates were sealed shut. She had to create a distraction and flee amongst the ensuing chaos. She freed horses from their stables, set random fires and released livestock to stampede. Many began to think they were under attack, and over the roar of the fire and growing shouting no one could hear the Marquis's rousing orders. The British spy stole away on horseback, still clasping scraps of maps and letters she had managed to hold onto. But it wasn't long before she was being pursued.
Days of hard riding had left her exhausted and weary. She was still a week's travel from Fort William Henry up in the East. Pausing amongst the cover of the woodlands, Rosamund tried to gather her bearings. Despite her exhausted state, she had to think logically. She now had to tread carefully, as she entered native territories. The Cherokee were to the far South. She was welcomed among them as Tako'skówa; the mountain lion. But she also risked running alongside Shawnee and Delaware territory, who were allied with the French. No doubt word had now spread to every French allied tribe and militia that there was a wanted spy amongst their territory. White men she could evade with ease, but natives were a different matter. The Algonquins and Ojibwe of the Eastern territories were also allied with the French. But they also shared their territories with the Seneca and Cayuga, allies of the British. But again her mind drifted back to the Cherokees. They were one of the most dominate tribes in the region, with territories cutting straight through the others. Their lands were thick woodlands, and she would have to sacrifice speed and abandon her horse. Yet it was the only choice which offered her a degree of security. Her decision was made.
Before setting out on foot, Rosamund flung a sack of stones onto the horse's saddle and let it wander off aimlessly, hoping it would confuse any French pursuers. However, she soon found out it was not the French who hunted her. Whilst staying close to the river, she was ambushed. She realised to her dismay it was Hurons pursuing her. She had hoped her tracks and movements would be covered the steady flow of water, but the river only now hindered her escape. With an inhuman shrieking following its flight, an arrow flew past her and struck the river bed, spurning her to bolt into the cover of the forests. Rosamund dashed amongst the trees and tumbled down slopes trying to regain her footing. All she saw were shadows in the tree lines, blurred movements and shapeless figures. Their whooping and hollering echoed amongst the forests. They were quickly gaining. This was but a leisurely chase to these trained hunters. They toyed with her, shooting arrows, sending her scurrying for cover.
Yet she was not so easily fooled. She could see their plan. Had their intentions been to kill her, the arrow would have struck true and she would already be dead. They were purposefully leading her in a particular direction. Every so often an arrow who strike a near tree or skim past her head, changing her direction of travel until the trees began to thin out, and there was less and less cover. Despite her feverish flight, Rosamund desperately recalled her knowledge of the area. If she continued her current path and broke the tree line she would come to a cliff face, with no escape. Below was a thundering waterfall, crashing onto a pool of jagged rocks. Odds of surviving were slim. If the pressure of the waterfall didn't batter you into the submission, then the hazardous rocks would simply break you instead. Her pursuers must have known this, hoping it would spurn her into surrender once she had been cornered. It was a common hunting tactic, cornering one's prey without any possible escape.
Disliking the odds, Rosamund clasped the flintlock pistol nestled in the hem of her skirt. She could return fire, but with no powder or spare ammunition, she only had one or two shots, at best. Amongst the uneven terrain and given the nature of her situation, it would be a wasted and futile effort. Instead, she made a precarious decision.
Abruptly, she changed direction, turning deeper into the forest, despite the sudden increase of arrows flying overhead to redirect her. One albeit grazed her thigh, but she kept running, cursing the long flowing calico skirt which was now ripped and torn, slowing her down as she kept running. Once she hit cover from sight in dead ground, she flung herself to the ground and crawled into hiding, nestled in and amongst brushes and logs. She froze, waiting as the Hurons dashed passed her in excitement and heated pursuit. There were more of them than she thought. She dare not move as a second and third party passed her not long after. She stayed there only for a moment, before breaking cover and moving off. She knew when they had discovered she had slipped away, they would back track and pick up her trail. She had to move fast and pray she reached Cherokee country before it was too late.
The game of cat and mouse continued for another day and a half. Every time the Hurons closed in, Rosamund narrowly managed to slip away. Yet once she crossed into Cherokee territory, they simply stopped, much to her relief. She had crossed the great river, nearly drowning in the process, her clothes soaking wet and heavy with water. Daringly, she looked back to the other side, but found many of the Hurons had already returned back to the forests. Only one remained in view, staring back at her. Rosamund knew this Huron, and inwardly shuddered with dread.
Magua…
She turned quickly and fled into the cover the trees, deeper into Cherokee territory. Once she found the main village, she could hopefully get a warm meal and much needed assistance. She needed to dress her feet, which were bloody and torn, having discarded her boots to prevent leaving obvious tracks. She also needed to get out of her soaking wet clothes before she developed a serious chill. She only hoped she would still be welcome amongst the Cherokee people. Her father had taken a Cherokee woman as a country wife, though Rosamund's mother was his first and legal wife. When she died during Rosamund's childhood, her father's Cherokee wife raised her into adolescence. Though she visited the tribe as often as she could in later adulthood, bringing food and supplies, she couldn't help but wonder if they would recognise her. It had been so long since her last visit. It was the previous winter, when her adoptive Cherokee mother had succumbed to the cold. Since then Rosamund had kept her distance, unsure of her standing amongst them. She could only hope they would honour her plea for help. It had been days since she had eaten a proper meal. She'd managed to forage on nuts and berries, fearing an open flame have drawn too much attention. She had barely slept, for fear the Hurons would be upon her like rabid wolves in the night.
When she arrived in the early hours of the morning, she could have wept in relief. As she approached, she began to stagger, her exhaustion becoming more evident. An older Cherokee man was on sentry and challenged her. She spoke the Cherokee word for friend, and asked to have council with their chief. The elderly brave took one look at her dishevelled appearance and refused. Rosamund took it humorously and followed him as his hobbled into the village. She recognised some of the faces, and they seemed to recognise her. She spoke to one of the women, and traded her colourful calico skirt for a pair of unadorned buckskin leggings and a hot meal. She would have to keep her dirty blouse for now. She had fled the fort in such a rush, she carried little to nothing to trade with her. She would have to make do and depend on the good will of others. She wolfed down the thick meaty broth brought to her, and cheekily asked for more. The tribeswoman was kind, and perhaps took pity on her as she offered a second healthy serving. With her hunger satisfied, Rosamund limped down to the river. The gentle waters eased her battered body as she rinsed the mud and leaves from her golden curls. She let out a contented sigh as she left the river, feeling refreshed and clean. She stepped into the shade and gathered her clothes from the rocks.
Yet as she changed, a chill ran down her spine, as if she was being watched. It was the hunter's instinct her father had instilled in her. To know how to hunt something, but also to know when you are hunted. Ever so slightly, she gazed around, drying herself as if all was normal. All the while, her hand edge closer to the pistol hidden in garment. Just as she was ready to draw the weapon, two children burst out from the bushes in a game of tag, running round and giggling, much to Rosamund's embarrassment. She quickly dressed, and herded the children back to their mother. There, in the heart of the village, the Great Chief of the Cherokee was waiting to receive her.
"Tako'skówa" He greeted, his old beady eyes narrowing, as if focus his fading vision. He smiled, though he seemed to struggle, "I am both happy and saddened with your visit"
"oh, and why is that great Cherokee chief? Am I not welcome? When I return to the British I will be sure to have them send you more supplies for the winter." She hoped her offer would make up for her lack of offerings. All she had of value now was her pistol, and she was almost tempted to give it over to him as tribute. However, an old warrior such as him would probably have no need for it anymore, but it was the thought that counts.
Villagers had begun to gather, watching quietly from a respectful distance. Rosamund couldn't help but notice some thin and weathered faces among them. Some of them looked hungry, though she had heard the summer harvests had been bountiful. Were the mighty Cherokee struggling more than she thought? Suddenly she felt uneasy.
The Chief's words confirmed her worst fears, "the Cherokee and British are no longer brothers. British brothers have failed to keep their promise. British brothers take food and give nothing in return. My people starve. We have no powder for our muskets, and no furs to trade for the winter seasons. Cherokee must seek out new allies, if we are to survive"
Rosamund couldn't believe what she had heard.
With practiced skill, Rosamund kept her composure and carefully considered the situation. Losing the Cherokee Nation was a grave loss. Their territories acted as a gateway through other hostile lands. Why would the British act so foolishly? Perhaps the war was reaching its climax. Winter was coming and funds were dwindling, on both fronts. Maybe they got desperate? Rosamund wasn't convinced. The British were fighting on two fronts. Whilst combating the French, they also had to keep dissatisfied American colonists in line. They couldn't afford a war with natives either. It wasn't logical. Perhaps there was more to this story. Perhaps there was another culprit…
"The French?" she mumbled absently.
The Cherokee Chief studied her closely, watching her green eyes flash with wily cunning. Those all-knowing eyes once more focused on him as he began to speak. "You are not a common white woman, Tako'skówa. You see and know many things".
Rosamund smiled, as if complimented, but her smile was tight. She was growing uneasy. The wind was changing. Something was coming.
Yet the old man continued, deliberately, "You see more than others intend for you to see. Most men simply hear what is said aloud and observe what is done in the light, and think nothing more of it. But not you…you also hear what is left unsaid and discern many things that are hidden in the dark. Such as the mighty mountain lion, fore which you are named. You understand the will of men and can see what is truly written on their hearts. That makes you dangerous"
He sighed, as if heavy with burden. "The French have already offered a high price for your capture"
"I see" Rosamund did not falter, "that is most unfortunate…"
Her expression was calm and stoic. If she was frightened by the news, and the possible aspect of her capture, then she did not show it. "Take pity on me, Great Chief. Have I not always carried the plight of your people in my heart, as if it was my own?"
The Chief gave the briefest nod, acknowledging "Indeed, you have done my people a great service. You hold much influence over the great chiefs of the British"
Rosamund felt a glimmer of hope, and dared to push it to her advantage. "Then honour my efforts, and let me leave in peace. I will return to my land across the great water and right this wrong. I speak to the Great British Chief myself and hear what he has to say"
For a moment, the old Cherokee looked tempted, and took time to consider her words. But slowly, he shook his head, "If you had arrived a few days before, I would have let you and bid you luck"
Rosamund chuckled, trying to lighten the situation. "And what difference would a few days have made?"
The Cherokee Chief was not smiling. Instead he stepped aside to gaze behind her, "You would have arrived before the Hurons"
Rosamund froze. Her worst fears had been confirmed; she had been betrayed. Coming to the Cherokee proved to be a fateful mistake. There was no escape. She had been baited into a false sense of security, and was no trapped. She dare not turn round, fearing what she would face… That's when the devil spoke,
"Magua has found you, Tako'skówa."
A/N -
Well ? What do you think ?
