With This Peace

by Karen Campbell Prough

  Blood.

  “Oh, no!” Sobs burst from her throat. She grabbed a piece of curved bark lying on the log and used it to lift her iron pots out of the ashes.

  Then, Ella giggled—the awful tension melted away. Another miracle had occurred. The men failed to check under the ash-covered tops of the two kettles. They still held chunks of savory meat.

  “Thank you, Lord!”

  Ella scooted the kettles away from the blackened area. With a stick, she pushed the torn dress into the scorching coals under the ashes. The material smoldered, caught fire, and red tongues consumed it. The remains amounted to curling white ash and blackened lumps … once meticulously carved wooden buttons.

  Chapter 12

  With an apprehensive look over her shoulder, she carried the kettles to the wagon and set them inside. The children still slumbered under the netting.

  “Oh Lord, you’ve protected us one more time.” She choked back tears. “No, I ain’t fallin’ to pieces. I got God’s strength and promises! I will go on, ’til I cain’t hope no more.”

  She lifted the gun from where it leaned on the wheel, hidden under her abandoned skirt, and slung it over her shoulder. Using a machete, she sliced pile after pile of wiry grass for the oxen and the cow. They had eaten everything available around them. The oxen had stomped the ground into a muddy mush during the night, but they hadn’t made one sound while the Indians remained at the fire.

  The chickens clucked and welcomed her offering of crumbled corn, before she took their eggs. The calf, bedded near the cow, staggered to its feet. His light-colored coat appeared discolored and dirty from the mud. Skittish, he wedged himself close to Milly’s side.

  “It’s all right, sweet one. You’re lucky those Indians didn’t see you.” Ella ran her hand along the curly back of the wide-eyed calf. A sensation of peace flooded her soul. “Oh my Lord, thank you. Those savages might’ve taken the animals or the extra meat. They could’ve seen the children’s clothes on the wagon. I know you shut their eyes. You blinded ’em!” With eyes closed, she raised her hands high to the pallid dawn. She reveled in the calmness of the moment and God’s presence. “I can go on, no matter how tired.”

  She gathered the clean clothes and flung them into the wagon’s bed, except for a brown dress, which she slipped on over Jim’s pants. She buttoned the plain bodice and smoothed the somber, wrinkled skirt over her full hips before stepping out of the dirty pants. Her mind rocked with humiliation—remembering the searching eyes of the four men gawking at her.

  “Ella Dessa McKnapp, you left little for ’em to imagine!” But she had to giggle as she twisted her hair into a quick bun, retrieved her hair pins from the pants pocket, and jabbed them into the disheveled coil of hair. Her mood had lifted.

  The wrinkled clothing draped over the wheels, and the variety of items should’ve told the Indians more than one person camped beside the river. The oxen and cow, roped to trees on the opposite side of the wagon, were protected from direct view.

  God had adjusted the situation.

  Ella thought of the unfortunate woman—the owner of the green dress. Appalling pictures and thoughts burst through her mind. Had the slave helped kill her? Would anyone ever cry over her remains?

  “Don’t think sech things.” She clenched her fist. “Stop mullin’ over the unchangeable.”

  “Move, Amos—get over. Mama?”

  Hannah and Amos’s whines sounded hungry and cranky.

  “Shh—stop fussin’. Keep quiet,” she whispered and reached for her boots. “Come to the front. I’ll lift you down.” Without explaining too much to the children, she let them relieve themselves, while she stood guard with the gun.

  Hannah eyed the gun. A tiny frown creased her brow. “Did you see a bear?”

  “No.”

  “Bears bite.” Amos stated.

  “Yes, they do.” She lifted the boy and girl back to the wagon’s seat. “Whisper. No cryin’. Sit on the floor of the wagon—behind the seat. I want you safe. There’s Indians in the woods.”

  Wide-eyed, the two children obeyed. Amos sniffled, burying his face in his hands.

  “He needs a drink,” Hannah said. She patted his shoulder. “Don’t cry. Mama’s got water.”

  “Take these.” Ella slipped water-filled tin cups to them. “Thank you, Hannah, for carin’ for Amos. Stay behind the canvas. I’ll give you food.” She squinted and scanned the shadowy clumps of cypress, searching for the outline of an Indian or black slave.

  The children, wise beyond their years, crouched near the wagon’s front opening. Every once in a while, they raised their heads—like newly hatched fledglings—and peered out at the drifting water.

  Ella snatched the rest of their belongings and stored her dirty utensils. After dishing up bowls of cooked meat for the children, she forced herself to partake of a large helping. She scraped the remainders into one covered pot. The cooked meat would keep until noon.

  Ella whispered thoughts to Jim as she finished cleaning an iron pot. “I love you, Jim—love you so much! But I’m moving camp one more time. There’s a faint trail—a fork. I’ll foller it, to see where it goes. A slave, who was here with some Indians, spoke of a reservation. He said we shouldn’t be here. I don’t know why.”

  Ella watered the animals and struggled to yoke the oxen, but her thoughts drifted to the slave’s words. She hated to go off and leave after he said he’d return.

  But she wondered why she should trust him. He lived with the Seminoles. Then her thoughts switched to his mention of soldiers. Perhaps she’d cross paths with them. They might help her get to a fort or help her hunt for Jim. It gave her some comfort to think of soldiers close by.

  She decided to fill the large water barrels and made repetitive trips to the river with a bucket. On the last trek to the water’s edge, she stopped to wash her face and arms. The damp cloth calmed the itching on her mosquito-bitten arms.

  The meandering river meant food. Fish from the river would keep them fed. But she also knew the danger. She planned to go back to the fork in the trail and try the other path. Perhaps it would lead to a settlement.

  Ella didn’t want to end up lost in a swamp. There had to be people nearby. She needed to find them without backtracking to a military fortification further north.

  The fly-covered, drying head of the wild hog served as a horrific reminder. Time had slipped away. Buzzards circled overhead, drawn by the scent of death.

  She climbed to the wagon’s platform and motioned the children to sit with her. After she gave them the wet cloth, they took turns rubbing it over their faces. Their silly giggles made her smile.

  “Hang on.” She released the side brake with her left hand. “Gee!” The oxen swung the wagon around.

  They soon arrived back where the faint path forked toward palmetto brakes and waist-high scrub. Ella leaned from the wagon seat and tied another piece of her skirt to a branch.

  And then she urged the oxen along the sandy trail. She could tell it led to higher ground. The foliage changed to shadowed thickets under trees.

  The trail grew dim, but the huge oxen did their job, pulling the narrow wagon through the powdery sand. As moments passed, they left the higher growth behind them except for clumps of spiky cabbage palms and stellar oaks.

  Amos and Hannah watched three blue-and-gray birds fly close and follow the creaking wagon. The scrub birds called to each other in harsh, clipped notes, until Ella brought the wagon to a halt. The strange birds flew over the oxen’s backs in a short dipping flight. One landed on a bush close to the wagon and eyed her, as if expecting something.

  “Mama, he’s watchin’ us,” Hannah whispered.

  “Blue bird likes me.” Amos pointed.

  “They ain’t like blue birds back home,” Ella said. “These here are bigger.”

  She urged the oxen to move, but the scrub jays still followed a short distance.

  Ella wondered about the cut trail. Who had cleared the way? What would she find ahead
of them—friend or foe? The trail had been made for a wagon or an ox cart. There were old grooves and ruts where wheels had sunk in the firm dirt, creating deeper hollows, which remained visible.

  But it was apparent humans hadn’t used the trail for some time. Large paw marks crisscrossed the man-made trail. Animals of the wild—for a moment—touched where man had cut through their land. The black bear, with its exposed claws, had ambled through a pocket of damp soil, leaving impressive prints. Wild turkeys imprinted meandering, v-shaped marks, and an elusive panther’s rounded prints told the tale of a midnight hunt.

  Duncan had not lied about the abundance of game.

  Amos crawled into the wagon and dozed, but Hannah remained up front.

  “Mama?” She nestled on Ella’s shoulder. “Where’re we goin’? I liked the river.”

  “We left ’cause of Indians. The river’s close by—I think—beyond those trees.”

  The wagon rolled into a forest of piney woods, and Ella tied another blue piece of material from a short pine. The aroma of pine needles deepened as the morning grew warmer. The sandy ground had a pad of matted pine needles dried to leather-brown. Muffled sounds accompanied the occasional dry squeak of wagon wheels and the creak of stiff leather. The oxen’s round hooves produced a dull clopping noise.

  “Oh—Mama, it’s a field. See?” Hannah cried out.

  The opening in the pines revealed bright sunlight and clear blue sky.

  Chapter 13

  Ella stopped the team and stared at a cleared piece of ground—about two acres. Someone had chopped pines, left the stumps, burned the area, and cleared a rectangular haven in the wilderness. A split-rail fence blocked off the undersized section of land. Some of the weathered rails had collapsed, but for the most part, the fence appeared sturdy. And there remained evidence of an abandoned garden within its boundaries, although clumps of bright green palmettos—trying to reclaim the soil—had popped up all over the field. Near the woods, a few slanted cabbage palms clustered in the sun.

  A dilapidated barn made of logs leaned sideways, as if reaching for the ground. No chinking filled the visible spaces between the logs. The roof was closely woven palm fronds, dried silvery-brown, and held in place by slender saplings laid across the top of each slant to the sagging roof. A serviceable, latched door was built into a side of the structure. Palmettos grew in clusters tight to the barn, and wild grapevines trailed and explored the exterior. A second rail fence formed a rectangular stockade pen.

  “Mama, look!”

  Ella followed her daughter’s pointing finger. About ninety feet away, directly across from the garden, was a weathered cabin. Tucked beneath shady oaks, with three large pines nearby, it blended with the landscape.

  “You’ve got good eyes.” She tapped the rod on the oxen’s backs.

  Two steps, hewn from split logs, led to a narrow porch. The cabin’s roof, constructed of irregular shakes, was dried and lightened by the Florida sun. A rough-built chimney of sticks and light-colored clay went up the backside of the building, topping out above the peak. The front door, opposite the chimney, stood wide open, and hung by one leather hinge. A pine bench, supported with uneven pegged legs, occupied a spot on the sagging porch.

  “Oh, praise the Lord.” Ella held her breath and listened for voices.

  A discarded wooden barrel lay on its side in the middle of the sandy yard. The cabin sat propped above the ground by hand-hewn wedges of heart pine.

  “Hello, the house!”

  When nobody appeared, she clicked her tongue at the weary oxen. They pulled the wagon up to the porch. Through the open door, a handmade table and two pine benches could be seen. Debris covered the floor, as if someone had kicked or tossed it around.

  “Stay here.” Ella set the brake.

  The oxen munched spindly wildflowers growing near the porch even though the leather and wood yoke encumbered their large bodies. The calf trotted around the end of the wagon, kicked his little heels, and ran back to his protesting mother.

  Ella cautiously climbed the uneven steps, crossed the porch, and peered inside. She faced the fireplace, where powdered ashes still occupied the box. Mud daubers buzzed by her head. The persistent insects had built tube-like mud nests on the log walls.

  On the table were three hand-carved bowls, two tin plates, a coverless book, and pieces of flatware. A dried gourd dipper still protruded from the top of a waterless bucket. The scene triggered a chill down Ella’s spine as she pictured someone fleeing in the middle of a meal. A tiny shuttered opening had been cut out of the left-hand wall.

  The interior held no other furniture, except an irregular, homemade bed frame. It had a rope foundation—frayed, broken in numerous places, and chewed by mice. Remnants of a feather tick lay strewn on the floor, along with broken pottery, dirty pieces of clothing, and unrecognizable trash. A pile of moldy animal skins filled one corner, and she could see hunks of fur and bleached bones scattered under the table.

  “Mama, the oxen are pullin’!”

  “I’m comin’.” Ella saw what the facts presented. The small cabin had been abandoned. The walls were sound. Her family needed a shelter. It’s livable, she reflected. Do we dare?

  The simple roof hadn’t leaked. There seemed to be no damage on the uneven half-log flooring. Full round logs formed the walls, but instead of mud or clay chinking between them, a wedge of wood filled each gap. Slender tree trunks had been split lengthwise, quartered into four wedges, and the pointed side of the wedges pushed into the spaces between the logs. Sunlight trickled through tiny gaps, and mud daubers created their own multicolored chinking.

  “I wonder what …” Curious, Ella poked one mud tube. It crumbled. A brownish-red larva fell out and wiggled on the floor. “Ugh!” She nudged it with the toe of her boot, causing it to fall through a crack.

  There was a narrow loft over her head, constructed from slender logs fit tightly together and anchored on top of the cabin’s short sidewalls. She tiptoed further into the cabin so she could see the cramped headroom of the loft. There was scarcely four feet in height at the roof’s peak. A narrow wooden ladder—no more than two slender tree trunks with rungs of branches tied to it—leaned against the edge of the loft.

  She walked to the makeshift ladder, straightened it, and climbed. At the top, she peered over the last rung, which was covered with bird droppings. She spotted the remains of a straw bed. Fecal matter from mice, lizards, and birds littered the area. A bird’s nest occupied the top of one wall, and a melted candle lay in a spread-out pattern beside a metal holder.

  “Oh, my!” Ella descended the ladder, and four or five brown bugs scurried away as her boot touched a pile of torn flour sacks. Pa’metto bugs, Duncan called the nasty winged insects. They showed up everywhere they camped—in one form or another.

  Gingerly, she stepped over the sacks. A snake could hide in the trash or in the rusty pots and kettles near the fireplace. And she knew shiny black poisonous spiders loved to build their round egg sacs and conceal them inside or under objects.

  She walked to the porch, shielded her eyes from the blinding sunlight, and studied the piney flat woods to the right. She gave a sigh and smiled.

  “Hannah, baby, I think we’ve got us a home. At leastways, it’ll be ours for a short time, ’til your papa finds us and the rightful owner returns. They cain’t care if I clean it up, and we use it ’til then. It’ll only be better.”

  “I want down.” Hannah grabbed her rag doll.

  Ella swung her daughter over the side and onto the saggy porch. “Now, I’ll warn you, don’t prowl through things. Let me. There could be a rat’ler in the trash.”

  Hannah ran barefooted to study the messy interior. “I see a book.”

  “Let me get it.” Ella gingerly took the book and blew dust off the cover. “Here.”

  The girl tucked the doll under her left arm and held the thin book to her chest. Her smile was broad.

  “Sit with your back to the wall. You’ll be out of t
he sun. Read an’ play with Mae.”

  Hannah cradled her doll and opened the precious book. “Mae, I can read. Listen. Baby duck likes … waaa … ter. Baby duck likes water.”

  “You did good, Hannah, child.”

  Ella remembered the nights her own mama sat at a wooden table and made her read aloud. Although not highly educated, her mama knew how to read and spell. A ragged collection of three spellers and a black leather-bound family Bible had been some of her lifelong treasures.

  It took some coaxing to get the oxen to back up and position the rear of the wagon tight to the porch. The maneuver fixed it so she could step over the end boards, directly to the porch. She unyoked the oxen and, one by one, staked them near the barn. Along with them, she tied the cow out to graze.

  Ella walked through the thick grass and slid the bar on the barn door. The unchinked log building had a dirt floor, littered with powdery droppings of a horse or mule. More palmetto bugs and roaches scurried away. The walls displayed draperies of dusty webs, and a huge brown spider ran along the log wall. It slipped into a crack, but the tips of its legs still showed.

  Moldy leather harnesses and stiff whips hung on wooden pegs. A swingle tree, a large froe for splitting blocks of wood, and a rusted blade—belonging to a barking axe—lay on the floor. A length of trace chain hung down a partial wall.

  She stared upward. The cross poles and palm thatch fascinated her. Even in the dried fronds, mud daubers built tubes.

  Outside the barn, a broken plow and a water trough sat side by side. The trough was made from a split tree trunk—carved, burned, and hollowed out. It held warm green water, and a black water beetle skated on the stagnant water’s surface.

  “I will clean an’ fill it,” she murmured. Hope grew. The answer to their immediate needs was unfolding. “Oh, my Lord, thank you for blessin’s.”

  Amos still napped—sprawled on his back—sweat shining on his face. But he stirred at the sound of their voices. “Mama?”