PATRIOT’S COURAGE was a winner for First Place in the inspirational category of the National Excellence in Storytelling contest!
On August 19th, 2024, Patriot’s Courage will be on sale as a Kindle Daily Deal. Below is an excerpt from the book. Patriot’s Courage is the third book in the Patriots series, but it can be read as a stand-alone book.
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“Is there a fire in the forest?” she asked in alarm.
“The general ordered his men to burn the Indian
villages and crops in a ten-mile swath.” Bright Moon shrugged. “It is the way of the conqueror.”
“But what of my family?" She thought of the corn and the squash her family had planted.
“They have learned it is not wise to rely on the British. Their king does not want another war with the Americans.”
“Where will my family go?” she asked.
“Farther west,” he answered.
Assailed by bitterness, she could only hope those who cared for her so well over the years would be safe, but the stinging ash in the air choked her and made her eyes water. The yellow hides were cruel, as the warriors of her tribe always claimed. Somehow, she must rejoin her family and make sure they were safe. Following in the scout’s footsteps, she studied the walls of the fort. Soldiers were everywhere carrying their metal sticks of death. She bit her lip to hold back a sob. One of those weapons killed her husband. The
yellow hides were not to be trusted, but she told herself it was impossible for them to be watchful all the time. She vowed to remain prepared for any opportunity, no matter how dangerous, to run away.
She drew the shawl tighter about her as her mind swirled with doubts. Her family would have moved to another location, much farther west. Alone, she might not be able to find them.
The scout led her to a canvas tent. Inside, the soldier who had given her the jacket sat at on a bench. He wore a loose-fitting shirt over his breeches. Without the bright jacket and the brass buttons, he did not look like a soldier. He resembled an ordinary man. He gave her a brief nod. There was an additional bench and a table. Bright Moon instructed her to sit on the other
bench.
A round wooden container sat on the table. This type of vessel was familiar to Màxkchulëns. The warriors came home from battles carrying them. They held water. The warriors took them from the American soldiers they killed. Also on the table lay a very smooth, dark gray slate edged with a wooden border, a small black bottle, a feather, and something that appeared to be birch bark—but very smooth. Intrigued, she reached out to touch its precise, straight edges. She marveled at it.
The man spoke to the scout briefly. The scout handed the jacket to him, nodded to her, and left.
She sat stiffly and watched the man. On the battlefield, he made the bad soldier leave her alone with only a few harsh words. He held her hand in the wagon. She thought he might be kind, but would he beat her if she refused to learn English?
He sat opposite her and placed his jacket beside him on the bench. No breeze blew through the tent, and the acrid smoke in the air made her cough. The man who was to teach her English coughed, too. When he did, pain etched itself into every line on his face and his skin took on a gray pallor.
His brown, abundant hair fascinated her. Fastened at the back with a bit of leather, his long hair was not straight like that of the Indians. Undulating waves ran along each strand, reminding her of the movement of a snake.
Was this man to be trusted? He was still a yellow hide, and none of them kept their word.
Assailed by bitterness, she could only hope those who cared for her so well over the years would be safe, but the stinging ash in the air choked her and made her eyes water. The yellow hides were cruel, as the warriors of her tribe always claimed. Somehow, she must rejoin her family and make sure they were safe. Following in the scout’s footsteps, she studied the walls of the fort. Soldiers were everywhere carrying their metal sticks of death. She bit her lip to hold back a sob. One of those weapons killed her husband. The
yellow hides were not to be trusted, but she told herself it was impossible for them to be watchful all the time. She vowed to remain prepared for any opportunity, no matter how dangerous, to run away.
She drew the shawl tighter about her as her mind swirled with doubts. Her family would have moved to another location, much farther west. Alone, she might not be able to find them.
The scout led her to a canvas tent. Inside, the soldier who had given her the jacket sat at on a bench. He wore a loose-fitting shirt over his breeches. Without the bright jacket and the brass buttons, he did not look like a soldier. He resembled an ordinary man. He gave her a brief nod. There was an additional bench and a table. Bright Moon instructed her to sit on the other
bench.
A round wooden container sat on the table. This type of vessel was familiar to Màxkchulëns. The warriors came home from battles carrying them. They held water. The warriors took them from the American soldiers they killed. Also on the table lay a very smooth, dark gray slate edged with a wooden border, a small black bottle, a feather, and something that appeared to be birch bark—but very smooth. Intrigued, she reached out to touch its precise, straight edges. She marveled at it.
The man spoke to the scout briefly. The scout handed the jacket to him, nodded to her, and left.
She sat stiffly and watched the man. On the battlefield, he made the bad soldier leave her alone with only a few harsh words. He held her hand in the wagon. She thought he might be kind, but would he beat her if she refused to learn English?
He sat opposite her and placed his jacket beside him on the bench. No breeze blew through the tent, and the acrid smoke in the air made her cough. The man who was to teach her English coughed, too. When he did, pain etched itself into every line on his face and his skin took on a gray pallor.
His brown, abundant hair fascinated her. Fastened at the back with a bit of leather, his long hair was not straight like that of the Indians. Undulating waves ran along each strand, reminding her of the movement of a snake.
Was this man to be trusted? He was still a yellow hide, and none of them kept their word.
He lifted the wooden vessel to his lips, drank from it, and offered it to her. Should she take it? She slid farther away. He shrugged and immediately winced in pain. Didn’t the soldiers have a sweat lodge? Or a nentpike to heal them?
She thought of removing her shawl, but with the memory of the horrible soldier who grabbed her tender skin, she pulled the shawl even closer. The cruel man’s rough hands hurt her. She must never allow that to happen again.
The man who was to teach her English reached across the table and lifted one of her braids in his hands. She tensed, fearing what he would do next, but he only shook his head, frowned, and dropped the braid as if it were on fire. He twisted up the corner of his mouth.
She took the end of the braid in her hand and caressed it. While it was nearly the same shade as the color of dancing flames, it was not hot.
The man lifted the smooth piece of slate in one hand. Picking up a narrow stick, he scratched lines onto the slate, but he did not draw a recognizable picture. There were no deer, men, hills, fish, or rivers in the picture.
“Nellie,” he said and pointed to her. “Your name.” With a groan, he stood and came around behind her. When he put the stick in her hand, she flinched and tried to pull away. She thought of biting him, but he gently folded her fingers around the stick. Though he held her fingers fast, he was not unkind, which she expected him to be—especially since he was a soldier.
She thought of removing her shawl, but with the memory of the horrible soldier who grabbed her tender skin, she pulled the shawl even closer. The cruel man’s rough hands hurt her. She must never allow that to happen again.
The man who was to teach her English reached across the table and lifted one of her braids in his hands. She tensed, fearing what he would do next, but he only shook his head, frowned, and dropped the braid as if it were on fire. He twisted up the corner of his mouth.
She took the end of the braid in her hand and caressed it. While it was nearly the same shade as the color of dancing flames, it was not hot.
The man lifted the smooth piece of slate in one hand. Picking up a narrow stick, he scratched lines onto the slate, but he did not draw a recognizable picture. There were no deer, men, hills, fish, or rivers in the picture.
“Nellie,” he said and pointed to her. “Your name.” With a groan, he stood and came around behind her. When he put the stick in her hand, she flinched and tried to pull away. She thought of biting him, but he gently folded her fingers around the stick. Though he held her fingers fast, he was not unkind, which she expected him to be—especially since he was a soldier.
He guided her hand to form lines on the slate like his. “Nellie,” he said again. “Your name.” His hand was warm but clean and dry with hard calluses from work.
Running Beaver never held her hand in such a manner. It was most unusual. She frowned at the lines on the slate. She stared at the stick in her hand. How did it make marks on the slate?
The man released her hand, took the slate from her, and rubbed away the lines. The lines vanished! What magic was this? Curious, she wanted to discover if it was possible for her to rub away the lines.
He returned to his bench and swiped at a trickle of sweat dripping from his brow. After clenching his teeth for a minute or so, he picked up the stick and made more lines on the slate, but this time it was a picture. She watched with interest for he drew many details on the picture. He sketched a woman with long braids, a skirt, and moccasins. Next, he added those
same strange lines beside the picture. He held it up to show her.
“Nellie,” he said. He touched her shoulder. “Nellie.” He pointed to the picture on the slate.
“Nellie.” He drew his finger under his odd lines. “Nellie.”
The man released her hand, took the slate from her, and rubbed away the lines. The lines vanished! What magic was this? Curious, she wanted to discover if it was possible for her to rub away the lines.
He returned to his bench and swiped at a trickle of sweat dripping from his brow. After clenching his teeth for a minute or so, he picked up the stick and made more lines on the slate, but this time it was a picture. She watched with interest for he drew many details on the picture. He sketched a woman with long braids, a skirt, and moccasins. Next, he added those
same strange lines beside the picture. He held it up to show her.
“Nellie,” he said. He touched her shoulder. “Nellie.” He pointed to the picture on the slate.
“Nellie.” He drew his finger under his odd lines. “Nellie.”
He set aside the slate. She wanted to rub at the lines, but what would happen if she did not have the power to do it? What if it took a special kind of magic?
The man took out a small piece of what appeared to be the birch bark, though it was perfectly smooth. Using a feather, which he dipped into the small black bottle, he scratched upon the bark the same lines he drew upon the slate. He held it up. “Nellie.”
He pressed the small piece of birch bark upon her covered bosom. Momentarily shocked, she snatched at the small piece of bark and stared at it.
“Nellie," he repeated.
He placed another piece of white bark on the table and dipped in the feather in the black liquid once more. He frowned, quirked up one corner of his mouth, shook his head, mumbled something under his breath, and made more lines.
“Ryan,” he said. He placed the bark on his own chest. “My name is Ryan. Your name is Nellie.”
Realization dawned upon her at what the lines represented before her pride rallied and she blurted out, “Nellie Red Bird.”
He nodded, took the white bark from her hand, and proceeded to scratch more lines on it. “Nellie Red Bird.” He handed it back to her.
“Ryan,” he said. He placed the bark on his own chest. “My name is Ryan. Your name is Nellie.”
Realization dawned upon her at what the lines represented before her pride rallied and she blurted out, “Nellie Red Bird.”
He nodded, took the white bark from her hand, and proceeded to scratch more lines on it. “Nellie Red Bird.” He handed it back to her.
Her eyes misted over as she stared at the small piece of white bark with the black lines scratched upon. it. This is who she was in the white man’s world—black lines on white bark. Would her people consider her dead if she was unable to return to them? The name of her husband would no longer be uttered for when anyone passed away in the tribe, their name died
with them.
Was Màxkchulëns as good as dead?
with them.
Was Màxkchulëns as good as dead?
💗 💗 💗 💗 💗
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