Page 9 of Freedom's Kiss
Night was a long affair, with Winnie tossing and turning over the hard floor. She drifted in and out of sleep, her dreams haunting her as much as her waking moments. It was almost a relief when Asa and Isaac began to stir, and another day of dodging bloodhounds faced them.
Winnie blinked against the light of dawn as she emerged from the cave’s innards. Though the sun had barely awoken and the sky brushed a soft pink, the contrast between complete darkness and dawn had her squinting. In silence she followed Asa’s footsteps, Isaac tailing at the back. Even with the looming form of her father in front and her brother behind, she didn’t feel safe. Then again, would she even recognize that feeling if it were upon her?
Yes, she supposed she would. Even if her life knew hardship, its brand long ago born on her skin in the callouses of her hands and the stripes on her back, she’d also known love. From Asa, in his booming way, and her mama. Though ripped from Winnie at a tender age, memories were a possession that even the cruelest of masters couldn’t steal. Her mama’s sweet voice as she sang Winnie to sleep, her warm fingers gently caressing her forehead. Peace and safety and love.
Finding that feeling in the Florida wilds? Winnie shook her head. Whether their bodies found what Asa looked for or not, she could always escape to those sweet memories of Mama. Something she’d caught herself doing more often of late.
Better than the alternative—dwelling on all that could await them. Asa was so sure they’d make it to Negro Fort without being caught. That the walls and stores of weapons and ammunition would stave off an army bent on retrieving them and sending them back to their hells. But Florida was wild country and accepted only wild men within her borders. Even the Spanish kept mostly to the coastlines, leaving the deadly swamp to deal with those foolish or desperate enough to try and inhabit it.
A shiver ran down Winnie’s spine even though the rising sun beat upon their necks. The stories of the ravaging Red Stick warriors and the terror they caused the settlers in Alabama and along the Gulf Coast sent chills through every man and woman who’d heard the tales. Though the American army had ultimately won the war, causing the Creek Indians to give up millions of acres of land, they hadn’t beaten the fight out of the proud red men. Instead those warriors nursed their anger in Florida’s swamps. Winnie’d heard the overseer say the Spanish called themcimarron. She’d had to ask Old Tuck what that meant since he was the only person she knew who held even a little knowledge of the language. Tuck had said it meant runaway or wild one. Both seemed fitting to Winnie. And though the Seminoles had that in common with her—they we’re both runaways—she still didn’t want to come across no murdering wild man.
Winnie licked her lips, the cracked skin rough against her tongue. She wanted to ask Asa what would happen if they ran into a band of Indians. Had he even thought of that, or was he so mesmerized by the idea of Negro Fort that he hadn’t taken that possibility into consideration? Rumor had it some Indians had slaves, just as the white folks did. What if these runaway Creek Indians, these fierce fighters, were one of them?
Winnie grabbed a fistful of faded-blue linen, hanging on to the hem of Asa’s shirt. Digging into the corners of her mind, she brought forth her most cherished possession and replayed the memory of her mother’s voice as she’d sing Winnie to sleep.
