Eyes of Eagles

JAMIE IAN MacCALLISTER: As a boy of seven, he could only watch in horror as the Indian war party murdered his mother and father. Raised by the Shawnee chief who had taken him prisoner, he would escape four years later and find his way back to a white society unwilling to accept him.

KATE OLMSTEAD: The prettiest girl in Western Kentucky, she fell in love with Jamie at first sight. They ran away together, heading west... but hard on their trail were vengeful men who had vowed to kill them both.

MOSES WASHINGTON: A runaway slave who had found refuge for himself and his family in the Big Thicket country of East Texas, he risked his life for Jamie and Kate when they decided to settle down, raise a family and live out their lives ...

... BUT SAM HOUSTON, JIM BOWIE, DAVY CROCKETT AND ALL THE OTHER DEFENDERS OF THE ALAMO WOULD DRAMATICALLY AND FOREVER CHANGE THE LIFE OF JAMIE IAN MacCALLISTER!

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Copyright © 1993 William W. Johnstone

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7860-3751-3

ISBN-10: 0-7860-2567-0

 

 

 

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a
piece of the continent.

— John Donne

 

 

It wasn't much, but to Jamie Ian MacCallister the cabin was a castle. Actually, and Jamie knew it well, the cabin was better than most, for it had a real puncheon floor, leveled timber slabs, where many had only a dirt floor. His friend Robert lived in a cabin with a dirt floor, just about two miles down what passed as the road; two ruts that wound through dark woods.

If it was a hard life, Ian didn't know it. He'd been born right here in this snug cabin in the Western Ohio Wilderness. Oh, Jamie worked hard for a boy of almost seven, but it was important work. He knew that was true 'cause his pa and ma told him so. And now with the new baby in the cabin, his work was more important than ever, for his ma had never really gotten well after having the baby and Jamie was now doing a lot of the chores his ma used to do. She was just so weak all the time, and had to be abed for rest several times a day. But Jamie didn't mind the extra work, for his pa said life was hard on the frontier.

Jamie was making candles while his pa and ma were in the village, seeing the doctor. He'd gotten out the spun milkweed candlewicks and had threaded the candlewicks through the base holes and tied a knot in each, then fastened the tops to a stick. Carefully, Jamie got the pot of melted fat from the fire and poured it into the tapered molds, then sat back while it hardened. He tried to remember what else he was supposed to do. Oh, yes. Give the beans in the pot a stir and put out the potatoes for baking in the ashes. Was that all? The boy pondered for a moment. He thought it was.

Then he heard the sounds of the wagon coming slowly up the rutted road and he ran to the windows and opened the inner plank shutters. Light was fading fast as the day was coming to a close. His ma and pa were home. Even though his pa called him his little man, it got kinda lonesome with everyone gone.

His ma and pa were laughing softly, so everything must have gone well at the doctor's cabin. Jamie opened the door and caught a glimpse of something moving at the edge of the timber. Deer probably, he thought, and closed the door as his parents stepped into the cabin.

The sleeping baby was placed in the cradle and Jamie's ma turned and smiled at him and Jamie returned the smile. She sure was pretty, and his pa was a big handsome man. Both of them blond and naturally fair, although the sun had turned their skin brown from being outside so much.

“We have a birthday boy somewhere around here,” his pa said, unable to hide his grin. “Where do you reckon he is, Priscilla?”

“Why, bless me, Ian,” Jamie's ma said, “I just don't know. He might be hiding under the table. Let's ask this stranger to look.”

“Aw, Ma!” Jamie said. He would be seven come the next day, and his parents always gave him some store-bought candy or a little foofaraw for his birthday.

“Here he is!” Jamie's pa said, grabbing Jamie and holding him out in his strong hands. “He's gotten so big I didn't know him right off.” He set Jamie down on the floor and looked around the cabin. “You done real good, son,” he said seriously. “Swept the place clean and made candles and something sure smells good in the pot yonder.”

“Beans, Pa,” Jamie said.

“And naturally you tipped over the honey pot and added a bit, too, didn't you?” his ma asked with a smile.

“Well...” the boy ducked his head to hide his dimpled smile.

Ian ruffled his son's hair. “That's all right, son. I like 'em sweetened a bit myself.”

“I'll set the table while you see to the team, Ian,” Priscilla said. “Help me, Jamie. The ride has tired me.”

Ian stepped outside and closed the door. As Jamie was reaching for the bowls, he thought he heard a cry, a noise of some sort, coming from the outside. He paused, listening. But it was not repeated. He shook his head and began setting the table as his ma gave the beans a last stir. Jamie whirled around and dropped the bowls as the cabin door was slammed open. Painted Indians filled the cabin, one of them holding a bloody war club. Priscilla screamed and ran for the cradle. Before she could reach it, a warrior swung his war club and her head was split open, her skull smashed. She fell to the floor. Jamie leaped for his ma and his own head exploded in pain, sending him spinning into darkness, a single cry on his lips.

Jamie did not see his mother scalped. He did not see one Shawnee warrior pick up the baby and smash its brains out against the stone of the fireplace and then hurl the little lifeless body into the fire. Jamie lay on the floor, blood pouring from his head, staining the freshly swept and mopped floor of the cabin.

One big Shawnee, the leader of this raiding party, squatted down beside Jamie. He turned the boy over and put his hand on Jamie's chest. The heartbeat was strong and steady. The warrior slung Jamie over one shoulder and walked out through the smashed door into the night.

He ordered the cabin burned.

* * *

Jamie awakened several times during the night. He always wakened to pain. He knew he was being carried, passed from one Indian to another as they ran through the forest. He did not think they ever stopped for rest. The moon was full and gave ample light as long as it lasted but Jamie could recognize nothing familiar. Once he awakened as they crossed a river. He had no clear idea what river. Once he tried to fight the Indians. He was beaten and his wrists and ankles bound tightly. They soon became numb and Jamie wondered if he was going to be tortured before they killed him. He'd heard men talk about the terrible things Indians did to white captives. He wondered if his mother had survived. He felt she had not, for he had seen the awful blow delivered to her head. His father? No, he'd seen the blond scalp dangling from the big warrior's club. So his family was dead. Jamie began to cry. That got him another beating until he stopped sobbing.

Once they stopped, a young Indian — Jamie felt he couldn't be more than a boy — whispered to him. “You must be brave. You must be strong. If you are not, they will kill you. Be brave and be silent. We have a long way to go.” The young Indian slipped away into the darkness. He smelled of sweat and woodsmoke. And blood.

Jamie nodded his head and tried to rest. His bound hands and feet hurt so bad he had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out from the pain. But he made not a sound. He was cold, but tried not to shiver. He had to be brave. He had to be. He knew his life depended on it.

The boy tried hard not to think of his parents, and his baby sister. He fought hard to put them out of his mind. Young, he was. But he was born on the frontier, and was a realist for his age. He knew he was alone now. If he was to survive, he had to depend on his wits. The young Indian had seemed friendly enough, but his pa had always said that Indians were notional folks. They didn't think like white people. So Jamie — seven years old today — lying on the cold ground in a part of the country he had never seen before, made up his mind. Where his captors were concerned, he would be like a leaf: whichever way the wind blew, that's how he'd go.

He just couldn't see any other way. At least for the moment. But one thing he did know for a certainty. If the savages didn't kill him, he would escape. He didn't know how, he just knew he would. Someday. Or his name wasn't Jamie Ian MacCallister.