American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  "We will make it just fine." Listening to him, Eliza could picture it all happening.

  "See that knoll over there." Will pointed to a large, dark hump of ground west of the cabin. "When the government pays us our compensation for Gordon Glen, that is where we will build our new home."

  "Oh, yes." She smiled widely.

  "Miz 'Liza, these eggs be gettin' cold," Cassie warned.

  Eliza started to laugh, and Will joined in. Cassie looked at them and shook her head.

  35

  For Temple, those first days after Shawano's death were the worst. The horror of it remained with her, flashes of it returning at odd moments, making even the sight of a carving knife abhorrent to her. And there was the strain of not knowing where The Blade was. Someone said he had been seen with Watie's men, but Temple couldn't be sure of that. Her one consolation was knowing that bad news raced through the area faster than a cyclone. If he were dead, she would know it within hours. As a result, every time a rider approached the cabin her tension and dread mounted.

  Lije's bewilderment over the tragic events was equally difficult to cope with. He kept wanting to know when his father was coming home and where his Papa Stuart had gone. His young mind couldn't grasp the permanence of death.

  There was much confusion and there were many rumors afterward. It was said that Watie and his men scoured the countryside looking for the assassins to exact their own revenge. Supposedly, more armed bands were combing the area, intent on flushing other traitors from their hiding places and executing them for their crimes. Adding to the chaos, dragoons thundered out of Fort Gibson, chasing down every rumor and questioning all about the murders in an effort to apprehend the killers. Regardless of Ross's protestations that this was an internal matter to be settled by the Cherokees and not the military, Temple now wondered whether Kipp would be arrested.

  On July 1, the special meeting of the National Council convened as scheduled, its original purpose to unite the various factions through compromise. But one of the first acts of the council was to declare an amnesty for crimes that had been committed after they had arrived this past winter. In effect, Kipp was pardoned for his role in the death of Shawano Stuart. The council further stated that the slain men were outlaws, as were all who signed the treaty.

  Temple was now married to a man branded an outlaw. The council had offered to withdraw the condemnation from any who would publicly admit their wrong, but Temple knew The Blade would never consent to that. He still believed he had acted in the best interests of his people, and if there had been any wrong done, it had been by Ross with his stalling tactics.

  The situation seemed more hopeless than before. To keep from thinking about it, Temple threw herself into the work to be done, letting it demand all her time and energy. There was a great deal to supervise in addition to her regular duties as mistress of a burgeoning plantation: the construction of the new house, the operation of the sawmill, and the field work of the blacks. Trying to assume the responsibilities that had previously been borne by two men kept her in a state of near exhaustion.

  The second week of August, a wagon carrying a white family and all their possessions rolled to a stop in front of the double log cabin. Chained to the back of it were six Negroes, four males and two females, all of them adults. Temple looked them over. All six were young, strong, and relatively unmarked. She needed prime workers for the field and wondered if the man would consider selling any of them.

  "I reckon you to be Mrs. Stuart," the man said.

  "I am." Before she could say more, he reached in his pocket and handed her a letter.

  "My name's Harve Jacobs, and this here's my wife, Maudie, and our three young'ns."

  The handwriting was The Blade's. Hastily, Temple skimmed the contents of the letter, trying to still the excited trembling of her hands. But it merely introduced Harve Jacobs as the new overseer he had hired. There were no personal messages.

  "My husband ... is he all right? Do you know where he is?"

  "No, ma'am, I don't. He hired me over in Arkansas and said for me to bring my family here. Then he gave me these niggers and a bill of sale for 'em. That's all I know."

  "I see." She struggled to contain her disappointment. She had thought—she had hoped he might have sent some message for her. If not for her, then for Lije.

  For nearly two months, she'd had no word from him. It was like living the agony of their previous separation all over again. Temple tried to be grateful that some of the workload was being taken from her shoulders, but it was hard. Very hard. She folded the letter of introduction and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  The following week, on the hottest day in August, Phoebe went into labor. Temple sat beside her cot, gripping a brown hand and wiping the rivers of sweat from Phoebe's face. After eight hours of labor, Phoebe seemed no closer to giving birth than when she had first started. The black midwife sat in the rocking chair in the corner, knitting away at a pair of socks, seemingly unconcerned by the delay. Temple longed to scream at her to do something, but she was too tired and too hot. She dipped the rag in the basin of water, squeezed out the excess, and wiped Phoebe's face again.

  Another contraction twisted through Phoebe and she groaned loudly, squeezing Temple's hand so tightly that Temple thought the bones in her fingers would snap in two. She crooned softly with no idea at all what she was saying. After an interminable amount of time, the contraction passed. Phoebe sagged back against the straw mattress, breathing hard and fast, gulping in air.

  "Deu. I want Deu," she moaned. "Why isn't he here?"

  "A birthing bed is no place for a man to be. You know that, Phoebe." Temple wished she hadn't mentioned him. It only made her think of The Blade and how much she missed him.

  "I want him here," Phoebe sobbed. "I want my Deu."

  "You know he can't come."

  "Why? He did before when you and Master Blade were apart."

  "That was different then. Deu can't come. He might be followed when he left here. He won't do that, Phoebe. You know he won't."

  "But we're having a baby."

  "You are having the baby," Temple snapped, then muttered to herself, "and I wish you would hurry up."

  But it was another hour before the midwife put aside her knitting and came over to the cot. She checked the writhing girl and smiled. "It ain't gwine t' be long now, missy."

  In less than twenty minutes, Temple was holding a squalling, slippery black baby in her arms. "It's a boy, Phoebe." She smiled, temporarily forgetting how tired she was. "A big, strapping boy."

  Breathing long and slow, Phoebe smiled and briefly closed her eyes. "Deu'll be proud of him."

  Temple bathed the infant, wrapped him in a soft swaddling cloth, then gave him to Phoebe to nurse. She watched them for a time, smiling at the greedy way the babe suckled at Phoebe's breast. "He is so big. I think we will call him Ike, after your father. He reminds me of him," Temple said, exercising the mistress's right to name the child of her servant.

  "I like that, Miss Temple." Phoebe gazed at her baby son and lightly smoothed the downy wet hair on his head. "I like that just fine."

  The sweltering August heat lingered, making sleep impossible. After four fitful nights, Temple ordered cots to be set up in the dogtrot for her and Lije. But it made little difference as she lay there drenched in sweat with not a breath of air stirring. Listlessly, she waved a hand to chase away a mosquito buzzing near her ear. She was tired, yet sleep continued to elude her. For a time, Temple stared at the heat lightning dancing across the sky, taunting her with its false promise of cooling rain. Sighing, she closed her eyes and listened enviously to the soft breathing of her sleeping son.

  There was a whisper of movement, the light padding of bare feet on dirt. Instantly alert, Temple propped herself up on an elbow. A dark figure moved toward her through the shadows. "Who's there?"

  "It's me, Miz Temple, Dulcie," came an answering whisper from the cook. "Phoebe sent me t' fetch you. She say you's t'
come right 'way."

  "The baby." Temple scrambled off the cot and grabbed her wrapper, tugging it on. "Is little Ike sick?"

  "She don't say. She jus' say fer me t' fetch you."

  "Stay here with Lije until I come back."

  "Yes'm."

  Moving as quietly and quickly as possible, Temple slipped inside the cabin and retrieved her basket of medicine from the locked cabinet, then set off for the Negro quarters, running most of the way. When she reached Phoebe's cabin, the door was shut, despite the night's suffocating heat.

  Impatiently, Temple pushed it open and hurried inside. "What's wrong? Is Ike—" She stopped short, everything freezing inside when she saw the man who was standing beside Phoebe, the baby in his arms. She started to reach out to him, but her hand wouldn't raise. "The Blade," she whispered. "He's dead, isn't he?"

  "No, Miss Temple." Deu smiled gently. "He's alive. I promise you that."

  Temple shuddered violently in relief, then became conscious of the open door behind her. She hurriedly closed it. "You shouldn't have come, Deu. They could be watching the plantation."

  "There's no one out there, Miss Temple. We checked that before I snuck in."

  "We." She spun around. "The Blade is here?"

  "He's keeping watch from a safe place. He said for you not to go looking for him."

  "Why can't he—" But Temple immediately retracted the question. "Never mind." He wasn't coming in because he didn't want to see her. He still believed she had known of the planned assassination and failed to warn his father.

  "He wanted to know if the overseer was working out."

  "He seems to be." Temple didn't want to talk about the plantation, the crops, or the new house. "He appears to be experienced and knowledgeable about crops, growing conditions, and the rest. He is strict, but I haven't heard any reports that he has been overly harsh with the workers. The house should be finished by September."

  "He wanted me to ask if there was anything you and Lije needed."

  Yes. Him. That was what she wanted to say, but she couldn't tell that to Deu. "No. We are both doing well. Tell him ..." She paused, battling back her tears. "Tell him that his son misses him. And that... I miss him, too. Take care of him for me, Deu."

  "I will."

  There were too many tears in her eyes. She turned and bolted from the cabin, then forced herself to walk sedately, in case someone other than The Blade was watching.

  Could The Blade see her? she wondered. He had to. Wherever he was hiding, he would have chosen a place that would allow him to keep an eye on Deu's cabin and observe the approaches to the Negro quarters. The wooded slope to her right; from that vantage point he could see not only the quarters but the house clearing as well. Temple scanned the hillside, but the shadowy shapes of trees and underbrush blurred together in a black mass.

  For an instant, she looked directly at him. Instinctively, The Blade recoiled and placed a silencing hand over his horse's muzzle. It was a full second before he realized she couldn't see him.

  It was too dark and he had chosen his cover too well. But how had she known he was there? Dammit, he had told Deu not to tell her. He'd have his black hide for this.

  Then the anger was gone from him as he stared at Temple, a wraithlike figure in the pale moonlight, the white of her nightdress making her appear to float over the ground, the ebony sheen of her long black hair falling all the way to her waist like a hooded cape. There was something lonely and forlorn about her. He almost stepped from behind the concealing brush. But he checked the impulse and resisted the urge to go to her.

  It wasn't safe. It wasn't safe anywhere for him. And no matter how much he hated himself for thinking it, The Blade wasn't sure how much he could trust her. He knew she would not expose him or inform her brother of his presence, but if an attempt was made on his life, what would she do? He was an outlaw; anyone could kill him with impunity. How far would Temple go to protect him, considering that she believed he was guilty and that he was bound to die for his crime?

  Had she let his father ride into that ambush? "Kipp warned me," she had said, then claimed she hadn't known of the plot. Which was the truth? Kipp had been one of the assassins. That much The Blade knew. But Temple's foreknowledge . . . every time he was on the verge of believing she hadn't known, he would recall his father's body, red with blood, and hear her voice saying "Kipp warned me," and the doubt would start all over again.

  "Why, Temple?" he murmured thickly. "Why?"

  36

  Fort Gibson, Indian Territory

  January 20, 1840

  Jed Parmelee walked over to the wagon and smiled reassuringly at his wife. The corners of Cecilia's mouth lifted briefly in response, making her lips look even thinner and her apprehension more pronounced. A velvet bonnet in the same forest green shade as her fur-trimmed pelisse mantle covered most of her blond hair, leaving only the long ringlets at the sides to show.

  "The commander of my new dragoon company, Captain Collins, has invited us to have tea with him and his wife while our quarters are being readied. He'll be along soon to escort us to his quarters."

  "Now? But I'm all dusty from the trip, and my dress is crushed," Cecilia protested. "If he wants us to join him for tea, why can't we go to our new home first so I can freshen up?"

  "Because we have no quarters until the rooms are vacated by the second lieutenant currently occupying them."

  "You mean we are turning someone out?"

  "And he will turn out someone else. It's a common occurrence in the army. It's called ranking out," Jed explained patiently, recognizing that she wasn't familiar with many aspects of military life even after nine months as his wife, "Hopefully it won't happen to us for a while."

  Her glance strayed to the roughly hewn timbers that supported the roofed walkway, then traveled to the chinked log walls of the buildings that lined the inner perimeter of the fort's palisades. "I didn't expect it to be like this." Cecilia tried without success to keep the disgust and dismay out of her voice as she eyed three soldiers sentenced to the stocks. She shuddered at the ghastly spectacle they made with their heads and hands thrust through the openings.

  "This is the frontier, Cecilia. I warned you it might be crude." But Jed was aware his description was something of an understatement as the beat of a drum grew louder, signaling the approach of an infantry corporal. Behind him was yet another soldier. This one carried a keg and a sign on his back labeling him as a whiskey runner.

  In the army, they called Fort Gibson the Charnel House—a place where bodies were deposited. But it was the frontier. Here, at least he had a better chance of promotion than in the East. Most of the men he had graduated with from West Point were still second lieutenants. He had managed to make first, but he didn't plan to wait another ten years before he achieved the rank of captain. And in the army, a lieutenant never made captain until either the captain ahead of him was promoted to lieutenant colonel, or his own valor in the field of battle was rewarded with a promotion. And Jed had every intention of rising higher in the ranks.

  Which was why he was here. That, and eight months of utter boredom as a quartermaster, sitting behind a desk pushing papers. After fighting in the Seminole war and participating in the removal of the Cherokees, Jed couldn't stand the inaction, the complete lack of anything more challenging than accounting for every nail and horseshoe on the post. For eight months he had tried, for Cecilia's sake, then applied for a transfer to a western post on the frontier.

  It had been either that or resign from the army and accept a job offer in the private sector. With all the railroads being built in the East, West Point graduates were in great demand. Jed could have had his pick of positions and virtually named his own salary. It was what Cecilia had wanted him to do. What woman wouldn't want her husband to earn more than the twenty-five dollars a month the army paid a lieutenant, not to mention the prestige that went along with a high-paying job? But Jed wanted a military career. Cecilia had known that before she married hi
m last April. Still, seeing her here in these primitive surroundings, knowing she was expecting their first child in two and a half months, Jed felt guilty.

  "Do you feel all right? There's a doctor on the post. I—"

  "I am fine." The quick tilt of her head rejected his concern almost defiantly, but a hint of fear lurked in her eyes.

  Jed sighed. "I wish you had stayed in Boston with your parents until after the baby was born, as we originally planned."

  "I'm your wife now," Cecilia asserted. "My place is at your side."

  She was aware that both Jed and her parents had been strongly opposed to her making the trip with a baby on the way, but she had refused to listen to them or acknowledge the validity of their arguments. The very instant she had learned Jed was to be stationed in the Indian Territory, she had become determined to accompany him.

  That woman was here. Cecilia trembled in anger at the memory of those days last summer when Jed had fallen ill with a malarial fever. She had sat up all night with him while the fever raged, a fever the doctor felt certain Jed had contracted during his long stint in the swamps of Florida three years previously. She had held his hand and bathed his sweating brow—and listened in jealous fury while he mumbled endlessly of his love for that woman.

  Temple.

  Cecilia despised the name, and the woman who had stolen her husband's love. If it meant she would die in this godforsaken wilderness giving birth to his child, then so be it. But no one and nothing would have induced her to let Jed come here alone, even for a few months. Cecilia was not about to risk losing him, and certainly not to an Indian. The mere thought was too degrading and humiliating to be endured. She prayed that Temple Stuart had turned into a fat and ugly squaw. She had been told Indian women deteriorated badly with age. Cecilia desperately hoped it was true.