Page 39 of Freedom's Kiss
Chapter 17
Florida, 1818
Winnie couldn’t help but think she was to blame for the bloodshed among the Native people. Her and the other runaways who had found refuge and safety among the tribes. Their presence—their freedom—is what provoked the whites across the border to continue to make forays into the settlements in attempts to reclaim people whom they believed their property.
The Indians had enough hardships of their own, many Red Sticks from the Creek people having come south themselves to escape injustice. Why didn’t they give in to the demands and return the runaway slaves so they could enjoy peace instead of letting yet another war be waged against them?
She didn’t know the answer, but she was eternally grateful that they’d chosen to fight over surrender. Their ranks might look like a hodgepodge of people—skin color ranging from the blackest of night to the bark shavings of a pine tree. Not to mention the differences in language and religious beliefs. But the people—Black Seminole, Native Seminole, and Red Stick warrior alike—had come together to march against a common enemy.
Winnie stilled, spear in hand. With the majority of the men in combat, it fell to the women to hunt and fish as well as scavenge the palmetto and pine woods to find enough food to feed those who’d fled to the safety of the marshes and wilderness.
A fat trout swam nearby, and she slowly raised her spear, ready to throw when the moment presented itself. Seeing a water spider glide along the still surface of the lake, the trout propelled forward to catch a meal, and Winnie let the hollow wooden shaft with a flint head attached fly, impaling the fish in the middle.
Retrieving dinner from the lake, Winnie looked up, her senses pricked. She recalled Nokosi’s warning that it wasn’t safe for her to be alone in the woods, and those words were no truer than now. She’d seen the smoke that billowed into the blue sky on angry gray puffs—evidence of the burning and decimation of many tribal homes. They’d been forced to flee, to leave behind their extensive herds of cattle and fertile gardens, reduced to live like animals. For months they’d hidden, almost constantly on the move south, with little word on how the battles progressed. Winnie’s nerves couldn’t take much more.
A shuffling sound, palmetto fronds rubbing against each other, and twigs snapping under foot caused her blood to chill in the tropical climate. She tugged the trout off the end of her weapon and tossed it on the bank, readjusting the spear in her hand to defend herself. Necessity had improved her aim. If she needed to hurl the thing into her enemy’s heart, so be it.
A man emerged, head clear of a turban, black hair shining in the sunlight. His deerskin breeches, knee-length tunic, and familiar silver crescent lying against his chest had Winnie not only lowering her weapon but casting it aside all together. She bounded out of the lake, water splashing up and wetting her skin and clothing.
“Nokosi.” She stopped in front of him, barely restraining herself from throwing her arms around his neck.
Seconds ticked by as his gaze swept over her, taking her in bit by bit, as if savoring every inch that his eyes consumed. He lifted a hand and trailed the back of a crooked finger over the apple of her cheek. “My Pakse.”
Questions pushed into Winnie’s mind—what was he doing here? Did this mean the war was over? Had they won?—but she sidestepped them all, refusing to allow worry to steal this moment from her. Nokosi was back, standing once again only a handsbreadth away. She’d wished it for so long, and now that dream had become a reality.
A low moan filled the silence around them and broke the trance that had held them captive. Winnie looked over Nokosi’s shoulder, squinting to make out the source of the sound within the woods’ shadows.
Nokosi laid a hand on her arm. “Scipio has been gravely injured in the battle and needs a healer quickly. We only stopped at the lake to refill our water gourds.”
Winnie’s spine snapped straight. Scipio wasn’t the first wounded to make it to their refuge, and a healer had been found to tend to their injuries. “Follow me.”
She quickly retrieved her spear and stuffed her catch into a small basket belted to her hip as Nokosi knelt at the water’s edge and filled up a hollowed-out gourd. He led her along the same footpath she’d taken that morning, stopping and pushing back a large frond. Scipio lay upon a thatched travois, eyes clenched as he held his blood-soaked side.
Winnie fell to her knees beside him, her hands hovering before descending, one to his shoulder, the other smoothing across his forehead. She made soothing sounds, ones she’d heard Martha use with Timothy, as she untied her own drinking gourd and brought it to the man’s lips.
She looked up at Nokosi, who’d taken the travois poles in his hands. “What happened?”
“I will tell all later.” The stern lines in his face hardened as his gaze flicked to Scipio. “If he is to survive, he needs the healer. Now.”
She nodded as she rose, then began the trek back to their hiding place at a forced sedate pace.
Once large in number and covering rich, open fields, their small encampment now clung to the safety of inhabitable swamplands and rivers of grasses. Winnie’s feet sucked against the thick mud, and gnats buzzed around her head. A scout along the perimeter of their village raised a shout at the sight of her and Nokosi, causing a moment of stilled silence followed by a rush of movement.
Women streamed forward to see if the returning warriors, either the one on the travois or the one pulling it, were their husbands or sons. Disappointment flitted across their faces as Winnie and Nokosi passed. Their expressions quickly replaced by ones of questioning. They, too, were hungry for news.
A man with three feathers tucked into his turban rose from the floor of a chickee near the center of the village. He extended his hand as his gaze swept past Nokosi to Scipio, who moaned upon the travois. The man was older, the skin of his wrinkled face sagging from his pronounced cheekbones. As he stepped onto the ground, he began humming and then singing in low, long tones. The medicinal song swung high as his fingers worked to untie the hemp string Nokosi had used to secure Scipio to the conveyance. Voice strong and movements nimble despite his age, the words of his song strummed through the people gathered, and Winnie felt her blood pump harder, as if her own body responded and joined in the melodic plea of health and healing.
Nokosi lifted Scipio, who cried out and clutched his side, and carried him into the chickee, setting him gently onto a blanket on the floor. The healer walked around him, chanting his song and gathering herbs from baskets that littered the perimeter of the dwelling. With a pestle and a small bowl, he knelt beside Scipio and set his instruments aside. His hands moved to Scipio’s blood-soaked tunic, and the ripping of fabric tore through the healer’s song.
Nokosi bent to speak into the healer’s ear, but the man shook his head and waved Nokosi away. With one last look to Scipio, he turned and stepped off the chickee’s platform.
“Is he gonna be all right?” Winnie asked as soon as Nokosi drew near.
“He is in the hands of the healer now.” Nokosi stared off into the distance, a palpable weight about him. He pulled his gaze to settle back on Winnie. “I must report to the council how our brothers fare.”
Though Nokosi had never graced this specific settlement, he knew where he’d find the elders. Those men too old to raise a rifle, much less a war club or bow and arrow, congregated in the middle of the village. Winnie watched from a distance as those who were able rose to greet Nokosi.
Winnie itched to creep closer. To hear the things that were being spoken. But women were not allowed within the council’s circle, even though their lives were just as much at stake as the men. Instead, she planted her feet and strained her eyes and ears. Prayed for a breeze to carry voices so she could hear.
