Chapter 4
Menewa left John Murray standing stunned before the burial scaffold. Talota's body lay silhouetted against the blue Kentucky sky. "Too late, too late, too late." The words chased each other through his mind like the cry of a killdeer startled from its nest. All his careful plans, the years of memories, the time still to come, shattered. His ruddy face was drained of all color, his mouth fallen open in shock.
Gradually he became aware of the tall boy leaning against him, shuddering with sobs. The child's arms held tightly to his body, his face pressed into the man's blue shirt. Damp warmth was spreading where the boy's helpless tears fell onto the cotton cloth. Slowly John Murray raised his arms to enclose the child's trembling body. Talota's son, Caramingo. His son, Edmund Kerr Murray.
The blood of the Murrays flowed through the boy's veins. No matter how hard the truth, John Murray had to face the facts. For the first time in his life the English Lord faced a situation with full knowledge. With a flash of understanding as bright as Kentucky lightning he knew that the boy was now his responsibility. He owed Talota his best effort. There was no choice to be made. The child would come with him to England.
Talota's brother Menewa made the boy ready to accompany his father. Menewa's troubled heart saw no love in the tall white man's eyes, only the determination to do his duty. Every fiber of the Cherokee's being yearned for the boy who was so dear to his heart. According to Cherokee custom Talota's sisters would take the child. But she had no sisters.
The boy's Cherokee blood was mixed with the blood of the Englishman, and that man was now taking him across the sea. With clenched jaw and pounding heart the Cherokee chief watched the heartbroken child stumble after the tall white man. Impatiently John Murray glanced behind him at the stricken boy. Then he faced eastward toward the sea, where the only life remaining to him waited in grey English stone.
They made their first camp only a few miles from Chota. John beckoned the boy and spoke slowly. "Wood. Get wood." He pantomimed making a fire. The boy's large dark eyes, rimmed in red, watched his father carefully. Then he answered the man in perfect English.
"You want me to get wood for a fire?"
Though surprised John nodded and turned to unpack the mule. Mingo returned in only a few minutes with a large armful of wood. He gave his father a hesitant smile but the tall Englishman did not respond. Silently the boy knelt and constructed a fire drill. His father watched wordlessly. Then he hefted his rifle and stepped into the surrounding woods. When he returned a short hour later he found his son sitting before the fire, trembling. Though he noticed the child's distress John spoke no word of comfort and made no effort to touch the boy.
The summer darkness enclosed the two together before the little fire. Still in silence John spitted the small turkey and made a pot of coffee. He carefully avoided looking at the boy sitting before the fire, withdrawn into a smothering cocoon of grief. The boy hugged his chest and rocked slowly in distress. His lips were pressed tightly together. Now and then a smothered sob escaped and the boy's body shuddered.
"I lost my own mother last year. I know it's hard." John's voice was too loud and forceful. The words were meant as a comfort and connection, but the lack of emotion twisted them into something cold and shallow. The words echoed from the Kentucky forest. Mingo shivered before the little fire and closed his swollen eyes.
Bending to the roasting turkey, John searched his mind for some way to help the boy. "You have to accept this Mingo. No number of tears can change the fact that your mother is dead. I miss her too."
Mingo's head snapped up and his eyes looked boldly into his father's. "If you missed her, why did you stay away so long? If you loved us, how could you leave us at all?"
The blunt and honest questions stung the tall Englishman. His exalted position made him unfamiliar with such honesty. His first response was anger and he stood to face Talota's bold son. "You're an insolent and disrespectful whelp! I will not tolerate such questioning from a child. No English child would so challenge his father. Your permissive Cherokee mother has done you a disservice which I will strive to rectify immediately. Stand up!"
His eyes hooded but his head unbowed, Mingo stood. John strode to stand before the boy, towering powerfully over the child. "Apologize to me." Seconds passed and in the silence the sounds of the Kentucky forest filled their ears. In the deep recesses an owl hooted. Unthinkingly Mingo mimicked the sound and the forest creature responded.
John Murray stood aghast at the exchange. The tall boy before him bore little resemblance to the loving child of his memory. This boy was a stranger, a wild savage from the fringes of the forest. A chill of abhorrence ran up the Englishman's long spine. The bright firelight beamed on the dark eyes and gleaming black hair before him. Long arms bare, his chest encased in leather, the boy was as wild as a beast of the forest.
Without thought John reached out and pulled the child close, slipping the knife from his belt in one fluid motion. He threw the boy to the earth and straddled his body, grabbing the long black hair in his left hand. With his right he quickly cut through the shiny locks. A shock of raven hair came free in his hand. Again and again his knife cut through the thick tresses. The boy struggled to throw off his father's heavy body until he was forced to lay exhausted on the damp summer earth.
Panting with his own exertion and anger, John came to his senses still straddling the boy. He could feel the child's body shuddering with violent emotions. The child's long slender fingers were digging into the moist soil and John could hear his teeth grinding in rage.
His own mind began to think coldly and rationally. He reached behind his knee and removed the boy's knife, throwing it several feet into the surrounding forest. Then he stood, balancing himself with his feet on each side of the boy's slender body.
Unexpectedly the boy rolled and knocked his father's right foot out from under his heavy body. Though trying to remain upright, John twisted and fell hard on his knee. Mingo jumped agilely to his feet and leaped into the forest after his knife. Behind him his father launched his heavy body and knocked the boy sprawling. Mingo's head hit the trunk of a large elm. He fell limply and lay motionless on the forest floor.
Raising himself on his elbows John saw the boy lying prone and unmoving. His heart in his throat, the tall Englishman crawled to the child's side. With a trembling hand he felt for the pulse. It was there, quivering in the boy's smooth brown throat. A soft sigh escaped from the man's dry lips.
"Talota, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." John Murray sat beside his unconscious son for several minutes, trying to make himself lift the boy. When he finally raised his son, the intensity of the emotion startled him and he nearly dropped the child. He slowly lifted Mingo in his arms and carried him the short distance back to the little fire. There he examined the swelling on the boy's forehead. It was large and would be a nasty bruise.
"What have I done? Son, forgive me." Whispered words drifted into the still Kentucky night. The sliced and ragged hair made the boy look unkempt and unloved. Locks of long black hair were scattered all around the camp. Contritely the man reached for one of the locks and wound it around his forefinger. It was so like Talota's hair.
Unbidden came the memory of Talota lying beside him on her narrow bed, her long raven hair spread around her lovely shoulders. What imp had made him cut Mingo's hair in so brutal a fashion? Waves of shame flowed from the man's heart and flashed across his ruddy face.
The boy stirred on the ground and opened his eyes. His hand lifted to feel of the bruise, and then dropped beside his cheek to feel of his shorn hair. John watched the expression of horror wash over the boy's face. The child turned from the fire and curled into a tight ball, both hands covering his disfigured head. Beside him his father reached out a white hand to smooth the ragged hair. But the hand never touched the boy.
In all his life John Murray had never had a demonstrative heart. Always he felt that the obsequiousness directed toward him was deserved. Only once had he reached out to another person, man, woman or child. He simply did not know how.
Uncertain and ashamed, John Murray allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Sighing deeply he reached toward the roasted turkey and sliced a large piece from the breast. He held it out in front of his son's hidden face. The boy made no move to take the meat, and after several seconds the man withdrew the offering.
The fire burned low and the owls hooted in the forest. The summer moon rose high and still the man sat beside the curled child, the silence between them the first block in the wall that would eventually curtail all hope of love for either of them.