Page 17 of Freedom's Kiss
Chapter 8
Florida, 1816
“We’re almost there. I can feel it in my bones.”
Winnie tried not to cringe at the too-oft heard declaration. Asa had been saying they were close for over a week now, and to her knowledge they would no sooner reach their destination than when they’d started this journey. Asa’d never been to Florida before, much less Negro Fort. How was he supposed to know the way except by his proclaimed bones, which, to his word, could taste freedom like food to a starving man?
She swatted at a mosquito on her arm, the smashed insect leaving a trail of smeared blood across her skin. They’d left the red clay-packed ground, the beautiful dogwood trees that had flowered as they’d gathered their provisions and made their final plans for their escape, the fluffy heads of cotton that would be ready to pluck from the fields any day now. They’d traded those for towering live oaks with gray moss hanging from their arched branches, protecting them from the brilliant sun. Wet earth sucked at their feet as they treaded through underbrush of giant ferns and moss-covered debris. Insects ate at their bodies, and humidity caused them to sweat until their torn and smelly clothing clung to their skin.
She hoped Asa was right. They needed to be close, if they were to survive at all. Their food had long been gone, and what little the slaves they’d encountered had been able to sneak them hadn’t lasted for as long as they’d needed. She’d managed to harvest some woodland berries and wild onions, but all of Isaac’s attempts at snaring game hadn’t amounted to anything. Though she walked in the middle between her father and brother, she’d caught enough glances at Isaac when they’d set up camp to see his lean figure grow thinner still, the bones of his ribs and hips visible even beneath his shirt and trousers. If not for the suspenders slung over his shoulders, she doubted his pants would stay about his waist.
A twitter rent the air, a warning to the animal kingdom that there were intruders invading their territory. A second later, a bird with a blue head flew from a low-hanging branch, retreating deeper into the woods. The wildlife she’d been able to witness was their escape’s single highlight. She’d never forget the speckled fawn lying perfectly still amid the thickets. They hadn’t even seen the darling until they were right upon it. Asa had wanted to cook it for dinner, but he’d finally given in to Winnie’s tears. A battle she’d felt victorious over even though her father and brother’s hungry glares that night had been less than pleasant.
Another birdcall, higher pitched this time, sounded from the opposite side, and Winnie turned her head to catch the little creature’s flight. Maybe it would be a kind she hadn’t seen before. Instead of the span of wings lifting on air, three men rose from behind the large finger-like fronds of a palmetto.
Winnie stilled, breath caught in her throat.
Isaac bumped into her back, jostling her forward a step, but even that movement couldn’t pry her wide eyes from the trio of men advancing toward them on slow, stealthy feet. The light shifting through the canopy of branches did little to highlight their features, though she could tell they didn’t wear the uniform of soldiers or carry the bearing of a bounty hunter
A twig snapped on her other side, and her head whipped around. The fiercest man she’d ever laid eyes on stood not half a span away. Covered in buckskin leggings, a loose-fitting trade-cloth shirt that covered long arms and fastened tightly at the wrists, and a turban wrapped around his head with a white feather plume sticking off center. A shaft of light sliced through the shadows, glinting off a silver pendant in a crescent shape, resting over his broad chest. He moved not a muscle but stared at their small band with an unreadable expression in his dark eyes, which were set too narrowly in his wide, tanned face.
Was this man a Seminole or from another tribe bent on either scalping or returning runaway slaves in agreement to a treaty with the army? Her heart punched against her ribs, but instead of cowering like she’d done in the past when the master had stalked toward her with a whip in hand, she formed up her spin and squared her shoulders. She was so tired. Of running. Of being afraid. They’d set out to find a new life, and she’d go kicking and screaming, clawing eyes out like a wildcat if they so much as thought to force her to return.
The muscles in Asa’s back constricted as the Indians closed in on them. Knowing he was of the same mind, preferring to fight and die than be returned to Georgia, Winnie laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Best find out the men’s intentions before going off half-cocked.
Winnie’s attention was divided between the solitary man on one side and the trio who had drawn near. She didn’t like being hemmed in, and though the three men held the threat of numbers, she didn’t think for a moment any measure of resistance in the direction of the lone warrior would succeed.
The man in the middle stepped forward. “Don’t be afraid, my friends. We ain’t gonna hurt you.”
English? With a Gullah accent? She tilted her head, noticing for the first time that the man sported skin even darker than her own, though he wore the same buckskin and tunic-like shirt as the others.
“My name’s Scipio. Where you headed?”
“To Negro Fort.” Asa’s voice resonated with strength, his body taut, as if ready to strike. “Let us pass, and we’ll be on our way.”
Pain and regret flashed on Scipio’s face, the feather on top of his turban fluttering as he shook his head. “Sorry to say, the fort’s no more.”
Asa took a step forward, his fists clenched at his side. He’d do battle with any who stood in his way, a battering ram against any obstacle. “What’d you mean?”
Scipio merely stared.
Asa flinched before going rigid once again. “We’d heard they’d enough ammunition and provisions to outlast any ambush. The fort be secure, all people inside safe. And free.”
The lone Indian passed on silent feet to join the others, and Winnie’s eye tracked his movement all the while reminding her heart to pump and her lungs to fill. Her conscious split, half of her attuned to the possible threat surrounding her, the other half trying to come to terms with the revelation that Negro Fort had fallen. That all their hopes were snapped twigs under a careless boot.
Swallowing emotions that would not help her now, she narrowed her focus on the present, on the warrior who moved without a sound. He had a regal profile with a solid chin, as if carved from a rough stone, which lifted in the air as he walked. Silver bands encircled his biceps, and a sash crossed his chest. Without a word spoken, he demanded attention, the conversation between Asa and Scipio caught in the air and held until the warrior settled himself beside the others.
Scipio waited half a second before continuing his speech. “We both know the whites would never let a group of slaves keep control of a fort with so many weapons. Especially not so close to their own borders.” His voice wavered, then hardened, fire flashing across his features. “They feared an attack of retribution, and rightly so, as those of Negro Fort did repay in likeness what was done to them. God rest them white men’s souls.”
Winnie held her breath during the exchange, watching the expressions of each man as Scipio spoke. Their future hinged on this single conversation and the group of men standing before them. With a black man among the natives, she no longer feared they’d return her and her family to Master Rowlings. But whatwouldthey do to them? Would they let them go and find peace and refuge among the Spaniards, or would they take them as their own slaves?
She eyed Scipio, trying to discern his place among their presence. He seemed healthy, well fed, and well treated. The Indians let him speak, even to let him take the lead. If he was their slave, then he was a prized one.
“But you said the fort is no more.”
Isaac’s voice squeaked behind her, though she prayed it was from misuse and not fear. Though her own innards quaked, she’d not let these men see the evidence.
The tall Indian, so full of pride it bordered on arrogance, scowled in Isaac’s direction. She didn’t think fear and trepidation were emotions these men were much acquainted with. And ones they certainly despised. From the mere look of them, she could imagine their powerful faces covered in war paint, a blood-curdling scream ripping from their throats as they ran boldly into battle. Never hesitating. Never looking back.
