Timecachers (59 page)

“So far, so good,” said Tom.

“Easy-peazy. There’s the inner gate just ahead,” Sal replied, motioning toward the guarded entry of the stockade.

“I was relieved you didn’t react to that guy’s comment.”

“Hey, I figured if I look like a bumpkin to Homer and Jethro back there, all the better. The red mud must be working.”

The inside of the fort was stark. There were sets of crude stairs leading to the tops of the rifle towers at each corner of the fort, two or three open doors leading into small rooms that looked like officer’s quarters or offices, and a larger structure that appeared to serve as barracks for the rest of the soldiers. There was another small but heavily fortified building with a closed door used as the arsenal, clearly the most secured area of the fort. Several other closed doors gave access to various storage areas for food and livery supplies. A few horses were tethered to hitching rails, presumably only those currently required for duty as the rest were housed in the stables.

The stockade appeared to be a recent addition to the fort. An opening had been freshly cut through the upright logs forming the fort walls, and a heavy, rough-hewn log gate had been installed. The gate was smaller than the main entrance, barely large enough to allow a wagon to pass through. Two uniformed guards stood at the gate, implying that the commander had decided to place his regular, full-time soldiers at this point instead of the volunteers he stationed at the main gate. As Tom and Sal reached the stockade, one of the soldiers stepped in front of them, blocking their way.

“All parcels must be inspected for contraband before entering the stockade, sir,” said the soldier. Evidently he had orders to be polite to the traders.

“Okay, no problem, Corporal Agarn,” said Sal. “What sort of contraband you looking for?” He held out his sack of goods for inspection. Tom did likewise without comment.

“Whiskey and weapons,” the soldier replied stiffly. “And I’m a sergeant, not a corporal.”

“Don’t got neither of those, Sarge,” Sal replied with what he hoped was a farm-boy grin. “We just want to sell a little of our produce.”

“That’s what most folks are here for, but we still have to check. You know how these injuns get with a little whiskey in ‘em.”

“Makes ‘em pretty stupid, I guess,” Sal grinned. “Good thing they got you F-Troop boys here to protect ‘em.”

“Damn right,” he answered.

Satisfied that they were harmless, the soldier motioned them through the gate.

Entering, Sal whispered, “Like I said, dude, easy-peazy.”

Tom was relieved they didn’t need to resort to their cover story, but entrance was granted easily, almost too easily, which gave him an uncomfortable feeling.

“I expected them to challenge us a bit more,” he said. “And knock off the F-Troop comments!”

“Hey, man, they’re probably just pissed about pulling vegetable duty,” Sal answered. “You know they’d rather be doing something besides looking through bags of veggies. They seem like they don’t care because they don’t. So what if I mention F-Troop? You don’t think they watch the reruns, do you?”

The stockade was crowded and noisy. Tom and Sal shouldered their way through the crowd; clusters of traders and their customers were randomly scattered throughout the courtyard and had stopped to offer their goods wherever they pleased. People were everywhere, sorting through the merchandise and loudly negotiating prices. It was not going to be easy to locate Ahni or casually conduct surveillance without being observed. Fortunately, the profusion of activity gave them plenty of cover; with all the turmoil, it was likely no one would pay them any heed.

Peering over the heads of the crowd, they could see that only the gated stockade wall was constructed from the same upright logs as the rest of the fort. Where it had been expanded the stockade had been made from smaller logs, bound together with rope. While still a substantial barricade, it appeared to be less sturdy and somewhat more vulnerable than the older wall.

“If there’s a weak spot,” whispered Tom, “it’ll be in that new section of wall.”

“You get over and take a closer look. I better start hawking some veggies.” Sal took a handful of produce from his sack, held them over his head, and began crying, “Vegetables here! Get your nice, fresh vegetables! Best prices in Cherokee land!”

Tom made his way to the rear wall, noticing several large gaps between the logs, large enough to see through from several paces away. It must have been through one of these gaps that Guwaya had his conversation with Jason Springwater, their inside contact. He walked along parallel to the wall, peering across the top and mentally noting the placement of the larger gaps by their distance from the corners.

While none of the gaps were large enough to allow slipping in a contraband item, like a firearm or a whiskey jug, they were easily wide enough to hold a conversation or pass a note through.

Turning back toward the main fort, Tom observed the guards posted in the fort’s four rifle towers. They did not appear to be paying much attention to the goings on in the stockade, although their position high above the wall afforded them an excellent view of the entire interior of the compound. In the daylight at least, any suspicious activity would be quickly spotted. Any attempt they made to get Ahni out of the fort would have to be a nighttime operation.

Not wanting to linger too long, Tom made his way back in to where he had left Sal selling vegetables. He spotted him engaged in conversation with a prospective customer, a smallish Cherokee man about the same stature as Sal, although much more broad-shouldered.

“Dude, I told you I don’t have any dang strawberries,” he heard Sal saying to the man, sounding slightly agitated.

“But I have some for you. You want these strawberries,” the man replied. Tom noted the man’s exasperated look.

“Look, man, I told you I don’t want any…,” Sal began.

“Wait, Sal,” said Tom. “We probably could use some strawberries,” he said to the man, giving Sal a quick wink and silently mouthing “Ahni” to him.

“What? What the heck do we want with…? Oh, yeah, maybe we do.”

“Please come with me and I’ll show you what I have,” said the man, greatly relieved that Sal had finally caught on.

They followed the man, who strode unhesitatingly to a less hectic area of the compound, until they reached a group of men who nodded knowingly to their guide. The men stood aside to allow them to pass, and then closed ranks to provide a reasonably private area between themselves and the wall of the fort.

The man turned and addressed Tom and Sal. “I am Jason Springwater. You are looking for strawberries?”

“Yes, we are,” Tom answered. “Our friend Guwaya is very interested in strawberries. My name is Tom, and this is Sal.”

“
’Siyo
, Tom and Sal. Ah, yes; Guwaya said to expect you. I was afraid I had the wrong red dirt farmers for a moment.” He motioned to Sal.

“Well excuse me, Chief Waterboy. My black ops tradecraft is a little rusty,” Sal quipped.

“Sal hasn’t met Ahni, and neither of us speaks Tsalagi,” Tom interjected.

“I see,” Jason said. “It is not a problem. Guwaya is fortunate to have such good friends who are willing to jeopardize their own safety for his mother’s sake. We can talk quietly in English. My friends here,” he motioned to the men surrounding them, “will warn us if the soldiers approach.

“I have been able to locate Ahni, and I told her that I have spoken with Guwaya. She is quite relieved to know that he is safe. I am afraid, though, that Ahni herself is very ill. She has been taken to one of the bunkhouses where she can rest. At least as much as that is possible in that stifling place. I will take you to her, and will act as a translator for you, as her English is limited. I will have one of my friends stand guard at the door so you can talk freely with her. Not that any of the soldiers would go in there without good reason.”

“We only need to speak with her for a moment,” said Tom. “Just long enough to give her a message from Guwaya. But the message is, uh, not for everyone’s ears. Will we be able to speak with her in private?”

“As I said, it is not very likely that there will be any soldiers present, however, the bunkhouse is small and crowded, and so a private conversation may not be possible. Perhaps it would be better to tell your message to me now, and I can relay it to Ahni in Cherokee.”

“That’s probably a good idea. At least that will prevent any English-only listeners from overhearing. We need to tell her that Guwaya is going to try and find a way to get her out of this place and take her to, uh, somewhere safe. He wants her to know this so that she can be prepared to leave quickly. From what I was able to see of this compound, it’s likely she will have to leave in the night.”

“I will give her the message. However, I must tell you that Guwaya’s plan may be much more difficult than he thinks.”

“That doesn’t bother us a bit, Chief Waterboy,” said Sal. “We’re not afraid of a few difficulties.”

“I was not implying that you were afraid,
ugineli
,” said Jason. “Getting a person out of here is not easy, but it can be done. I know of a few who have already successfully escaped, even without the help of someone on the outside. The difficulty I refer to is Ahni’s health. I believe her illness has made her much too frail for an escape attempt. You may assess her condition for yourselves, of course. Let us go now and speak with her.”

Jason spoke a few Tsalagi words to one of his friends, who accompanied them as they walked to the bunkhouse. The bunkhouse was newly constructed; a lean-to looking more like it was built to accommodate livestock than people. It was an unpainted structure with a single door and no windows. The roof was hardly more than six feet at its highest point. Jason’s friend, acting as lookout, leaned against the bunkhouse and began smoking his pipe while the other men went inside. Tom had to duck to get through the door.

Inside, the smell of human stench was overwhelming. With limited airflow, the stinking, tepid air had no place to escape, making the temperature inside the bunkhouse at least twenty degrees warmer than outside. Once their eyes became adjusted to the dark interior, Tom and Sal could see the bunks had been built from rough-cut wood and stacked three-high, floor to ceiling. The floor was littered with filthy straw, used in the bunks instead of a mattress, the only cushioning between the occupants and the hard planks. There were a few piles of soggy blankets on the floor, soiled and discarded.

Ahni was lying in one of the middle bunks of the rack adjacent to the door. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. To Tom, she looked much older, the wrinkles on her aged face deeper and more prominent than he remembered. Her skin was as pale as the blond wood bunk she was lying upon.

“I helped her move to this bunk,” said Jason. “She gets a little more fresh air here being closer to the door.”

“That was very thoughtful,” said Tom. “Guwaya will appreciate your kindness to his mother.”

On hearing Tom’s voice, Ahni’s eyes flew open and darted back and forth, searching for him. He moved to her line of vision and smiled, then gently brushed a strand of her thin, gray hair from her face that had stuck to her skin with perspiration.

“
Osiyo, elisi
.” During his stay with the Wards, Tom had taken to calling Ahni
elisi
, which Guwaya told him meant grandmother, a term of respect for an elder woman.

“
’Siyo
,
tawodi
,” she whispered. She managed a twinkle of amusement in her rheumy eyes at calling him
tawodi
, the Tsalagi word for hawk and Ahni’s pet name for him.

Although they only shared a few words of each other’s language, Tom and Ahni had developed a fondness for each other. Tom figured he amused her by his unfamiliarity with things she considered commonplace. She was quick-witted, and could usually understand the gist of their conversations even when Guwaya wasn’t available to translate.

There were only a few other people in the bunkhouse, lying in bunks, and not likely to be interested in their conversation. Still, Tom thought it best not to speak of any escape plans in English, lest they be overheard by a guard through the thin walls. “Please tell her that I am sorry she is not feeling well, and pass along Guwaya’s message,” he told Jason.

Jason softly spoke a few words of Tsalagi, and relayed Ahni’s appreciation for his concern back to Tom. He then spoke for a much longer time, delivering the message of Guwaya’s plan. Ahni’s face knotted into a stern expression as she shook her head and interrupted Jason with a sudden outburst of Tsalagi. Interrupting someone was very untypical of a Cherokee, and something Tom had never heard Ahni do before. Neither Tom nor Sal could understand their words, but the tone of their conversation implied that Jason was asking questions and Ahni was answering in terse, confident replies. Finally, the long exchange came to an end. Jason nodded to Ahni resignedly. He sighed, and turned to answer Tom’s questioning look.

“She forbids Guwaya to make a rescue attempt,” Jason said.

Sal motioned as if getting ready to speak, but halted when Tom gestured for him to wait. He did not want Sal to say anything argumentative. Tom understood the significance of Ahni’s words; in a matriarchal society, as the elder female of Guwaya’s family, her word was law.