During the fighting between the British and the Cherokees in the 1700s, a young woman of the Cherokee, “stripped like a warrior and armed,” was shot by the whites. She told them the warriors’ plans, and after that “they were moved by their compassion to put her out of her misery.” After her death they learned to their regret that she’d lied and led them into a disastrous ambush.
The soldiers in the scouting party all seemed to catch sight of the fleeing figure at the same time. Almost simultaneously, two of them dropped to one knee, aimed their muskets, and fired; as the sound rolled away through the forest, the running figure slowed, staggered, and finally fell.
Rushing up, they found a young Indian girl, evidently Cherokee, struggling to get to her feet. She was wearing only a short buckskin loincloth, and blood could be seen trailing down her left leg. When she saw them approaching she ceased her efforts and, with expressionless eyes, quietly watched them come.
One of the soldiers knelt beside her while another covered her with his rifle. "Make real sure she ain't got no weapon!" the second shouted.
The first handed his own rifle to one of the other soldiers and started tearing at the girl's dress. She made some perfunctory efforts at resistance, but when it was obvious they would avail her nothing she gave it up. Again she sat silent, neither helping nor resisting, while the soldier stripped her naked.
They all stared at her for a few moments. She was a teen-ager, her body slim and attractive, her breasts almost slight but smoothly rounded and a little upturned. Her legs were somewhat on the short side and athletically muscular but well-shaped. Her face was very appealing, her eyes large and her lips full, her hair long and thick. The bullet wound was in her upper thigh; blood still ran steadily though not alarmingly from a ragged hole halfway between her hip and her knee, and the ball remained inside her flesh.
"I guess she prob'ly can't tell us nothin'," the sergeant leading the men said as he ran his eyes over her young body. "Prob'ly can't speak no English..."
"I can," she said unexpectedly. "My mother's sister married a white trader. I once lived in their home." She made a few efforts to cover herself with her arms, but they were ineffectual.
The men laughed among themselves. "Well, then," the sergeant went on. "You can tell us where the rest of your people went, then! The bucks, I mean!" He grinned unpleasantly. "If'n you don't, well, we got our ways!"
She glanced up at him; it was apparent that she knew what he meant. With a sigh, she started talking, telling him about the direction her father and brothers had taken, explaining their plans to meet with another party on a certain river. Interrupting her with a question every now and then, the soldiers listened carefully.
"How many braves in your pappy's party?" the sergeant asked finally. "They got any guns?"
"Sixteen," she answered. "And no, they have only their bows."
"We c'n take 'em, Sarge," one of the privates said eagerly. "We c'n set an ambush on the Hiwassee. Be like shootin' ducks in a barrel!"
"Yes," the officer replied. "And we got plenty of time to get there before they do, if'n we go over the ridge! Plenty of time!" He looked at the girl again, who was staring at the ground. "Time to rest here for a while, even..."
The soldier who'd originally stripped the girl reached out and began kneading one of her breasts. She glanced up at him, but she didn't pull away, and she made no attempt to stop him. "Time to have a little fun, sarge?" he asked.
The officer waved his hand. "I don't see no harm in it," he replied magnanimously. "She ain't nuthin' but a squaw, even if she can speak English!"
The soldier wasted no time at all. While one of the others continued to keep his rifle trained on the girl, the man who'd asked the question quickly dropped his pants, and, almost hurling the girl onto her back on the ground. Grabbing at her wounded leg, she winced and gasped. He paid no attention; he pushed her thighs widely apart and positioned himself between them. By then he was already erect. The girl was dry, though, and it took him a couple of seconds to force himself inside her. Wincing again, she turned her face away as he started pumping his hips back and forth.
Leaving one man to keep his rifle at the ready, several of the other soldiers removed their trousers as well. One of the men knelt beside the girl's head and, grabbing her hair, turned her face toward his rapidly-rising organ. She stared at it blankly for a moment, her nose curling a little at the smell. But then, without any further encouragement, her tongue licked out tentatively and touched it. The man pushed it forward, and she took it between her lips, began to suck at it steadily. Meanwhile, some of the other men gathered around, massaging her breasts and thighs with rough hands. After a moment, one of her own small hands reached out to hold a soldier's penis. They laughed, but she began to work her fingers up and down on it.
The men had been in the field, away from women, for a long time; they did not last long. First the man between the girl's legs stiffened in orgasm and pulled his dripping penis free; then the one at her head followed, pushing his organ deep into her mouth as he began to ejaculate. She swallowed rapidly, but nevertheless the semen filled her mouth and overflowed, running down her cheek.
The men left her, and two more took their place. She groaned softly when one of them carelessly rested his weight on her injured leg, but she voiced no complaints. The sergeant knelt close by, watching as his soldiers, pair after pair, satisfied themselves. He himself took no part in the rape.
When the last man had finished and pulled up his pants, the sergeant stood up. "Well, boys, I guess we got all we gonna get from her!" he said. "We gotta get movin'."
"Can't take her along," one of the privates observed. "She can't walk, not with that leg wound."
"Leave me here," the girl told them as she pulled herself back to a sitting position. "I will-"
"Nah, that wouldn't be nice," the sergeant said. "We ain't gonna do that, honey. You was nice to us and all, we'll put ya out of your pain. Least we can do."
She looked from one face to another. "No, I-!"
"Now, t'ain't no trouble. Won't take more'n a minute or two, and we don't even hafta waste no powder!" Kneeling back down beside her, he drew a rusty and pitted knife from a scabbard at his waist.
Staring at the ugly knife, the girl scooted back a little. "No," she said softly. "No, don't! You don't-!"
"She's just like a ol' dog," one of the privates offered. "Don't know what's good for her!"
The sergeant reached out and put his left hand on the girl's shoulder. He was actually gentle with her. "He's right," he said. "Look at yer leg there! You think that's gonna heal up? It ain't. We leave you here, you're just gonna suffer and die." He shook his head. "No, mebbe you don't know but we do. You ain't gonna make it, and that's fer sure, so you just take it easy and let me help you along; I ain't gonna hurt you much."
As he spoke, the girl watched his eyes intently. When he finished she said nothing; she merely glanced around at the surrounding woods, then looked back down at the knife. He was still holding her shoulder with his left hand, and the point of the weapon was about a foot away from her, aimed directly at her chest.
He gripped her shoulder a little more tightly. "Look up here at me," he told her, his tone friendly.
She did as he said, her eyes huge and her mouth slightly open. And, as soon as their eyes met again, he stabbed her in the chest.
There was a heavy thud and a tearing sound; the girl's body jerked, but she recieved the blade in silence. Together, they looked back down at it. It had crossed to the right side of her body and had pierced her breast, a little below and inside the nipple. It was not yet very deeply imbedded; less than half of the six-inch blade was buried in her flesh. Even so, her blood was beginning to force its way out with a vengeance, flowing evenly over the knife and following the contour of her breast down toward her stomach.
Slowly, the girl raised her hand and covered the sergeant's with hers, wrapping her fingers around his. Watching her eyes, he pushed on it a little. She merely kept her hand on his, she did not try to resist him at all.
"That's it," he said. "That's being a good little girl." He pushed harder, and the knife began slipping on in; she just watched it go, and by the time the guards were getting close to her skin she was actively helping him push, helping him grind the rusted steel on into her body.
Leaving the knife imbedded in her breast, he took his hand off her shoulder and pushed her back down on the ground. She let go of his hand with apparent reluctance and winced again with the pain of the movement, but said nothing. Again she simply watched as he covered her breast with his hand and started pulling his knife back out.
Her skin clung to it as it came, and when it was free her blood erupted in a river, running steadily down over her side and pooling under her. Her face was tight and she was breathing very heavily; with each breath a new gout of blood flooded out of the ragged hole in her breast. She watched it come, but her hands remained down at her sides; she was completely passive, apparently content to allow herself to bleed to death.
The sergeant watched too. In spite of his earlier protestations that he wanted to give her a quick and merciful death, he made no efforts to hasten her end; he seemed to be fascinated by her flowing blood, by her calm and impassive manner. "These Indians sure do know how to die, don't they?" he remarked after a few moments.
The girl lifted her eyes and glanced at him, but she was clearly fading fast; her fingers were alternately clutching and releasing the grasses around her, and her legs had begun to tremble. "Yes," she whispered, her voice very weak and thin. The effort brought blood up into her mouth; she coughed, let it drain from her lips. Glancing beyond him again, she relaxed her features into a smile. "For our people, we have always known how to die!"
One of the privates scowled. "I don't see how-" he started to say. It was as far as he got; a Cherokee arrow thudded into his back, cutting off the remainder of his words. Quickly, the others looked up to see themselves surrounded by braves. Few of them even got a chance to cry out.
The sergeant, who was in the middle of a group of men, was one of the last to die. Realizing what had happened, that the girl had deliberately distracted them - even though it had cost her her life - while the braves got into position around them, he took out his fury on her with the last seconds of his life, plunging his knife repeatedly into her lower chest and abdomen. Her body jerked each time the blade pierced her, but her expression did not change. She had accomplished her mission, and her death preceded his by mere seconds.