Davy Crockett 8 Read online

  Suddenly, a black woman was at his elbow, her pole held in a wide grip, her feet spread in a wide stance. She looked at him and smiled. Then she flew into the Indian women, her pole flashing right and left, showing no fear of the knives that cut at her like claws. Single-handed, she drove the Indian women steadily backward.

  Davy flung the sputtering torch at a wild-eyed Indian who was holding her ground. Tomahawk uplifted, he leaped toward the next pedestal. Another woman, retreating, slipped and fell. He could have split her head like a ripe melon. But he didn’t. He had never slain a female. God willing, he never would.

  The lithe African had felled four foes. Her pole was a dazzling blur, its length enabling her to keep the Indian women from getting close enough to effectively use their blades.

  Davy reached the torch, ripped it from its roost, and applied the crackling flames to the building. A quarter of the wall was ablaze now, the fire spreading to the roof too rapidly to be contained. Thick, roiling smoke spread outward just as swiftly, engulfing Africans and Indians alike.

  Bedlam reigned. Children cried and yelled. Indian women frantically sought to reach their offspring. The warriors continued to battle Bowie and the Africans, who were slowly but inevitably pushing toward the post and the bound woman.

  Not all the warriors had left their war clubs at home. Enough were armed to pose a serious challenge. Struggling to the forefront, they engaged the blacks in fierce combat.

  In the thick of it was James Bowie, his big knife weaving a glittering tapestry of death. Holding the hilt as if it were a sword, he slashed and hacked and chopped, felling all those who opposed him.

  Davy saw the tribe’s leader approach the woman at the stake. Sacrificial knives aloft, he moved with solemn, measured tread, unruffled by the conflict, unaffected by the bedlam. Bowie and the Africans could not possibly reach her in time to save her. So Davy, talking a long bound, scattered the Indian women with a wide swing of his tomahawk. Then, as stinging smoke swirled around him, he sprinted to the captive’s rescue.

  To reach the post Davy had to skirt the pit. Already wispy gray tendrils were wafting into it, agitating the inhabitant. A booming bellow resounded. Davy, glancing down, felt his blood change to ice.

  The pit was ten feet deep, approximately thirty wide. It was littered with white bones, mostly human bones, and with skulls that grinned stupidly, as if happy to be dead. A noxious odor rose from the hole, the foulest of smells, a stench putrid and obscene. Davy had to hold his breath to keep from retching.

  Sprawled amidst the sea of bones was an alligator, the most enormous of its kind that the Irishman had ever seen or heard tell of. A gigantic creature, fully twenty feet from the end of its snout to the tip of its tail. A monster twice as wide as any gator ever born. A beast that should not exist and yet did, much like the Indians themselves. It saw the Tennessean. Its maw gaped and it lunged at the rim, rising impossibly high despite its bulk, its teeth gnashing within a few feet of Davy’s legs.

  Davy had heard that gators could jump much higher than most folks believed possible. Here was living proof. In pure reflex he darted aside.

  Then he was at the posts. The two assistants rushed him, one unarmed, but the other brandishing a heavy club upraised to cave in his skull. The elder stood in front of the woman, waving the sacrificial knives. At any moment he would bury one in her unprotected bosom.

  Davy swung a terrific blow at the warrior with the club. But the man parried, rotated, and came at him in a whirlwind. Davy held firm, giving as good as he got, blocking, countering, unhurt but unable to inflict any damage. The unarmed warrior circled, seeking an opening to exploit.

  Over at the post, the elder had stopped waving the long knives. Slowly hiking an arm, he prepared for the killing stroke.

  Desperate straits called for desperate measures. Suddenly tucking at the knees, Davy sheared the tomahawk into his adversary’s left thigh. The warrior with the club roared and backpedaled, blood spraying. Spinning, Davy took two steps and launched his weapon in an overhand toss at the elder. The unarmed warrior bellowed a warning and pounced, but the deed was done.

  Wreathed by sinuous fingers of smoke, the sacrificial knife surged downward. But it never sank into its intended victim. For at that instant the tomahawk thudded into the elder’s chest, to the left of the sternum. Jolted, the man clutched at the handle. Grimacing, he did a slow pirouette, and lay feebly kicking and plucking at the weapon that had laid him low.

  Davy had saved the black woman, but in so doing he had let down his own guard. The unarmed warrior slammed into him and drove him rearward, into a choking, blinding cloud of smoke. He punched the man’s back and shoulders, then absorbed a knee meant for his groin but which struck his inner thigh. Inexplicably, the warrior did not let go. Legs pumping, the man kept driving him farther and farther backward.

  Away from the sacrifice, Davy reasoned. Enough was enough, though. Davy pivoted, hooked an arm under the warrior’s shoulder, and slung the man as if he were a sack of potatoes. It was an old wrestling trick, honed during bouts at church socials and the like where friendly matches were the order of the day.

  The man went flying. But his fingers wrapped around Davy’s wrist, clamping like a vise, and Davy was pulled off balance and stumbled a few more feet.

  The smoke was thick enough to cut with an ax. The Tennessean braced his legs, heard a squawk. Abruptly, he was tugged downward. Gritting his teeth, he stopped himself. It was a short respite. The warrior screamed. Then there was a bone-wrenching yank that no man could resist. Davy’s feet left the earth, and he was falling. He tensed for the impact, puzzled when it did not occur. He fell much farther than he should have.

  Only when his shoulder crashed down with excruciating force and agony eclipsed all other sensations did the terrible truth dawn.

  He was in the alligator pit.

  Flavius Harris was a bundle of frayed nerves. He watched as Bowie and the Africans, in a compact wedge, plowed through the Indians like a scythe through grain. He saw Davy and a black woman oppose a knot of she-cats. Then his friend raced toward the tail posts.

  As fate would have it, when Davy needed him the most, a swirling bank of smoke drifted completely across the lodge, shrouding everything and everyone. Flavius could no longer see Bowie, no longer see the Africans. To his consternation, he could not see Davy either, and he moved into the doorway for a better look. Out of the cloud rushed a warrior, a war club gripped in bloody hands.

  Flavius shot him dead. Snatching a pistol, he cocked it and moved a few yards to the right. “Davy! Davy! Where are you?”

  The uproar smothered his shout. Other figures assumed substance in the murky veil. He aimed the flintlock but did not fire, not when he discovered how small the figures were. Seven, eight, nine children fled past, boys and girls alike, some crying.

  “Davy! Answer me!”

  Flavius swatted at the smoke. A losing proposition, since the cloud grew denser by the moment and had expanded from the floor to the ceiling. He imagined that being in it would be like having one’s head dunked in pea soup.

  So that Bowie and Davy would have some idea of where the entrance was, Flavius commenced hollering, “This way! Over here!”

  More Indians sped into the night, woman and children in a panic. A wounded man was next, limping and bleeding from a ragged gash above an ear. The warrior made no threatening moves, so Flavius allowed him to leave.

  “Davy! James! Light a shuck! Hurry!”

  Two women stumbled on out, coughing violently, tears pouring from smoke-seared eyes.

  “Davy! For God’s sake, answer me!”

  Flavius could not say which was worse; the waiting, or not knowing whether the Irishman and Bowie were still alive. He scooted back to the doorway, planning to hold his ground no matter what, but a screeching, sobbing mob of children and women drove him outside.

  Smoke poured from the opening. Flavius probed the acrid fog as more members of the tribe staggered out into the darkness,
many gasping, most so blinded they did not notice him. He yelled a few more times, and had about despaired of being answered when a new knot of hurrying silhouettes materialized. In the lead was a tall warrior. Flavius centered the pistol, waiting to squeeze the trigger until the tall one was so close he couldn’t possibly miss.

  The smoke parted briefly, revealing James Bowie and the Africans. The naked woman who was to be sacrificed clung to her husband, N’tembo.

  “We did it!” Bowie exclaimed. “Let’s cut out for the swamp while we still have the advantage.”

  No encouragement was needed. Flavius assumed that when Bowie said “we,” it included his best friend. Grabbing the rifle he had leaned against the wall, he handed it to the broad-shouldered woodsman, noticing as he did that Bowie’s big knife was scarlet from tip to hilt.

  They ran, Flavius glad to bid the village good-bye. After the stinging confines of the lodge, the muggy air was like a blast of chill wind. It invigorated him. He had no difficulty keeping pace with Bowie.

  Frenzied cries and the crackle of flames dwindled in the distance. Flavius hoped the fire would occupy the Indians for quite a while, preferably all night. By dawn the village would be miles distant, escape assured.

  Bowie did not call a halt until they reached a clearing hemmed by briars, where they caught their breath and took stock. Flavius counted eleven Africans left, three severely hurt. Seven lives, then, had been lost to save the one woman. Had it been worth it? Only the Africans could say, and to judge from their weary smiles, they thought so. Hunkering down, he set to reloading Liz.

  “Where’s Crockett?” asked Bowie.

  Flavius, about to uncap his powder horn, glanced at Bowie. “What?” he asked, even though he had heard the question clearly.

  “Where’s Davy?”

  “He’s not with us?”

  “Do you see him?”

  No, Flavius did not. Anxiety twisted his vitals. “Oh, God.”

  “I lost track of him early on,” Bowie explained. “I had my hands full staying alive.” Irritated, he smacked a fist against his other palm. “Damn it to hell! I should have paid more attention. I just figured you would have said something if he wasn’t with us.”

  “And I figured he was all along,” Flavius said. “With the blacks, or bringing up the rear.” Which was the natural thing for Davy to do. Still, Flavius should have checked, not taken it for granted.

  Bowie swore. “He must not have made it out. Too bad. He was a rare one, that Irishman. Too many men I've met aren’t worth their weight in flour. He was worth his weight in gold.”

  Flavius wholeheartedly agreed, but the compliment did not dull the awful ravaging pang that seared his chest. At long last what he had long dreaded had taken place. He groaned softly, weakness creeping into his legs so that he had to sit.

  Images of Davy paraded through his head, of the time back home, at a local tavern, when Davy won a bet by quaffing a pitcher of ale nonstop; of a dance they had gone to where Davy spent the whole night cheek to cheek with Elizabeth, as much in love as any man had ever been; and of a hunt one autumn, during which the dogs had flushed a she-bear that Davy spared because he heard cubs bawling in a thicket. Those three incidents pretty well summed the man up. “I’m going back.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  Flavius willed his legs to straighten. “I have to. It’s my fault we didn’t notice sooner. Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe those savages are fixing to sacrifice him like they did Arlo.”

  “You would be throwing your life away. I can’t allow that.”

  “You can’t stop me,” Flavius declared.

  Bowie scratched his chin, deep in thought, and took several steps. “I’m as much to blame as you. By rights, I should go back too. But these Africans will never make it out of the swamp on their own. For their sake, I have to stay.” He stared at a man whose shoulder had been shattered by a war club. “As for Davy, he knew the risks. If he is alive, if those cannibals have him, we couldn’t reach the village in time.”

  Flavius lifted Liz. He would reload while on the trail. “We don’t know that for sure. I’ve got to find out, one way or the other.”

  “I was afraid you would say that.”

  A mallet fist connected with Flavius’s jaw. His surprise lasted only as long as it took him to hit the ground. Then he knew nothing.

  Flavius was ten years old again. He held a thin limb he had trimmed and sharpened to a point. In a pond ahead, a bullfrogs croaked. His pa was partial to frog’s legs, so Flavius was going to treat his father to a heaping helping for supper. Or his ma would, once Flavius had speared a few. He snuck through high weeds to the shore. At the water’s edge was a large male. He could tell by the ears. Males had bigger, darker ears than females.

  Since sudden movement would spook it, Flavius slowly drew back his spear. The frog moved its legs, bobbing like a cork. Flavius held still to fool it into thinking he was harmless. Presently, he was ready. About to throw, he coiled—and was roughly shaken by his shoulder, as if by an invisible hand. He tried to shrug it off, but it gripped harder and shook with more vigor. The bullfrog promptly dived.

  “No!” Flavius declared. The same invisible hand clamped over his mouth to stifle another outcry. He struggled to speak, and suddenly his eyes were open and he saw James Bowie and a ring of black faces, and realized the hand was Bowie’s.

  “Not so loud, friend. We’re being hunted.”

  Flavius sat up. They were not in the clearing anymore. To the east a pink tinge framed the horizon. Its significance stupefied him. “I’ve been unconscious all night? It’s dawn?” Shoving upright, he scanned the lush swampland that now surrounded them. “Where are we? How far from the village?”

  Bowie was gazing to the north. “About fifteen miles, would be my guess. We didn’t stop to rest once all night.”

  “How did I—?” Flavius began.

  “How else? We carried you in pairs, taking turns.” Bowie nodded at a makeshift litter built from uneven limbs interwoven with slim vines. “I would have woke you sooner, but I knew you’d raise a fuss over Crockett.”

  The reminder lanced a hot poker through Flavius. Forgetting himself, he grasped the front of the bigger man’s shirt. “Damn you! You had no right! I might have saved him!” Bowie did not lift a finger to defend himself. “You want to pound me to a pulp, don’t you? But I’d do the same if we had it to do all over again.”

  “Why? I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. We were kindred souls, Davy and I. So I did what he would have done, and saved you from yourself. But if you need to hit me, go right ahead.”

  A powerful hankering to do just that came over Flavius. He balled his hand and raised it, but he could not quite bring himself to smash his knuckles into Bowie’s face. “I should. I honestly and truly should.” Yet would it be fair when James had only had his best interests at heart? He was spared from having to make up his mind by faint sounds. Yipping, such as coyotes would do, only harsher, and more strident.

  “Do you hear?” Bowie asked. “They’re on our trail. They’ll be on us shortly after sunrise unless I miss my guess.”

  “Then why are we standing here jawing?”

  The Africans were exhausted, haggard. Those who had been wounded were unable to walk without aid. Yet they plodded on, tapping into a reservoir of stamina that lent vitality to their flagging limbs.

  Pools had to be negotiated. Bushes that clung to a person’s limbs like living wire. Treacherous soil that buckled under a man’s weight. It seemed to Flavius that Bowie was rashly leading them through the worst section of swamp there was, and he commented as much.

  “See that small hill yonder?” the frontiersman responded, pointing at a mound that in Tennessee would be too small to earn the distinction. “On the other side is dry ground. Not much, a couple of acres, but enough for us to make a stand. And trees for cover.”

  “Sorry I doubted you.”

  The yipping grew louder. It made Flavius th
ink of the coon hunts he had been on, of the baying of the hounds as they closed in on their quarry. Was this how raccoons felt? Scared? Trapped? Helpless? He had always thought it great fun, but from this day forth he would view it in a whole new light.

  Some of the Africans had stopped and were arguing. Bowie went down the line to learn the cause. Meanwhile, the demonic yipping of their pursuers took on a new, excited note. The Indians realized their prey was near, and were coming on faster.

  Flavius was anxious to get over the hill, to have solid ground under his feet again. It mystified him when Bowie and the other blacks resumed hiking. A wounded man, propped on a pole, had been left on a hummock. “What gives?” he asked when James rejoined him.

  “Mokole can’t go any further. He’s too weak, too sick. Blood poisoning, I suspect.”

  “So we let those cannibals butcher him?”

  Bowie had lengthened his stride and did not look back. “Mokole wanted it this way. He’d be a burden, delay us. And he won’t last much longer anyway. So he’s going to wait there and try to slow them down. For our sakes.”

  “He’d do that for you? For someone who was going to sell him into slavery?”

  “Not for me. Or even for you.” Bowie motioned at the rest of the Africans. “For them. He’s sacrificing himself to gain them an extra minute or two. We’ll need it.”

  The race was close, and proved Bowie right. They had just crested the hill when an exultant medley of war whoops signaled the end of the valiant man on the hummock. On their last legs, the Africans stumbled into the trees, then turned at bay. They had gone so long without nourishment and adequate rest that for most it took a monumental effort simply to stay on their feet.

  “Any last prayers you want to make?” James Bowie inquired. “Now is the time.”

  Flavius faced the hill. Thronged on top of it, crowded together like a pack of wild dogs eager to taste blood, was the war party.