The Marriage Cure

by Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

  “Thank ye, Sabetha. I’m ashamed to cry so but ye’re a comfort, woman.”

  “Ye needn’t be,” Her fingers moved through his hair, stroking and consoling. “Ye needed to keen yer dead and weep for them.”

  He sighed, hard. “Aye.”

  “Will ye sleep now, mo chroi?” Her eyes ached and she longed to close them.

  “Aye, I think I can now.”

  His weeping spell must have drained his strength for soon he relaxed in her arms and she knew he slept. It was then she wept for him, slow, silent tears for all he had suffered and tears of joy that he had found his way to her.

  In the morning, he said nothing of either his tears or his tale but he seemed well, better in some way she could not quite name. When he rose, he rejected the castoff shirt he wore during his illness and donned his buckskins. They were clean for she had washed them and dried them on the bushes near the spring. He looked fine in them, far better than in Henry’s shirt, but because he lost pounds during his illness, the buckskins swam on him, swallowed him up until he looked like a boy trying on his father’s clothes.

  “What do ye think?” Johnny asked, holding up the leggings so they would not fall down. “I don’t suppose ye can take them in?”

  Sabetha shook her head. “I can’t, not the tanned leather. I’ve not a needle that will do it. Ye can’t wear those, Johnny.”

  He grinned. “What would ye have me wear then? My skin?”

  Laughter erupted and she giggled like the girl she had been not so long ago. He laughed too, a warm chuckle that made her laugh harder with delight. Laughter was better than tears, any day.

  “I’ve some of my late husband’s breeches put up,” Sabetha said. “And one or two shirts.”

  He made a face. “I’d rather not dress in your dead man’s clothes but I’ve little choice. Let me see them.”

  The breeches–or breeks–were clean and fit him close enough. He tugged at the breeches until they hung the way he wanted and strapped his knife around his waist. Before he asked, she handed him his moccasins, worn thin over many miles and when he put them on, he smiled.

  “I feel near myself again,” he said.

  “Ye look fine, man,” Sabetha told him, unable to resist fingering the shirt and adjusting the collar. “Ye would look well and hale were ye not so pale.”

  “Aye,” he sighed. “I know I’m still weak as a puny wane but ‘tis good to wear clothes again. Are ye going to the cornfield this morning?”

  She would rather not venture near the field but by now, it would be ankle deep in weeds and if she did not go soon, there would be no point.

  “Aye. Will ye bide here, then, till I’m back?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m coming with ye. I’ll hoe a row or two if I’m able, then I’ll watch ye.”

  “Ye’re hardly out of bed!” Sabetha cried. “Johnny, man, are ye sure ye feel up to it?”

  “I do.” His cocky grin melted her objections. The smile lightened his features and was still a novel expression.

  “Then come with me but ye’ll stop if ye get tired, won’t ye?”

  “Aye. I’m no fool,” Johnny said. “I’ve no wish to be back abed.”

  Despite his bravado, the walk to the cornfield winded him and he slowed to catch his breath and take a rest beneath a tree at the edge of the clearing. His face shone with perspiration and Sabetha wiped his face with the edge of her dress.

  “Will ye do?” she asked, mouth quirked with worry.

  “Aye,” he gasped. “Ta tart orm.”

  She held the water jug she carried up so he could drink and he did, gulping the water so fast it spilled onto his clothing.

  “Here, ye’ll founder,” she scolded as she took it away. “Sit and rest for a minute. I’ll hoe and if ye feel like it, ye can soon enough.”

  He nodded. If he was pale before, he now looked very white but she didn’t worry much. He was out of bed just two days earlier; walking so far exerted his feeble strength. She thought she might let him hoe a row or portion of one, attacking the first row of weeds with the hoe. As she got into the swing of the tool, her mind drifted and she enjoyed the day, the feel of the sunshine slanting through the trees onto her bare head, and the songs of the birds. From time to time, she peeked at Johnny but he looked well enough. He wasn’t so white, now, and he looked content as if he enjoyed being outside as well.

  Although it was slow work, the morning passed more quickly than when she worked alone. He often called to her, a comment or question as she hoed but he startled her when he appeared at her side. He snatched the hoe out of her hands and said with a toss of his head toward the trees,

  “Go sit down. I’ll hoe now.”

  Perplexed, she stared at him. “What are ye doing?”

  “Don’t you hear?” he said, his voice harsh with urgency. “Someone’s coming.”

  She cocked her head and listened. Behind the bird songs, the wind in the leaves, and the other normal sounds of the forest, she heard what he heard approaching hoof beats.

  His face was a mask, stern and formidable. She obeyed him without question.

  ****

  Johnny Devaney

  It wasn’t just the walk that sapped his strength; it was being in a cornfield again. The last time he stood among the neat rows of growing corn his life changed forever in moments. His father bled into death among the new growth and nothing had ever been the same. Johnny never thought it would bother him, not until he saw the corn stalks knee-high and waving in the slight breeze. Memory hit hard and he stopped, short of breath from walking and soul sick from remembering.

  Sabetha thought it no more than weakness from his fever and he told her no different. He took a long drink of the water and settled down at the base of the tree, the trunk against his back sturdy and strong. Other memories rose, scenes from the hell stockade in Kentucky but he inhaled and sighed with relief. There was no stench here, just a familiar rich woodland smell of loam and plants. Above him, he could see patches of sky as blue as the Virgin Mary’s cloak and soft white clouds scudding past on the wind. His breathing ease and he relaxed as he opened himself to the pleasure of being in these woods with this woman.

  He felt it before he heard it, a slight vibration in the ground and he alerted, focusing on sounds more distant than the trilling of the cardinals, other warbling birds, and the chatter of squirrels. His composure shattered as he heard the sound of men riding horses, more than one, and unless he had lost his senses, they rode toward this field.

  With an eerie sense of the past becoming the present, he found his feet and went to Sabetha, who worked in innocence. Whoever came, whatever they wanted, he should be the one to face them with the same bravery his father displayed that last morning. Johnny snatched the hoe from her hand and sent her to the edge of the field.

  His hands closed upon the smooth, well-worn wood of the hoe handle and he chopped at weeds, the skill not forgotten as the riders burst out of the thick trees into the far edge of the field. There were three men and four horses, settlers not soldiers. An older man, hair streaked with gray, rode just ahead of the other two and trailed a small pony behind him on a lead rope. Flanking him were two younger men astride.

  “Do ye know them?” he said to Sabetha through clenched teeth.

  Her face was calm but her eyes wild as she shook her head. Like him, she must be thinking of what he described happening in that Tennessee cornfield twelve months ago.

  The riders wheeled around the edge of the corn, narrowly missing the tender young growth and wheeled to a stop nearer Sabetha than he. Wary, he put the hoe over one shoulder and walked toward them.

  “Howdy,” The older, black-bearded man called out. “I’m calling on the neighbors. George Payton and my sons, Frank and Mathias, Matt for short. We settled up on yonder flat lands to the north of you last fall.”

  “We’re the Devaneys,” Johnny said. “I’m Johnny Devaney. ‘Tis good to meet ye. I didn’t know anyone lived so near.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, we do,” George Payton said, as he spit a long stream of tobacco juice. “We wouldn’t have known of you either but that old man, Rawlings, come by, told us about the widow there and the Cherokee boy she had living with her. I reckoned you might be dead; he said you had a powerful bad sickness when he saw you.”

  “Aye but thanks be to God, I lived through it,” Johnny said. His guts coiled tighter than a rattlesnake ready to strike. He didn’t like Payton and he could not believe this was a simple neighborly visit. “The woman’s a widow no more; she’s my wife now.”

  He dared not glance at Sabetha and prayed neither surprise or joy was evident in her face. Although he had not made a formal declaration of love, she knew how he felt, as he knew her heart. He did mean to make her his wife; he just had yet to talk about the matter with her.

  “Is she?” Payton said. “Well, hell, boys, it’s a wasted trip then. These boys need wives and I thought mayhap we’d found one. Guess we’re too late.”

  “Ye are that,” Johnny said.

  “Well, we can still set and visit a spell,” Payton said, directing his sons with a toss of his bearded chin to dismount. “Surely you have a bite to share with a neighbor.”

  There was little choice. Frontier hospitality meant they would share a meal with the men and if they did not, the simmering hostility between them would fan into open conflict. Although he was not afraid, Johnny doubted he had gained enough strength to fight so he forced a smile.

  “Aye. There’s turkey cooked and she can bake a cornbread to go with it,” He looked at her and she nodded, slipping away along the edge of the field. “Let me finish this row and we’ll go back to the cabin.”

  Johnny doubted Sabetha would want the rather dirty men in her neat cabin so he settled them outside, directing them to tie their horses to the posts of the open barn. They sprawled on the ground, Payton talkative, his sons taciturn until she began bringing out turkey, hot cornbread, and butter. They fell on the food like starving animals during a hard winter, spilling crumbs down their already dirty garments and crunching bones between their few black teeth. He ate little, sitting in the shade feeling none so good as he had earlier. His brief stint in the field had tired him and the strain of entertaining these strangers weighed heavy on him. He caught Sabetha watching him and winked at her so she wouldn’t worry.

  Payton talked of coming to the rugged country, of his wife and ten younger weans at home, and of his home back in Georgia. Then he shifted the talk toward Indians and Johnny’s already knotted stomach tensed.

  “Ol’ Man Rawlings said you were Cherokee,” Payton said, picking a shred of turkey from between his teeth. “Are you?”

  “I’m part,” Johnny said, clenching his jaw so tight it hurt. “I’m more Irish, though.”

  Payton nodded. “You looked like a breed, I thought. Heard about all them doings over to the Indian Nations? No? Why, it was the talk of the settlement. Seems like the Injuns who come first don’t cotton much to them that come later so they’re fussing and feuding. The new ones that Ol’ Hickory sent are led by a near white man, Ross, and they say he wants to take over the whole Cherokee nation.”

  “Do they?” Johnny asked. The beginnings of a headache throbbed at his temples and he had little desire to hear more.

  “Yes, sir, they sure do,” Payton said. The big, greasy man appeared to be enjoying torturing him. “They’re holding them a big ol’ meeting, thousands of Indians is coming in to the Fort Gibson. Sounds like a bad thing to me. Most of them Injuns are drunk and likely, there is going to be a fight.”

  A Dhia, he thought. And Davey right in the midst of that. He’ll be too drunk to know what happens if he’s not dead yet from either drink or fever.

  Aloud, he said, “Ah, well, what’s to be will be.”

  George Payton choked with laughter at that, and then pounded him on the back.

  “You’re a philosopher, too, then, Devaney,” he crowed. “It must be the Irish in you.”

  Johnny nodded, willing them to mount up and go. He had endured more than enough of their company and he thought the man’s sons were both asleep in the grass. May the ticks devour them, he thought, and chiggers too. The pressure in his temples burst into a full headache and he closed his eyes for one moment, wishing it would ease.

  “We’ve enjoyed your company this day,” Sabetha said. “But it’s well past noon and ye have a long ride home. My man is weary still and we’ve more chores to tend.”

  He opened his eyes and grinned at her despite his pain. She walloped them in her soft voice, her polite words a fist to shake them loose. Her tactic worked, to his relief, as they began rising, stretching, and gathering up their odd bits. By the time they mounted and said a farewell, promising to visit again, he felt puny and glad to see the back of them.

  “Imeacht gan teacht ort,” he called after them, with a wave of his hand.

  Sabetha laughed and he would have laughed as well but his head was pounding and when she saw that he was not feeling at all well, her laughter faded and she came to him.

  Chapter Seven

  Sabetha Mahoney Devaney

  She did not like the Paytons, and she knew Johnny liked them even less. His wary expression warned her that they were trouble in the making and Sabetha was glad to see them leave, laughing as he called after them in Irish to leave without returning. Such fools would never know he insulted them as they waved farewell.

  Her focus now was Johnny. He ate very little and she could see the weariness in him as he slumped, his shoulders down. His nerves were as taut as bowstring and when he rubbed his forehead, she knew he felt ill. Pain reflected in his dark eyes and she moved to help him raise, her hand grasping his arm.

  “Conas ata tu?”

  “Ta me tinn,” he said. “Ta tinneas cinn orm.”

  “Ye’re tired too,” Sabetha said. It was no wonder he had a headache. Working in the field as he did, even for such a short time, sapped his returning strength and worry over the Paytons was enough to make anyone’s head hurt. “If ye’d like to come rest, I’ll brew some willow bark for ye.”

  “Aye,” Johnny said, then spun away from her and bent over, retching up what little he had eaten. Then he put one hand over his stomach and groaned.

  “Johnny?” Vomiting worried her more. She expected the fatigue and headache but not this.

  “I’ll do,” he told her. “The food didn’t sit well on my stomach, that’s all. Being in the cornfield was too much, too like last year and then to hear about the trouble at Gibson, it sickened me.”

  She had known the similarity of the riders coming to them in the field upset him but now she understood it was more. “Ye’re worried for yer brother.”

  “Aye, I am,” Johnny said.

  He would not lie down until he drank some water then sprawled across the bed. When she put a wet rag across his forehead, his lips flickered in a small smile. She touched him, afraid he might be feverish, but his skin felt cool. He dozed, a little, waiting for the tea to steep and then insisted on getting up to drink it, sitting afterward at the table.

  “I’ve had my fill of the bed,” he said when she tried to coax him to lie down.

  When later, his color came back a bit and the tight line down his forehead eased, she stood behind him, hands on his shoulders.

  “Did ye mean it?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “What ye said to them in the corn.”

  He called her his wife; words that resonated in her soul but she wanted to be certain he meant them.

  “Ah, that,” Johnny said. His tone was lighter now than any time since they heard the Payton men coming. “Aye, ye know I did, woman. Ta gra agam duit.”

  Her eyes moistened, her heart expanded, and she felt so happy that it almost hurt.

  “I love ye, too, Johnny dhu, mo anam cara.”

  Johnny turned to face her, the smile on his face lighting his eyes.

  “Then will ye live with me and be my wife? Nial aon leighea ar an ngra
ach posadh."

  “’Tis true,” Sabetha whispered. “So cure me with marriage, then, and I’ll cure ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ll be yer wife but Johnny?”

  “What?”

  She did not know how to say it so she just blurted it out.

  “There’s no one to wed us proper.”

  He laughed and rose, almost turning the bench over in the process, and swept her into his embrace. “Do ye care? I’ll take ye to a priest when one is to be found, or a minister, but in the meantime, hand fasting is good enough for me.”

  Sabetha remembered how her Da spoke of hand fasting, how he and her Ma married so. It was, he said, a way of wedding that went back far before the Christ and before St. Patrick brought salvation to Ireland. If it worked then, he told her, it was valid enough now.

  “My own parents married that way,” Sabetha said. “They did, back in County Tyrone.”

  “Then won’t we do the same?” he said. “If ye like, I can kill ye a deer and bring it to you, the Tsa-La-Gi way but I’m never sure I can hunt without falling over in the woods and I don’t want to wait.”