The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  But the position didn’t seem to have affected Connor’s ability to get his hands dirty when the need arose. William, on the other hand, spent his days in the tent or riding up and down the fresh-cut trail, inventorying logs and giving orders while the rest of them toiled from sunup to sundown.

  He’d met many men like Wainwright. Born with a silver spoon in their mouths, they never worked a day in their lives and wouldn’t know a shovel from an ax. It had been the same back in Ireland with the English landlords and with the owners of the ships he’d sailed on. They made their livings on the backs of others, and no matter where he went, he didn’t expect that to change.

  “See here.” William picked up a stick, drew a long, serpentine line in the sand. “We should come out near a small settlement right on the river called Cypress Creek. By my calculations, that puts the river and the settlement a mile or so up ahead.”

  Caleb’s opinion of William ratcheted up a notch. If nothing else, the man knew how to read his maps, even vague ones that left a lot to the imagination. Caleb was willing to give credit where credit was due.

  “I’d steer clear of Cypress Creek iffen I was you.” Gimpy banged on his pots and pans. “Nothing but cutthroats and river pirates holed up there. And when winter sets in, with less travel on the river, the place will be crawling with them. Mark my words.”

  “And that’s why we’re heading that direction.” William set his trencher to the side, then pulled a kerchief out of his pocket. Wiping his hands, he addressed the group. “We’re going to need raftsmen to navigate the river. I figure Cypress Creek is the perfect place to find them.”

  A ripple of surprise rose from the men seated around the campfire. Gimpy tossed a disgusted look over his shoulder. “You gonna turn these logs over to them river pirates? That’s about the dumbest thing I ever heard. Iffen ya don’t mind my sayin’ so.”

  “How else are we going to get the logs downriver?” Wainwright pointed at the cook. “Gimpy, are you up for the task? Björn? Anybody else?”

  All was quiet until a wiry, middle-aged man cleared his throat. “I’d be willing, Mr. William. I left my wife and family in Natchez, and it’d be nice to get to visit them every few days.”

  “Ah. Vickers. Do you have experience with rafting, with the river? That’s what I want to know.”

  “I was born and raised upriver a ways, and I’ve floated my share of rafts and flatboats down the Mississippi.”

  “That’s good enough. Anyone else?”

  No one else volunteered. Clearly none was interested in taking on the job. They were woodsmen, not sailors or boatmen.

  “I thought not. While it’s not an ocean voyage, navigating the river riding a bunch of bucking logs takes a skill none of us possess.” William sat back. “But I’ve seen rafts of logs floating down the river, fifty, sixty feet wide and more, so it can be done. Cheaply and easily. We’ll just need a pilot and a crew for each raft.”

  “Aye. That’s the way o’ it, lads. And the sooner we reach the river, the sooner we can send our first timber raft toward Natchez.” Connor looked around at the crew. “But first thing in the morning, we’ll find out about this swamp William has conjured up. Horne, I’ll need you and Frank t’ go with us.”

  Mr. Horne frowned. “But tomorrow’s Sunday —”

  “I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Horne. We’ll leave after your sermon. You men can spend the day sharpening your saws and repairing harnesses. Then you have the rest of the day off for your leisure.”

  As Caleb made his way to the tent he shared with Tiberius, his step was light.

  Unlike the loggers who balked at guiding the logs downriver, the idea filled him with excitement.

  Chapter 7

  THE SUN WAS BARELY UP WHEN MR. Horne began his sermon. As soon as the last amen was said, Caleb gulped down some leftover stew and went in search of his brother. He found Connor and William in the tent that served as the camp headquarters.

  “Connor, I would have a word with you.”

  “Aye?”

  Caleb twisted his hat in his hands, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. He had no right to ask to go along. He was the least of the men on his brother’s crew, and he didn’t plan on staying long. If anything, he knew even less than Rory about logging, and here he was asking for favors.

  “You’re going t’ need a river pilot.” His voice sounded gruff even to his own ears. “I’m the man for the job. I’ve spent most o’ the last three years at sea.”

  “Are you sure you’re up t’ the task?” Connor frowned. “Sailing on the open sea is no’ the same as navigating a river.”

  Caleb scowled. His brother must think he was an eejit. “I canna see how it’d be any harder. Without the sails t’ worry with, I think I can handle drifting down a lazy river on the backs o’ a pile o’ logs.”

  “You heard Gimpy. Most o’ the men who’ll hire on will be little more than river pirates who’d as likely cut your throat as look at you.”

  “All the more reason you need me.” Caleb narrowed his eyes. “I’ve spent my share o’ time fighting off pirates.”

  What Caleb didn’t say was that he’d ended up fighting alongside the pirates a few times in his life. Not from choice, but from necessity. He didn’t like to think about what he’d done to stay alive, but the skills he’d learned would come in handy if needed.

  “Connor, your brother has a point.” Wainwright glanced from one to the other, then stuffed some papers into a bag. “We’re going to need someone we can trust to oversee the river runs. Most of these river folk have been sailors at one time or another, and Caleb understands them better than either of us ever will. And as you heard last night, the men on the logging crew aren’t interested in joining forces with the men who work the river.”

  Connor scowled. “I do no’ like it, but if you’re sure —”

  “Aye, I’m sure.” Caleb cleared his throat. “I’d like t’ go along if you do no’ mind.”

  “I have no objections if William is agreeable.”

  Wainwright’s shrewd gaze assessed him, and Caleb decided in that instant that he’d misjudged the man. “I’m agreeable.”

  They joined Mr. Horne and Frank, and the five of them followed a game trail along a ridge heading west. Every so often, William would tie a strip of white cloth on a tree marking the route they planned to take, and they’d continue on.

  More than once, they backtracked, pulled the markers, and changed the route, but overall, they followed the same game trail that Alanah had led Caleb on a few days before. They stopped in a clearing and William unrolled his maps. As they looked at the rough drawings, discussing the best route to take to get to the river, Caleb pointed to what looked like a road. “What’s this?”

  William’s finger traced the winding path on the map. “There’s a road —of sorts —that leads from Mount Locust to Cypress Creek.”

  “That’s the road we took to get to the logging camp.” Caleb studied the map. It was also the same road he and Tiberius had crossed when they’d helped Alanah and her sister get home. “Then why not use it for the logging trail?”

  “For one thing, it’s the edge of my father’s holdings, and for another, we’re going to be snaking logs to the river rain or shine. By the time we get through, that road would likely be impassable. No need in alienating the locals more than necessary.”

  Half an hour later, the men walked out of the woods atop a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. At least a mile across at this point, slow-moving and lazy, the placid surface couldn’t be more perfect for floating logs down the river.

  Frowning, Connor eyed the narrow strip of sand along the riverbank. “This will no’ do.”

  What? Caleb jerked his head toward his brother.

  “We need a large sandbar at river’s edge. Horne, you and Frank head south. Look for a cove, a stream, an inlet. Cypress Creek should flow into the river somewhere along here.”

  As the two men walked away, Caleb motioned to the river below. �
��Why no’ build a flue here and shoot the logs into the river?”

  “If we were going t’ float them down individually, that would work. Instead, we’re going t’ lash the logs together, make rafts, and pilot them downriver to Natchez.”

  “And maybe even as far as New Orleans.” William looked like the cat who ate the cream.

  “New Orleans?” Connor started walking north along the bluff’s rim. “What have you been up t’?”

  “Nothing of import. Father will have the sawmill in Natchez up and running soon, but he’s also talking to a business associate in New Orleans about a contract —”

  A boom reverberated through the woods, cutting him off. Connor placed one hand on the pistol tucked into his waistband. “What —?”

  Another shot rang out, followed by a third, all from the direction Mr. Horne and Frank had gone. Caleb rushed forward as a fourth shot rang out, Connor and William following close behind. Depending on how many men there were, and how well they were armed, they might be too late to save Horne and Frank.

  When they neared the sound of fighting, Caleb slowed, motioning for Connor and William to spread out. They had the element of surprise on their side. Connor took the left flank, William the right, each one with pistols drawn, moving stealthily toward the attackers.

  The cutthroats never even saw them coming, they were so focused on the two men they had pinned down. Caleb cut a glance toward Connor, eyes narrowed in question. Jaw clenched, Connor gave a short nod, leveled his pistol at the attackers, and pulled off a shot. Concentrating on the shadowy form nearest him, Caleb took aim and fired. William’s pistol boomed mere seconds later.

  Caught in the middle, the attackers returned fire. As Caleb dove for cover, he felt a white-hot burn along his thigh. Glancing down, he saw a streak of red soaking into his breeches right above the knee. But there was no time to see how bad the injury was.

  After one more volley of shots, the cutthroats took to the woods. Letting them go, Caleb hunkered down at the base of a pine and started reloading, watching the woods for another attack. Moments later, they heard the sound of pounding hooves as the outlaws fled.

  “Zachariah? Frank?” Connor called out. “Are ya all right?”

  “Frank’s hit.” Mr. Horne sounded scared. “He’s hit bad.”

  “Hand me your pistol.” Caleb held out his hand. “I’ll keep watch while you see t’ him.”

  Betsy sidled into the house and stood behind the door, looking pale. There was only one thing that frightened her sister like that.

  Strangers.

  Alanah hurried out the open door, pausing on the shadowy porch. Lydia joined her, dark eyes wary, the battered flintlock in her hands. Four men flitted through the trees, carrying a fifth on a makeshift litter.

  They stopped at the edge of the clearing, lowering the litter to the ground. One man separated himself from the others and came forward. Alanah was relieved to recognize Caleb O’Shea.

  He strode toward the porch. “We need your help. Someone’s been shot.”

  Alanah’s attention slid past Caleb to the three men hovering over their wounded companion. Unlike Micaiah and the river pirates, who pushed their way inside the cabin without regard to Alanah’s or Lydia’s wishes, these men asked for help instead of demanding it.

  “Why did you come here?” Lydia’s voice was cold and unwelcoming.

  “It was the closest place we knew of, ma’am.” Caleb squinted at her.

  “Cypress Creek is just over the rise.”

  The man who’d given them the slab of bacon stood, walked toward the porch. His gaze swept over Lydia and the gun she held, before settling on Alanah. He gave a short nod of recognition. “Caleb, if they do no’ want t’ help, we will no’ force them.”

  “This is me brother, Connor O’Shea.” Caleb motioned to the other man.

  Alanah nodded. She should have known. Both had the same square jaw, the same Irish brogue. “Lydia, please. They’ve been kind to us.”

  Lydia refused to let strangers in the house, not after what Micaiah had done to Betsy. She’d barely let Tiberius in long enough to put Betsy down. After a moment, she lowered the gun and stepped aside. The men carried the injured man up the steps, past her. Alanah’s vision swam as she caught sight of the gaping hole in his side, his torn shirt trailing along the porch, leaving a smear of blood in its wake. She swallowed and averted her gaze.

  Lydia glanced at her, then handed her the flintlock. “Fetch what we’ll need and build up the fire.”

  Alanah took the gun and rushed to do Lydia’s bidding.

  Caleb watched Alanah hurry toward a shack —smaller and more derelict than the two-room cabin with the breezeway —nestled in the woods beyond an equally run-down barn.

  Her face had gone white as a sheet when she’d seen Frank’s injury.

  He wouldn’t have thought the lass to be squeamish. In spite of the life-and-death situation, he chuckled, then ducked beneath the arbor and started feeding sticks into the fire.

  His hair stood on end as a razor-sharp knife appeared in his line of sight. Cutting his gaze to the woman with eyes like charred coal, he arched a brow. With a flick of her wrist, she inverted the knife, holding it out, handle first. “Red-hot. To cauterize the wound.”

  Caleb took the knife. “Aye.”

  She reached for two more long, thin blades with sharp points and laid them on the flat rocks surrounding the fire pit. “Keep them ready.”

  “Lydia.” Alanah rushed toward them, breathless, a large pack clasped against her. “I fetched plenty of dried moss to pack the wound. Do you need anything else?”

  “Will you help with the injured man?”

  If anything, Alanah paled even more, but she jutted out her chin. “If I must.”

  “Not today, little warrior.” With a slight chuckle that belied her fierce glare, the woman called Lydia took the pack, rummaged through it, pulled out a handful of small packets, handed them to Alanah. “Tend this one’s wounds. It will be great practice for you.”

  Lydia headed back inside, and Alanah eyed the strip of cloth he’d tied around his leg, the stain of red where his blood had soaked through. She swallowed. “You’re injured.”

  Caleb shrugged. “’Tis nothing. Just a scratch.”

  “But Lydia said —”

  “Do you always do what Lydia says?”

  “I’m her apprentice. It’s expected.”

  It really was just a scratch, but if it made her feel better, he’d let her see to it. “All right. It will no’ hurt to dress it properly, I suppose.”

  While Alanah fetched a bucket of water and fresh bandages, Caleb unwrapped the bandage he’d made out of his own kerchief and, knowing there was nothing for it, ripped his breeches to expose the injury. When she returned, he stretched his leg out.

  She sucked in a breath. He wasn’t sure what shocked her more, the tiny furrow the musket ball had gouged along his outer thigh or the vicious scar that ran parallel to it.

  “See, ’tis no’ so bad.” He flicked the torn cloth of his britches over the old injury. No need in giving her reasons to ask questions. “Looks like the ball just grazed me. You can see where it plowed along my leg.”

  “Yes, I —I see.”

  Hands shaking, she dabbed something sticky and smelling to high heaven on his leg, the tips of her fingers smoothing on the salve. She sucked in another deep breath when his blood mixed with the salve.

  Caleb glanced at her, saw that her golden complexion was now pasty white. “Are ya all right, lass?”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll be fine.” She grabbed a thin piece of gauze, draped it over his wound, then washed the blood from her fingers.

  Aware that she was uncomfortable dressing his leg, Caleb pressed the gauze in place. “That’ll do. I do no’ need a bandage.”

  Her brows lowered. “No, we must bandage it properly.”

  Mr. Horne bounded down the steps and hurried toward them. “Lydia needs a knife. She dug the ball out, and now she
’s going to cauterize the wound.”

  As quickly as he’d come, Horne went back inside, hot blade in hand.

  A scream of agony exploded from the cabin, and Alanah flinched. The next thing Caleb knew, her eyelids fluttered, and he barely caught her before she fell into a heap at his feet.

  “Alanah?” He cradled her in his arms. “Miss? Are you all right?”

  No response. Just deadweight against his chest, her head lolling over his arm, golden-brown lashes feathered against her cheeks, her hair trailing down. In a panic, Caleb turned toward the cabin, intent on calling Lydia, Connor, somebody, anybody —

  A faint moan from the slight female in his arms drew his gaze downward, and he stopped in his tracks. She blinked up at him. “What . . . what happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “Fainted?” Her face still held too little color.

  Caleb clutched her closer, lest she black out again. “Hold on, miss, I’ll get Lydia —”

  “No. Don’t.” Her voice came out high-pitched and panicky. “Don’t tell her, please. Put me down.”

  Caleb stared at her. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I’m sure. Put me down before —” red suffused her cheeks —“before someone sees.”

  Caleb lowered her to her feet, keeping one hand on her elbow as she walked back to the fire, her gait unsteady. He was relieved when she sank onto a stump. He straddled one nearby, keeping an eye on her.

  With trembling hands, she jerked up the small bags that Lydia had handed her and turned toward him, a fierce glint in her eyes. Jaw jutted out, she motioned for him to stretch out his leg. Caleb obeyed, expecting her to keel over again.

  Instead, she took a deep breath and pulled a length of cloth from the bag, wrapped it around his wound. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Lydia that I fainted.”

  “It is no’ my place t’ tell her, lass.”

  She searched his gaze, before returning her attention to the task at hand. “Thank you.”

  Her voice was little more than a whisper.