White Fire Read online

  “Son, always remember that I have always done what I could for you,” Jania May said, a sob lodged in her throat. “Until recently, when I fell in love with another man, everything I did was for you.”

  White Fire gave her a perplexed stare, wondering if she truly believed this. Had she fooled herself into believing such nonsense as that?

  He sighed heavily, then wheeled his horse around and rode off, concentrating on the adventures that lay before him, leaving all sadness and heartaches behind him.

  “White Fire, I love you!” Jania May cried, waving at him as he gave her a quick look over his shoulder. “Samuel White Fire, I shall so terribly miss you!”

  Chapter 2

  My face in thine eye, thine in mine appear,

  And true plain hearts do in the faces rest!

  —John Donne

  A book of poetry resting on her lap, Flame sat at her ailing mother’s bedside, her gaze and her thoughts elsewhere. She was looking through the bedroom window, watching the sky and how the setting sun was sending the most beautiful shades of crimson across the horizon.

  Flame could not help but wonder where White Fire might be at this moment. She had heard her father discussing with some of his soldier friends how White Fire had planned to leave today after his father’s funeral, to journey alone into the wilderness.

  A thrill coursed through Flame to think of how wonderful it would be to join White Fire on his exciting adventure. Although Flame’s life was filled with many activities, and she had just discovered the wonders of dancing and enjoyment of the glances from boys her own age, and even of older men, she was bored more often than not. She hungered for adventure.

  She loved to ride on horseback, feeling the freedom when she rode through the knee-high grasses on her father’s broad expanse of land along the Mississippi River.

  She wished she were outside now, instead of in her mother’s bedroom, the bitter smells of medicine wafting up her nose. Ah, how she would, instead, love to be walking amidst swirling, clambering vines and starry flowers!

  But now wasn’t the time to think of herself. She was there for her mother. She was dedicated to her mother who was ill quite often, with first one ailment, and then another.

  “Reshelle, why have you stopped reading poetry to me?” Elizabeth Ann Russell asked, drawing Flame’s eyes quickly to her. “Daughter, what’s taken your thoughts away? What are you fantasizing about now? I do wish you wouldn’t wish on things that can never be.”

  Flame flipped her long, red waves back from her shoulders and forced a smile as she gazed at her mother, when truly, looking at her mother only saddened her. Elizabeth Ann was frail and pale, not only because she was so prone to illness, but because she scarcely ever went out into the sunlight, saying that it was bad for her ivory skin.

  “Mother, I’m sorry,” Flame said softly.

  She again opened the poetry book where she had marked the last page that she had read with a pale blue velvet ribbon. “I shouldn’t have stopped reading,” she murmured, “but, Mother, something happened today that I can’t get off my mind.”

  She closed the book again and laid it aside. She leaned over and straightened her mother’s blanket, then smoothed some locks of her mother’s auburn hair back from her pale brow.

  “I saw a man today, Mother,” she quickly said. “I have seen him many times before, but never so close.” She sighed. “I shall never forget him, Mother. Never.”

  “Reshelle, Reshelle,” Elizabeth Ann said softly, “you are only ten. You shouldn’t be thinking of men.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t call him a man,” Flame said, cocking an eyebrow. “I believe he is only eighteen or nineteen.”

  “Reshelle, anyone who is eighteen or nineteen is a man and much too old for you to be thinking about,” Elizabeth Ann scolded. She turned her head away from Flame and coughed.

  “I truly wish you would call me Flame,” Flame said, sighing. “Reshelle is such a cold, assuming-sounding name.”

  Elizabeth Ann turned a slow gaze to Flame again. “The name Reshelle is full of sunshine,” she said softly. She reached a cold, clammy hand to Flame and patted her on the arm. “Daughter, you shall always be Reshelle to me. Wanting to be called Flame is just another childish notion you will soon get over, just as you will soon forget the young man you saw today.”

  “A ’breed, mother,” Flame quickly interjected. “Mother, he’s a ’breed, part Indian. Miami, I believe. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Elizabeth Ann gazed at Flame a moment longer, then slowly closed her eyes.

  “Mother, I’m going to marry the handsome Indian half-breed one day,” Flame blurted out. “When I grow up, I will search for him. He will be mine!”

  Elizabeth Ann’s eyes flew open. “Reshelle, stop that right now,” she scolded. “Such talk . . . such thoughts . . . are scandalous.”

  To soothe her mother’s anger, Flame grabbed the poetry book, opened it, and began reading passages. She knew, though, that she couldn’t get White Fire off her mind, even though it was frivolous of her to think of one day marrying him. And deep down inside she doubted that she would ever see him again.

  But it would be a deliciously fun thing to wish for on the stars in the heavens each night!

  Chapter 3

  It is not while beauty and youth are thine own

  And the cheeks unprofaned by a tear

  That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known

  To which time will but make thee more dear.

  —Thomas Moore

  The Minnesota Territory, 1828

  Her flame-red hair blowing loosely in the wind, Flame stood on the top deck of the Virginia, a steamboat that made excursions between St. Louis and the Minnesota Territory.

  Now eighteen, and fiercely independent, Flame could hardly wait to arrive at Fort Snelling, a huge fort known as a jumping-off place for Minnesota’s explorers, which had been built where the Mississippi and Minnesota rivers converged. A few months ago Colonel Josiah Snelling, the commandant for whom the fort had been named, had been sent to Saint Louis, to be in command of Fort Jefferson Barracks. Flame’s colonel father had, in turn, been sent from Fort Jefferson Barracks to Fort Snelling, where he was now in command.

  Flame’s mother had not moved with her husband to the Minnesota wilderness, nor had she allowed Flame to accompany him there. She had not wanted to leave the security of her home in St. Louis. Nor had her health been good enough for such a move. In time, she had signed divorce papers, giving her total freedom from a husband she had never loved.

  Tears came to Flame’s eyes when she thought of the recent burial of her mother. Her father had returned home long enough to set things in order and to attend the funeral, then had rushed back to Fort Snelling.

  Flame had stayed behind long enough to see to the final sale of the family mansion.

  Now she was going to join her father at Fort Snelling and nothing could make her any more excited than the prospect of living in the wilds of Minnesota where she could seek out adventure every day of her life.

  Her green silk dress fluttering around her ankles, her waist so narrow, her breasts so generously round, she clung to the boat’s railing with her white-gloved hands. She closed her eyes in the same fantasy she had clung to since she had been a young girl of ten falling in love with a ’breed. She had thought of no one since then in a serious way.

  Yes, she had attended all of the fancy balls and social functions that St. Louis had to offer. But none of her male escorts had meant anything to her. They were just a means to her having fun. Nothing more.

  In her mind’s eye she could see White Fire as though his father’s funeral were only yesterday. She had never forgotten the intensity of his midnight dark eyes, nor his long and thick hair the color of a raven’s wing, nor his muscled body.

  A sensual shiver rode her spine. “Nor shall I ever forget the lovely color of his copper skin,” she whispered to herself.

  How could she have ever forgotten hi
s smile when she had purposely flirted with him? In his eyes she had seen a quiet amusement, yet she felt as though she had possibly seen something more. An appreciation of her.

  She opened her eyes and sighed, for she had not found the courage to ask her father if White Fire might be anywhere near Fort Snelling. If White Fire were in the area, she did not want to pique her father’s curiosity over her interest in the ’breed. She knew of her father’s dislike for Indians, half-breed or not.

  Her heart pounded the closer the boat came to Fort Snelling. She had prayed over and over that she just might find White Fire again. Wasn’t he headed for the Minnesota Territory all those years ago?

  To keep her anxiety to arrive at bay, she concentrated on her surroundings, finding everything so lovely and serene. It was such a beautiful country, with its many high hills covered with pine trees and green grass. The air was fresh and clear, the breeze deliciously warm.

  Her eyes widened when she saw mud hens along the sandy shore, and several other kinds of water fowl swooping down to settle in little clusters, rocking on the swells of the river as they waited for some unwary fish for their dinner.

  She knew that she would be acquainted soon with Minnesota’s wildlife, for she planned to explore on horseback at every opportunity. Although she was saddened over her mother’s death, she could not deny how wonderful it felt to realize the freedom that lay ahead of her in Minnesota. Her father would be too consumed by his duties as colonel to worry about her and what she might be up to every day.

  “White Fire, if you are still in the Minnesota Territory, by damn, I vow to find you,” she whispered to herself.

  Chapter 4

  All love that has not friendship for its base

  Is like a mansion built upon the sand.

  —Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  War whoops rang out through the forest and across the muddy waters of the Mississippi River as the St. Croix band of Chippewa, under the command of Chief Gray Feather, forged a hearty attack on a Sioux encampment downriver from Fort Snelling.

  Before the Sioux could defend themselves, they were overpowered by the Chippewa.

  “Gee-bah-bah, Father! Gee-bah-bah, Father!” Song Sparrow cried as she fled from one of the Sioux tepees after realizing that the Sioux were surrounded and held at bay by her father’s warriors.

  Sobbing, she ran up to Chief Gray Feather and flung herself into his arms. “You came! I am no longer gee-tay-bee-bee-nah, captive!”

  Chief Gray Feather, with black war paint smeared across his thin face, clung to Song Sparrow. “Gee-dah-niss, daughter, we have searched for days until we found the Sioux encampment,” he said thickly. “Had they harmed you—”

  She leaned away and stopped him from saying the words that she knew it pained him to speak. “I am fine, gee-bah-bah,” she murmured. “They have treated me with the respect due a chief’s daughter. It is just that they wanted to use me as a bargaining tool with you. Soon they planned to come and offer an exchange. They have traveled too far from their true home. They do not have much food. Most of their warriors have come down ill with a strange sickness. They have been too ill to hunt. They planned to exchange me for food and supplies.”

  “Ah-neen-eh-szheh-yi, on-non-gum, how are you?” Chief Gray Feather asked, sliding a hand over the delicate features of his daughter’s copper face. “You have not come down with the strange ailment?”

  “Gah-ween, no, nor has White Fire become ill,” Song Sparrow said, a sudden excitement lighting up her dark eyes.

  “White Fire . . . ?” Chief Gray Feather said, forking an eyebrow. “Why would you mention White Fire? He has been gone three winters now. He was thought to have been killed by a bear or something or someone. All that was found of him when we searched day and night were his clothes.”

  “That is because the Sioux abducted him and forced him to change into a breechclout,” Song Sparrow said, excitedly clutching her father’s arm. “Gee-dah-dah, he is here. He has been held captive by the Sioux these past three summers.”

  Chief Gray Feather’s eyes widened with excitement and his heart thumped wildly when White Fire stepped from a tepee, a breechcloth his only attire. “Nee-gee, friend!” he cried, welcoming White Fire into his arms with a fond embrace. “You are bee-mah-dee-zee, alive!”

  White Fire clung to the Chippewa chief. He had hoped that once the Sioux ventured this far north from their true home, with the lure of the thick pelts too much for them to ignore, that they would let down their guard and he could return to his wife and family at Fort Snelling.

  But even when the warriors became ill, he was watched both day and night. He had hardly been allowed to breathe, the watch on him had been so intense.

  Even when the Sioux became hungry and needed someone to hunt for them, they had not allowed him to hunt, knowing that he would take that opportunity to escape.

  “Ay-uh, yes, I am alive,” White Fire said. He was hardly able to believe that his old friend Chief Gray Feather was there, again, to save him.

  When White Fire had first arrived in the Minnesota Territory, he had become a victim of a trapper’s steel-jawed trap. His left ankle was still scarred from the dreadful teeth. Chief Gray Feather had found and released him. He had taken White Fire to his village.

  There the young man had stayed, not only until he was well enough to travel again, but for a solid year. He had acquired a profound understanding of the Chippewas’ customs and psychology. He had come to know and have a deep respect for them. Not only had he learned their ways, he had shared their food and hardships.

  During this time, he had grown close to Gray Feather, a closeness a son feels for a father. But when White Fire had learned about the fort that was being built downriver from their village, he had left the Chippewa to become a part of the excitement. There he had met Colonel Josiah Snelling, the commandant in charge of the fort, with whom he had also become fast friends. White Fire had been placed in charge of building the roads that radiated out from the fort.

  In time, he became acquainted with Colonel Snelling’s niece, Mary, whose marriage to an abusive husband had torn her confidence in herself. Her French voyager husband had died when his canoe capsized in the river, and she was free to marry again. White Fire had been drawn to her gentleness and sweetness. Their love for one another had never been a passionate one. It was a comfortable relationship. And when they finally married, to them was born a son . . . Michael.

  His son had been three when White Fire had been captured by the Sioux while out in the forest mapping out a new roadway. He had been taken far downriver and held captive for three years.

  Only recently had the Sioux set up camp closer to the fort, to gather many beaver pelts before returning again to their home. Their mistake, their downfall, was to capture a Chippewa maiden.

  “Mah-bee-szhon, go with me to my village and again be a part of my people’s lives,” Chief Gray Feather said, as he stepped away from White Fire. His old brown eyes gazed pleadingly up at White Fire who stood a head taller than him. “It was a mistake for you to leave and join the white world. Your place is with the Chippewa. It is the Chippewa who saved you from the Sioux, not the white-eyed pony soldiers from Fort Snelling. It is the Chippewa, this old chief, who truly loves you as though you are one with us.”

  All around them, the healthy Sioux were being gathered and tied. They would be held at the Chippewa village for a while, then escorted back to their home at their main village. Those who were too ill to travel anywhere, would be brought medicine and food. When they were strong enough to travel, they, also, would be escorted back to their home. Gray Feather did not seek war with them. Only the return of his daughter, and now, also, his friend.

  White Fire could feel Song Sparrow’s gaze on him. During their captivity, she had told him about how her husband had recently died of a bear mauling, and how she was so saddened by having been separated from her three-year-old daughter.

  She had also told White Fire how she still felt about him. S
he had wanted him for a husband way before he had decided to return to the life of a white man. She had only married one of her own kind because she had given up on having him.

  But during their time at the Sioux encampment, she had pleaded with him to marry her when they were set free. She had told him that she had never stopped loving him. And she saw him as someone who would be such a good father to her daughter.

  White Fire told her time and again that he was married and had a son. Even so, she had not stopped pleading with him to forget his white wife and child. Be Chippewa! she urged.

  Pulled by both Song Sparrow and Chief Gray Feather, and feeling that he again owed the chief a debt for having saved his life a second time, White Fire was not sure how he could refuse Gray Feather without turning him into a bitter enemy. But he had no choice. He had a wife and son who surely by now thought he was dead. They were his first responsibility.

  White Fire placed a gentle hand on Gray Feather’s lean, bare shoulder. “My nee-gee, friend, I am touched deeply by your words and declaration of love for me,” he said thickly. “I am touched to have so good a man as you for my nee-gee. I feel the same about you. I feel blessed to have such a bond with you and your people. But I have a wife and son. I must hurry home to them. They have been denied my presence long enough. As did you, when your search failed to find me those long three winters ago, I am certain my family has given up on ever seeing me again.”

  Song Sparrow stood by her father. In her eyes was a deep hurt and rejection. She turned her eyes to the ground when White Fire looked at her.

  “I understand commitment to family,” Chief Gray Feather said solemnly, drawing White Fire’s eyes back to him. He placed a soft hand on White Fire’s shoulder. “I will see to your safe return home.”

  Gray Feather commanded one of his warriors to bring one of the Sioux horses to White Fire. He mounted bareback as Gray Feather mounted his powerful black stallion.