The Indians took another soldier. They tied him to a stake and cut away bits of his flesh with the sharpened edges of clam shells. They worked at him for hours, until he bled to death.
The warriors came back for their next victim, sauntering among the prisoners, eyes aglow, painted faces like masks of monsters, stinking of the whiskey they'd been drinking all night. This time he was sure they were coming for him.
But they took Helene.
He had never forgotten her last words to him, spoken serenely as the Potawatomi seized her arms.
"I am going to join Henri. Pray to the Mother of God for me, Raoul."
The Indians dragged Helene into the woods. They took another woman as well.
The Potawatomi squaws, seated around a nearby campfire, chattered among themselves. They laughed whenever one of the women in the woods screamed. Raoul could not believe that any of those sounds were coming from his sister's throat.
The helpless white prisoners covered their faces and prayed and wept—and the men cursed.
He had hated himself for not trying to help Helene, but he was too frightened to move. Too frightened even to cry out. Brooding about it now, nearly thirteen years later, he told himself once again that if he'd tried to help Helene the Indians would have clubbed him to death. He told himself that he had been only ten years old. That did not make any difference to the shame he felt when he remembered that night. He should have gone to her. He should have fought to the death for her. He could never forgive himself.
Why didn't we all fight and die? Wouldn't it have been better to attack the Indians barehanded and be killed than to let that happen?