The Crossing at Cypress Creek

by Pam Hillman

  Chapter 8

  BREATHE IN. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Alanah poked at the fire, trying to keep her mind off what was going on inside the cabin. Lydia needed her, but she couldn’t bring herself to go inside.

  She blinked back the hot sting of tears. What was wrong with her? She could set a snare, catch a rabbit, skin it, and cook it over a spit. She could butcher a chicken or quarter a deer, but when it came to the close, tedious work of cleaning a wound or extracting a bullet out of a man, she shut down.

  What good would she be to Lydia if she couldn’t be counted on to stay on her feet in a crisis?

  Sure, she could identify every medicinal plant from here to Natchez and beyond, knew just how long to steep them to make them as potent as possible without losing the very nutrients that gave them their healing power. But to apply her knowledge to someone lying at death’s door hollowed out her insides and turned her limbs to jelly.

  “Miss?”

  She jumped up and whirled around so fast that she thought she’d pass out again. Caleb’s brother stood a few feet away. “Yes?”

  “Your friend Lydia said to make some wild lettuce tea t’ help Frank relax. Caleb, we need you t’ help hold him down while she stitches him up.”

  “Aye.” Caleb stood, joined his brother, and they both disappeared inside.

  Alanah mixed the wild lettuce paste in with a healthy dollop of honey to sweeten the bitter concoction. All the time, her heart thudded against her rib cage. Would she shame Lydia by passing out when she saw the injured man laid out on the table?

  Lord, give me strength. Lydia needs me. This man needs me. Please, Lord.

  As soon as the tea cooled, she headed toward the cabin, but with each leaden step, she felt as if she were slogging through quicksand.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

  Steps heavy, she crossed the porch and pushed open the door to see Lydia and the four men hovering over the table. As one, the men’s somber-eyed gazes followed her as she moved across the room. If she was going to pass out, there would be no hiding it in front of all these witnesses.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

  Everyone except Lydia backed away as she approached. Frank’s arm hung limp off the side of the table. Alanah focused on his face, trying not to look at —

  She felt herself sway. Instantly someone slipped between her and the man’s ripped torso. Caleb.

  “Let me help.”

  With his back to the others, he reached for the cup of thick, syrupy tea. He held the tea as she spooned small amounts in the man’s mouth, careful not to give him too much at once.

  Barely conscious, the injured man grimaced at the bitter taste and spit it out.

  Caleb’s brother moved to his other side. “Frank, this is Connor. Can you hear me?”

  Frank grimaced, then nodded.

  “Drink the tea, man. It’ll ease the pain.”

  Frank nodded again, and Alanah spooned a bit more in, repeating the process until he finished it all. As he drifted off, Alanah backed away. Her gaze met Lydia’s. “He’ll sleep now.”

  She might not be able to stomach digging a musket ball out of the man, but she knew exactly how much wild lettuce tincture to give him to send him into a restful slumber. Lydia motioned to the men, and they gathered around Frank, leaving Alanah to flee before she passed out in front of the lot of them.

  Outside, she came face-to-face with her uncle.

  Caleb followed Alanah, just to make sure the girl didn’t have another fainting spell.

  Why a woman being groomed to be a healer would faint at the sight of blood was a mystery to him. Was she sickly? She didn’t look it, but then he wasn’t much of a judge of women’s ailments.

  He almost ran her over when she stopped dead in the middle of the porch. He reached out to steady her, but she didn’t look to be wilting like a morning glory in the heat of the day. Instead, she stood ramrod straight, staring at a white-haired man, one hand on his flintlock, the other clasping a Bible.

  Florid features screwed up in a frown, the man shifted his attention from Caleb to Alanah. “What’s the meaning of this, girl?”

  “It’s nothing, Uncle Jude.” Alanah’s cheeks bloomed with color. “This is Caleb O’Shea. He’s —”

  “O’Shea, you say? With the logging crew?”

  “Aye.” Caleb moved away from Alanah, not sure if the crusty old man was going to shoot him or try to convert him on the spot. “We were scouting out a permanent camp for the lumber crew along the river, and one o’ our men got shot.”

  “Shot?” The bushy brows dove down. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I do no’ know, sir, but your niece and Miss Lydia were kind enough t’ patch him up.”

  “Is everything all right?” William, followed by Connor, stepped outside. “We heard voices.”

  “Alanah’s uncle.” Caleb motioned toward the old man.

  “William Wainwright at your service, sir.” William moved forward, hand held out in greeting. “Forgive us for barging in while you were away, but I’m afraid my man wouldn’t have survived if it hadn’t been for the skills of Lydia and your niece here.”

  “Reverend Jude Browning.” Alanah’s uncle shook hands. “I’m just glad that my niece had the good sense to assist you. And how is the unfortunate soul now?”

  “He’s resting comfortably. But I’m afraid he can’t be moved just yet.” William pulled a wallet out of his waistcoat. “I’ll be glad to pay for his care —”

  The reverend shook his head. “Thank you, sir, but it truly isn’t necessary.”

  “Please. I insist.” William pressed the coins in his hands. “Medicine and upkeep cost money.”

  Alanah’s uncle relented and pocketed the coins. “It will indeed serve us well. As you can see, we’ve fallen on hard times of late. The river pirates have sucked the very life out of Cypress Creek.”

  “I understand, sir. I suspect some of the same riffraff were the ones who shot at my own men.”

  “Most likely. I’d hoped they had left the area for good when Le Bonne and his gang of highwaymen were dispatched, but it seems I was mistaken.” Alanah’s uncle gave Connor and Caleb a shrewd look. “The river pirates who frequent Cypress Creek won’t be pleased to learn of your presence here.”

  Connor shouldered forward, a wary look on his face. “Why is that, sir?”

  “The highwaymen and the river pirates work hand in hand. The highwaymen pass stolen goods to the pirates to be sent downriver. Monsieur Le Bonne’s men kept the road between the trace and Cypress Creek hot with travel. Eventually pilfered loot made its way back to Natchez to be fenced by Le Bonne and others like him.”

  “What makes you think they are back?”

  “The attack on the party of travelers on the trace a few days ago. Your man lying there in the cabin, shot. And my niece —”

  “Uncle, please.” Alanah’s voice was so soft that Caleb doubted Connor and William heard her interruption.

  Caleb caught the look that passed between Alanah and her uncle. She shook her head, but he lowered his brows and plowed ahead, hands behind his back as if he were about to launch into a fiery sermon.

  “It is obvious the river pirates have returned from farther north and are working their way down the river toward Natchez. Once there, they will sell everything, then join unwary travelers coming back up the trace. They come, they go.” He scowled. “But they are always killing, stealing, and instilling fear wherever they go. That never changes.”

  “So Cypress Creek enjoyed a wee respite these past months as well?”

  The reverend nodded. “Yes, Jones and his band of pirates haven’t been seen since last spring. No one knew where they went. But we feared they would return. And they have.”

  Cry against them, for their wickedness is great.

  William Wainwright and the O’Shea brothers were long gone and night had set in when Jude stopped fighting agai
nst the still, quiet, but insistent voice inside his head. He shoved away from his prayer stump and scowled at the heavens.

  “All right, God. I’ll go.” He grabbed his Bible and stalked toward Cypress Creek, still grumbling to himself and to God. “But it will do no good. The inhabitants of Cypress Creek will not repent. This is a waste of my time and Yours. As it was the last time You sent me.”

  It didn’t take long to make the trek to the river settlement. Without slacking his pace, Jude slammed through the tavern door, glaring at the thieving cowards who frequented the establishment.

  The tavern owner glared right back, shook his finger. “You! I told you not to come back here.”

  “And why not, sir?” Jude held his Bible aloft. “If any a place needs to hear the Word of God, it’s this one. You’re nothing but a bunch of murdering, thieving cutthroats.”

  Elias Jones snickered, his guffaws quickly turning into a full-blown belly laugh. Slumping forward, he slapped the table with his open palm, laughing uproariously. Soon the entire place joined him in his merriment.

  Jude’s ire rose to a fevered pitch. He shook a finger in the man’s face. “Laugh if you want, Elias Jones, but God will have His say. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!”

  Just as quickly as Elias started laughing, he stopped, pulled out a long knife, and stuck it in the table in front of him. The place quieted instantly. “Reverend, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around, head out that door, and go back to preaching where you’re wanted, because you ain’t wanted here.”

  “I go where God sends me.” Jude stared Elias down.

  “God?” Elias cut him off. “God has no place here. And neither do you, old man. And you have no say in how I run things around here. Now that Micaiah’s gone, I’m in charge, and the men will do as I say.”

  “You are in charge?” Jude put his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “All right. What do you have to say of the men who attacked those loggers this very day? I suppose they answer to you, do they not?”

  “Any dandified plantation owner who thinks he can waltz in and line his pockets with the fat of the land has got what’s coming to him.”

  “You tell ’em, Elias.”

  “Yeah. Hear! Hear!”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  The men raised their tankards of ale in salute.

  Jude growled low in his throat. If he weren’t a man of God, he’d . . . “Mark my words. God won’t stand for this. Repent of your wicked ways —”

  “Enough,” Elias bellowed. Standing so suddenly his chair fell backward to clatter against the floor, he grabbed the knife and wrenched it free from the table. He stalked toward Jude, bloodshot eyes blazing, and Jude tried not to flinch. In all his travels crisscrossing the Natchez District, he’d never encountered anyone who struck fear into him as much as cousins Elias and Micaiah Jones.

  This is the last time, God. The last time, I tell You!

  Elias stopped short of ramming the knife into his stomach. “To show the good reverend here that we’re decent folk, would the men who attacked those poor helpless loggers step forward? We certainly wouldn’t want to harbor such lawlessness in our midst, now, would we?”

  Other than a few sniggers here and there, nobody said a word. Jude didn’t expect anyone to admit to the attack. And what would it matter if they did? There were no courts within twenty miles of Cypress Creek and not enough law-abiding citizens to go up against the river pirates and expect to come away unscathed. Only Jude’s standing as a preacher had given him leave to say as much as he had.

  “See?” Elias spread his hands wide, knife gleaming in the lamplight. “We are all as innocent as lambs.”

  Jude snorted, turned his back on Elias, and scanned the rest of the men. He saw a few faces that weren’t known to him. Some young and unshaven. Some who might be swayed to turn back to the straight and narrow. “There’s a logging camp hardly a stone’s throw away. I daresay they are in need of workers. It would behoove some of you to separate yourselves from men such as Elias Jones while you still can.”

  “You go too far, preacher,” Elias snarled.

  “As do you. God have mercy on your dark soul.”

  With those parting words, Jude shook the dust of the place off his feet.

  Two days after Frank had been shot, the loggers reached the Mississippi River.

  Caleb, along with the others, stood on a steep bluff, the waters of the mighty river rolling past. The bluff overlooked a mile-long island separated from shore by a sixty- to seventy-foot side channel. And right below them, the river at high stage had cut an expansive sandbar along the water’s edge.

  “This could work.” Connor nodded, looking pleased. “We can roll the logs off the bluff here, build the rafts on the sandbar, and launch them into the side channel and out into the river one at a time.”

  William eyed the setup, before turning to Vickers. “What say you, Vickers?”

  Mr. Vickers pointed at the hillside to their right. “I would build a road around that knoll, for ease in getting men and tools to safety should the sandbar flood.”

  “You think the sandbar is likely t’ flood?” A frown of concern wrinkled Connor’s brow.

  Vickers shrugged. “You know logging. I know the river. That island has very little vegetation. Makes me wonder how often it’s submerged.”

  “So be it. We’ll build the road. I do no’ want t’ lose men, horses, or tools t’ the raging waters o’ the Mississippi.”

  Caleb hunkered down, pulled a sprig of grass, and slid it through his fingers. “We’re still going t’ need sailors —”

  “Raftsmen, not sailors,” Connor corrected.

  “Raftsmen, then.” Caleb squinted at his brother. “Where will we get these raftsmen?”

  Connor jerked his head downriver. “There’s a tavern at Cypress Creek, so it shouldn’t be too hard t’ find somebody willing t’ pick up a few days’ pay. I’ll put out the word.”

  “Good. Glad that’s settled.” William nodded toward the expansive plateau they’d picked for a permanent logging camp. “The first order of business is to build a cookhouse for Gimpy, an office, and living quarters for the men.”

  “Aye, this is the spot, then. Let’s get started.” Connor slapped Caleb on the back. “Then, tomorrow, we’re going t’ Breeze Hill. It’s time the rest o’ the family got a look at ya, Brother.”

  A midmorning shower cooled things off, but the afternoon sun beat down with a vengeance. Alanah took a deep breath as Lydia pulled back the sheet covering Mr. Abbott’s wound. Would the sight of Lydia’s sutures send her into a dead faint?

  Over the last three days, she’d kept the man calm with a concoction of teas and tinctures, but she’d studiously avoided looking at his injury. Thankfully, Lydia had kept a close eye on the sutures and hadn’t really noticed that Alanah had not.

  Surfacing from the medicinal fog that had kept him blissfully unaware until today, Mr. Abbott glanced from Lydia to Alanah to Betsy, who stood next to the door, watching curiously but ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

  The poor man looked scared out of his wits, and who could blame him? Caleb and the others had left him with three crazy women.

  Lydia probed his side. He winced, and she glared at him. “Be still.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “Your side. It heals.”

  “Can I go back to camp now?”

  “It is your choice.” Lydia shrugged. “But you are not ready to use a saw or handle a team of horses. You’ll rip those stitches out and your entrails will spill out onto the forest floor for the coyotes to fight over.”

  The man’s horrified look just made Lydia cackle, and he frowned at her as if he realized she’d only been teasing. She turned away but paused as the sound of tiny hooves clattered across the front porch, followed by more clatter and the bleating of goats.

  “Those goats. Betsy —”

  “I’ll get them.” Alanah’s sister giggled, befo
re heading to round up the goats.

  Moments later, she yelped. Heart in her throat, Alanah stepped into the breezeway just in time to see Betsy run into the one-room cabin across from where Mr. Abbott lay. The sound of the heavy bar falling in place meant Betsy wouldn’t be emerging any time soon. There was only one thing that would make her sister bar the door.

  A man.

  Alanah grabbed the bow she kept handy and, with one quick motion, nocked an arrow. The flintlock might be a better option, but she had more experience with the bow. If she missed with the bow, she could have another arrow nocked before she could even think about reloading the old gun.

  The goats stood at attention, watching something —or someone —at the edge of the cleanly swept yard. Keeping close to the log wall, her bow at the ready, Alanah peered at the spot, feeling relieved when Tiberius showed himself. She released the pressure on the bow and moved out of the shadows onto the porch, waiting. Tiberius left the safety of the trees and approached the house. He gave a slight bow. “Miss Alanah.”

  For some reason, Alanah didn’t feel the need to pretend to be crazy around Tiberius. She didn’t even feel the need to pretend to be a fancy lady from Natchez. She could just be herself. A poor, plain girl scrounging a living from the earth.

  “Good day, Tiberius.” Alanah searched the woods for Caleb and the others but saw no one. “You’re alone?”

  “I am alone. Caleb and the others have gone to Breeze Hill for supplies.” He cleared his throat and lifted a haunch of venison. “Mr. William asked me to check on Mr. Abbott and bring provisions.”

  Alanah’s mouth watered. They hadn’t had venison in months. “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is in payment for Mr. Abbott’s upkeep. Mr. William would be pleased if you would accept.”

  Put that way, she couldn’t refuse. She took the offering. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” His attention shifted toward the cabin. “I would see Mr. Abbott?”

  “Of course.”

  She stepped aside, and he mounted the steps, ducking his head to keep from slamming into the low beam. Suddenly he stopped, whipped off his hat. “Miss Lydia.”