Chapter Six
Mingo couldn't get the images out of his mind. Old men and women, children and their mothers, boys not yet men – all running, screaming, pleading, dying – and each and every one of them pointing at him. He sat in the middle of the healer's tent with a fire breathing healing smoke before him, seeking to cleanse himself of the contamination of a dead man not willing to rest. Leather-heart had agreed with him. Pitcairn's boots, touching the lieutenant's body as he died, had become a refuge for the white man's restive spirit and when Mingo placed them on his feet –
Henry Pitcairn had become a part of him.
It would not have happened had he not been so weak. But the fact that he
had been close to dying himself had formed an unholy bond between them. Leather-heart believed the Raven Mocker had first attacked Henry Pitcairn and that, at the moment when the witch would have claimed the Englishman's spirit – taking for itself his remaining years of life and leaving him an empty husk – Mingo had stumbled upon them. In turn, the Mocker had sought to kill him. Nicholas Knightsford's arrival had prevented the witch from accomplishing this heinous act and, in that moment when the Mocker was thwarted, a window or door into his soul had been left wide open which had permitted Henry Pitcairn's restless spirit to enter into him.
Leather-heart finished with a word of warning – this, the healer said, meant that Nicholas too must be a part of the spirit world.
Mingo closed his eyes and breathed in more of the healing smoke, but to no avail. Written in crimson on his mind's eyes was the death of two hundred innocent Shawnee. And next to that, the death of other innocents – men, women, and children, not only red but white – their throats torn open, their bodies left without blood.
He did not know where this second vision came from, whether Henry Pitcairn was a sadistic butcher in his own right – or whether he was seeing through someone else's eyes as well.
Unable to contain the grief and pain, Mingo rose to his feet. He dropped the blanket Leather-heart had placed about his shoulders and paced bare-chested about the room, humming Henry Pitcairn's haunted tune. Stopping by a low bench made of branches and covered with skins, he caught up the only clothes he had – Pitcairn's linen shirt and scarlet coat. Donning them again, Mingo walked to the lodge door and gazed out. His uncle had left one of his warriors standing guard. Beyond the tanned and muscled form, the sky was white once again. A new snow had begun to fall.
It called him.
The only peace he would know would be that of the grave.
Catching one of Leather-heart's instruments from the floor – a wooden stick with a bear claw at it's end – Mingo approached the door. Feigning illness, he called out feebly and when the warrior rushed in, clubbed him on the back of the head, rendering him unconscious.
Then, barefoot, Mingo fled into the cold white night.
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For the third time in as many days Cincinnatus was awakened by a determined knock on the tavern door when there shouldn't have been any. Grumbling as he pulled a jacket over his night-shirt, he carefully descended the steps to the main floor and crossed the common room. Setting his candlestick on one of the tables, he turned the key and opened the door to find – not a handsome blond stranger nor an equally beautiful brunette woman – but a snowy-haired British general in full military dress, accompanied by a half dozen armed Redcoats.
"G-gentlemen," Cincinnatus said over the lump in his throat. "Would you be looking for a drink? Er…General…?"
"LaCroix. Lucien LaCroix." The white-haired general strode into the tavern as if he were in command – which he was – and flung his gloves down on one of the tables. LaCroix turned then and fixed Cincinnatus with his ice blue stare. "That – among other things."
As the rest of his company followed, entering the room, the tavern-keep pivoted toward the bar. "I'm afraid there ain't any victuals left, but I've plenty of rum…."
"My good man, do we look like rum-hounds?" LaCroix growled menacingly.
"Well, no. It's just…." Cincinnatus turned back. "Well, it's a cold night and a bit of rum will warm any man's innards, I think. British or Colonial…."
The British general crossed to his side. Pitching his voice low, LaCroix said, 'That was your first mistake, my good man. Animals should never try to 'think'. Now, you will listen to my voice and answer my questions truthfully, or…." The man's fingers found a purchase around his throat. "…I will kill you."
Cincinnatus didn't answer. He couldn't until the tension eased. But he nodded his head.
"Good man." LaCroix's grip lessened – slightly. "Yes or no will do for now. Have you seen a man who goes by the name Nicholas Knightsford?"
Cincinnatus' gulped. "Y-yes."
"Good. Good man. One down. Was he with a brown-haired beauty?"
"N-no."
The fingers tightened, pressing until he feared he would black out. "No? You have not seen her?"
"Seen h-her," he rasped. "She…she weren't with him. Came…alone."
"Ah! So the prey has two hunters." The British general's thin lips curled in a well-practiced sneer. "Nicholas had better hope the fairer of the two finds him first. Where did he go?"
Cincinnatus struggled against the power in LaCroix's voice, against his own fear of death, but the combination of the two was more than he could take. "He was…looking for Mingo. Went after him." The grip had lessened again so speaking was easier, if still painful. "Told him to check with the Boones, or maybe go to Chota."
"Chota?"
"The Cherokee village."
The general's ice blue eyes narrowed. Then he laughed. "Cherokee! This 'Mingo' – does he have another name? Quick!"
"Don't know none." Cincinnatus swallowed again as the grip increased, cutting off his air. "Lessen it would be… 'Cara-Mingo'."
"Cara-Mingo…. Kerr-a-Mingo? What a delightful name. Trips off the tongue, don't you think? Well?"
The world was spinning, fading from the familiar to a false night. "I… wouldn't… rightly…. know…" he said as the man's fingers contracted tightly and then, dizzyingly, released him. Cincinnatus struck the wooden floor of the tavern with a dull thud.
"No. I can see that you don't. But someone here will. Baker!"
One of the Redcoats snapped to attention. "General LaCroix, sir!"
"Kindly inquire of the locals where we can find the Boone's home." Cincinnatus felt a British boot nudge his side just as he passed into oblivion.
"We have a house call to make."
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"Damn it! What was he thinking?" Nicholas Knightsford shouted. The boyish-looking blond stood in the center of the healer's hut, a pair of British boots in his hand. "The fool!"
Dan was kneeling, his fingers tracing the pattern left by one of Mingo's bare feet. "It's plain he ain't thinkin'. At least, not clearly. If the cold don't kill him, he's sure to lose toes."
"Frost bite is the least of Mingo's worries," Nicholas growled. He walked to the lodge door and looked out. The sun was dawning in the sky, turning the pale blue snow, lavender and pink. "We must go now. I have, perhaps, two hours I can travel without cover. In that time, I hope we can catch him. Thank goodness, he has been gone no more than an hour at most."
When he had seen Nicholas looking deathly pale back in the cave, Dan had asked Mingo what was the matter. With a few words his friend had explained that Nicholas Knightsford had a condition that could kill him. He couldn't abide the touch of the sun.
"You willin' to risk exposure?"
He nodded. "If it comes to it, you can leave me behind and continue on alone. You said it yourself, unprotected Mingo has little hope of survival."
"Maybe it'd be better if you just stayed behind. Here, in the village." Dan watched his face. "Two hours ain't much time."
Nicholas was at war within himself. The struggle was evident. His jaw was tight and his hands clenched. The look out of his pale blue eyes was tormented.
"No. He is my friend. I will not abandon him."
"Nicholas."
"Yes?"
"Who are you?" Dan asked.
The blond looked nonplussed. "What do you mean?"
"You come out of nowhere in a blindin' snowstorm. You got no baggage, no coach or horse. You don't feel the cold, and can't stand the heat of the sun." Dan tipped his coonskin cap back on his head. "I know how to work a sum, and you just don't add up."
Nicholas Knightsford met his questioning stare. "Trust me, Daniel. You don't want to know."
"Why are you here? What brought a cultured man like you to Boonesborough.? It wasn't Mingo, was it?"
"In a way, yes." His smile was quick. It fled almost as quickly. "And no. Years ago Kerr…Mingo and I were friends. We had a mutual interest in Indian lore. Particularly the Raven Mocker legend."
"The witch that steals a man's life as he's dyin'…."
"But there is more. The Raven Mocker is also a shape-shifter. He or she can alter their form and then turn back – at will. It is said there have also been Mockers who have desired to return to the mortal world, and who have done so through their knowledge and the choice to do good. Their understanding of native herbs, of their uses – of spells, if you will – is as legendary as their very existence."
Dan frowned. "So?"
"You have guessed I am not…like you, Daniel. This illness – this disease that infects me – it keeps me from living as a normal man. From having friends, from remaining in any one place too long, from loving and marrying a woman like your good and beautiful wife." The look out of Nicholas' eyes was sincere, though Dan sensed not entirely honest. "I want what other men have."
"And you think a Cherokee Raven Mocker can give it to you?"
He nodded. "Yes. But I had not anticipated finding one at the expense of my old friend's life."
Now that was honest.
Dan was silent a moment. Then he placed his hand on Nicholas' shoulder. "Let's get movin', friend. Times a wastin'."
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Becky gulped. It was the Governor General of Virginia again – or at the very least his equivalent.
"How…how can I help you?" she stammered.
"Well, dear lady," the white-haired British general wearing an elegant trimmed-out dress uniform said, his upper lip curling in a warped approximation of a smile, "inviting me in would be an excellent first step."
"Oh! I'm sorry. It's just that Redcoats don't often stop by for a social call," she said with a little bit of fire.
"Oh, but I assure you, dear lady, my purpose here is purely social." The man removed his hat and bowed. "Brigadier General Lucien LaCroix at your service, Mrs. Boone?"
"Rebecca. Rebecca Boone. My husband isn't home."
"But it is you I have come to see. May I?" LaCroix indicated the threshold with his startling ice blue eyes.
She nodded. "I was just sitting down to tea. Would you like some?"
The sneer again – almost a snarl. Of anticipation?
"I don't drink…tea. But thank you anyhow." General LaCroix strode into the cabin, leaving his lackeys to wait behind in the falling snow. As she closed the door, shutting him off from them, he indicated the small coat and shawl by the door. "Oh. You have children?"
"Two." And thank the good Lord they were both asleep!
"A boy and…a girl. I imagine she's lovely."
Becky's hands went to her hips. "Pardon me, General…what was your name again?"
"LaCroix. It means 'the cross' in French."
Well, that was certainly a misnomer! "General LaCroix, what exactly is it that you want? You certainly didn't come here to chat."
He put his hand to his chest. "You wound me, dear lady. But you are also wise. Just a little information."
"Information? About what?" she asked suspiciously.
"I understand you had a visitor? A certain young man. Blond. Blue eyes. Cultured and well-educated?"
She scowled. "Maybe. What's it to you?"
"Ah, the Irish reputation for a hot temper! It shows at last. What was your maiden name, O'Malley? O'Reilly?"
"Bryan, as if it's any of your business. What do you want with Nicholas?"
His smile this time dripped venom. "And is that any of your business, Mrs. Boone?"
"Since he's out in the snow with my husband it is – " Becky's hand flew to her mouth and she stamped her foot. That was stupid.
" 'The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree'," General LaCroix quoted softly as he approached her. "Now, Mrs. Boone, I tire of this game. You will tell me all I want to know, or I will waken one of those beating hearts in your loft and demand the answer of them."
Becky's eyes went wide. "They're only children."
LaCroix's sneer was laden with pleasure. "I know. Now, where is Nicholas?"
"He's…he's with my husband, searching for Mingo like I said. I don't know any more."
"Is that so?" The general's pallid hand caught her throat. With one finger he traced a path there, then stopped when that finger encountered the cross circling her neck. He snarled and shoved her away. "Take that thing off!"
Becky felt the tug to do as he said, but resisted. "No."
"What? How dare you defy me?" LaCroix seemed genuinely perplexed. "Come now!" he ordered, his voice shifting, becoming softer and much more intense. "Take it off!"
Again, she shook it off. "No."
The general's blue eyes narrowed and he laughed – a short harsh bark. "A resistor! Imagine that. Here, amongst the savages."
As he spoke the door opened and one of his men stuck his head inside. "Men coming, sir. What should we do?"
General LaCroix's insincere smile returned. "I have learned enough. We shall depart. And as for you, dear lady," the sneer grew ravenous, "we shall meet again."
Becky remained still, watching him go, and then she ran to the door and looked down the path before the cabin. Two men were hustling her way, the light of the torch they carried painting the blue snow a sick yellow-green.
"Becky, you all right?" a breathless Yadkin asked as he came within sight of her.
She nodded. "They've gone."
"Them Redcoats, you mean?" Yadkin was looking after the departing column. He turned then to his companion and asked the other man, "That who you was talkin' about, old man?"
Cincinnatus seemed scattered. "I…. Well, I don't rightly know. I think so."
"You don't rightly know! Well, was it them or weren't it?"
"I… I don't…" As he spoke, Cincinnatus paled and began to fall.
"Yad! Get him inside," Becky ordered as she caught one of the older man's arms. Once inside she went to get him a drink of water. When she returned with it, Cincinnatus was sitting with his head back against the high-backed settee. "What happened?"
Cincinnatus accepted the cup. He took a sip and then said, "I ain't sure, Becky. I was in bed, and then I woke up on the floor in the tavern. I'm too old a man to be sleep-walkin'."
"What brought you here?"
"A feelin'," Yad answered for him. "A feelin' that you was in danger."
A feeling.
Becky walked to the door of the cabin and looked out. She had a feeling too.
Dan and Mingo were in unimaginable peril.
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Mingo stumbled blindly through the snow. Above his head the sky turned, exchanging the night's pale blues for the hideous white of a world forever frozen in time. There was no sound. No birds cried. No wolves howled. Nothing moved. Nothing but him, and his pace was very slow. He had torn his shirt tail off and wrapped the linen strips about his feet, seeking some protection from the icy floor he walked. But his toes were nearly frozen and he knew if he did not find shelter quickly, he might lose them. He knew as well that he shouldn't care. That when he left the healer's lodge he had intended to lie down in the snow, to let it bury him, and disappear from memory. But something in him would not bend to that final shame.
If a white death took him, it would be upright and as a man.
Mingo did not know what direction he was headed, though the voices in his head and the spirits who walked with him would not let him choose any other path. Whenever he glanced back he saw them, a curious mixture of men, women, and children moving along with him. Some had bodies bloodless as the snow, with open throats howling in the spirit wind. Others had died shot, bayoneted, or screaming as they were put to the knife. But all cried out to him, every one beckoned him. And all the while they did he sang, seeking to drown out their voices.
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"As I was a going over Gillgarry Mountain,
I spied Colonel Farrell and his money he was countin'.
First I drew me pistol and then I drew me rapier,
Sayin' stand and deliver for I am your bold deceiver.
Musha rig um du rum da, whack fol the daddy-o.
Whack fol the daddy-o…there's whiskey in the jar.
There's whiskey in the jar.
There's whiskey in the jar…."
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Sometime later, maybe an hour, maybe more – exhausted, expended – Mingo fell to his knees and then landed face down in the cold, white snow. Above his head the morning light was just breaking, forcing the night's shadows to retreat. As he lay there, breathing heavily, the rag-tag shadow army moved forward, dragging across the snow to gather about him. First came the children whose round red-rimmed eyes could know no rest. Then their mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, lonely and angry in their pain. The spirits of Wi-sha-sho spoke not a word, but formed a circle about his prone form and kept a silent watch –
Waiting for him to die.
Mingo turned his face so it was free of the snow and rose up on one elbow to stare at them. As he did the spirits faded away to nothing, only to be replaced by a single lanky figure – a long lean man with dark hair and a scrub of a beard, wearing a bright scarlet coat.
It was Henry Pitcairn.
"What do you want of me?" Mingo shouted as he painfully clawed the snow, pulling his body back, away from the terror before him. "Tell me! What is it you want?"
The British officer approached him and knelt by his side. Paralyzed, Mingo watched in horror as Henry Pitcairn reached out with a hand and touched his flesh.
"I want you," he said.
From the tips of Pitcairn's ghastly white fingers an unnatural cold radiated, moving quickly through his frame. Mingo gasped. He felt his heart slow. Time was suspended.
And then the memory of who he was began to fade into blackness.
Just before it would have entirely disappeared Mingo heard a sound that drew him back. A peculiar cackle or squawk. The noise grew louder as a large black bird appeared, winging over their heads. As Mingo looked up the raven laughed, mocking his distress, and then began to descend.
When Henry Pitcairn saw the unnatural creature his watery eyes filled with stark terror. The soldier rose quickly to his feet and backed away. "No! No!" he cried. "You will not take me. No! Take him. Take him!"
Pitcairn turned and ran, becoming one with the falling snow, and as he did the black form alighted on the white forest floor. Its shadow flowed over the snowy dunes until it enveloped Mingo, wrapping him in a dark embrace. As he fell into it, the creature that cast it came to his side and knelt, placing a gloved hand on his chest. Then it lifted its head and tossed its burgundy hood back, revealing a head of dark upswept black-brown hair.
"I may not have found the cat," Jeanne DuCharme remarked, tracing Mingo's strong jaw with the tip of a pallid finger., "but I have found his handsome canary."
