Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

  “Why not?”

  “I—I never realized before what people would be thinking.”

  He said “roughly, Are you afraid of that—or that it might come true?”

  Thos came back before she could answer.

  xi

  Thos brought in a wild turkey, which was, the day before Christmas, basted over a pan to catch the drippings while mincemeat and pumpkin pies took turns baking in the Dutch oven. When the turkey was nearly done, Thos maneuvered it off the spit into the pan, and before it finished cooking on the grate, Deborah stuffed it with cornbread seasoned with drippings and onions.

  Mother had stayed home that day to help with the cooking and have her hair washed. She leaned over the tub placed on a bench while Judith soaped her thick, soft brown hair and Deborah poured slightly heated rain water over it till it squeaked and shined.

  Judith rubbed it as dry as possible and worked out the tangles with painstaking care, a task that had always been Deborah’s. Mother’s hair was fine, hung to her hips, and she was so tender-scalped that getting all the snarls out was time-consuming; still, Deborah felt a bit excluded and just a tinge jealous, feelings that she sternly rebuked. If Judith remembered her own mother, she never mentioned her. It was likely they’d been parted long ago. Terrible for human beings to be treated like stock animals!

  “Shall I wash your hair?” Deborah asked Judith. “There’s plenty of soft water. We’d best use it up before it gets messy from sitting in the barrel.”

  When Judith smiled, which was seldom, her face changed from taut, tigerish beauty to glowing, hesitant sweetness. “That be good, Deborah. Got to wash your hair, too, so we’ll all look nice.”

  “Good grief!” cried Thos, reaching for his sheepskin vest. “Soap, vinegar, three women prinking! I’m going out to chop wood!”

  But that night after supper—the festive meal would be dinner after tomorrow morning’s church service—when the family gathered around the pianoforte to sing carols, Thos seemed to be watching his mother and sister with unusual attention, as if he were really seeing them, not taking them for granted. The women had tied up their fluffily unruly hair with ribbon: Mother’s blue, Judith’s green, Deborah’s yellow.

  “You all look so pretty tonight,” he said as the notes of “Joy to the World” lingered. “I’ll remember this forever.”

  “Cross your heart?” Deborah teased in their old twin fashion.

  “Cross my heart.” He smiled, but there was a seriousness about him that troubled Deborah. “If Sara were here, it’d be absolutely perfect.”

  Mother rounded on him with surprising energy. “Well, why isn’t she here?” You know she’s welcome! She could share Deborah’s bed, go to church with us tomorrow, and spend the day!”

  “She could?” Thos sucked in his breath. “I’m going to the smithy tomorrow, but if I’d known—”

  “You might have asked.” Mother’s tone had an unusual edge, and her gaze was reproving. She glanced at Josiah, who cleared his throat.

  “Your mother and I have been wondering, Thos, why you don’t ask Sara to be your wife. We’d be grievously disappointed if it’s because she’s Indian.”

  Thos jumped, as if branded, going first red, then pale. “Father, how could you think that?” he demanded in a high, strained voice. “I have asked her, even though I know it’s not fair because of the way it looks like war.”

  Deborah put her hand protectively over Thos’s wrist. She said with a chuckle, “Besides, Sara’s not terribly eager to mix her Shawnee blood with white!”

  That rocked the elder Whitlaws. Judith struggled with but couldn’t repress what would have been a giggle in anyone else. Josiah and Leticia looked at each other and exchanged rather shamefaced smiles. “We’re sorry, Thos,” said Mother, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You are young and perhaps you should wait, but do bring Sara over tomorrow and let us start getting better acquainted.”

  “I—well, that’s something else I’ve got to tell you!” Thos shoved back his auburn fleece and swallowed hard. “I have to leave tomorrow, go straight on from seeing Sara.”

  “Leave?” cried Deborah.

  Mother and Father seemed too shocked to speak for a moment. Then Father spoke carefully. “What do you mean, son?”

  Thos looked miserable but determined. “When John Brown brought Judith here, I told him I’d come if he sent for me. He has. Several of us are starting out tomorrow.”

  “But I heard just today that he’d crossed the border on the twentieth,” said Josiah. “He’s probably back by now and heading north with any slaves he managed to get away with.”

  “And any horses and valuables he could steal,” added Deborah. “Oh, Thos—”

  “I won’t steal anything,” he said, “unless that’s what you call helping slaves escape! Yes, Father, Brown should be back, but he wants another band of us to cross into Missouri; in fact, he plans to keep up such raids till abolition comes or till we’ve smuggled every slave who wants freedom out of the South!”

  “Son—” began Josiah grimly.

  Mother sighed and got to her feet, moving like a suddenly old woman. “Thos, you help with the railroad here. And you’re so young! Brown may be an instrument of God, but if so, he’s a terrible one. As much as for your body, if you follow him, I fear for your soul!”

  Thos bowed his bright head, took his mother’s hands, and held them. “I won’t kill if I can help it. I won’t steal. I’ll try to act, Mother, as if you—and Father and ’Borah–could see me. But I said I’d go, and I have to.”

  She put her arms around him and wept. Judith glared at Thos and made an accusing murmuring, but when Leticia had command of herself, she stepped away. “Your father and I have raised you to follow your conscience. We can’t oppose this if you’ve thought it through and feel you must go.”

  Face glowing, Thos said thankfully, “I prayed you’d understand. I can’t explain it, but the day Brown came, I knew I had to do what he asked, when he asked. Maybe that’s why I haven’t coaxed Sara more; it didn’t seem right to marry and leave her.”

  “We’ll feel that she’s our daughter,” Josiah promised.

  Mother took Thos’s hand and Deborah’s, kneeling down. Father and Judith joined them. Instead of reading Mr. Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, as was their Christmas Eve custom, they prayed: for Thos’s safety and guidance; the freedom of slaves; peace with liberty throughout the land.

  Thos was so relieved that he was happy in his good nights, but Deborah, keeping her cheek against his warm one for a moment, glanced around at her family with a chill of apprehension.

  Where would they all be this time next year? Would they ever, on this earth, keep Christmas again?

  She tried to comfort herself by touching Dane’s medallion, but he was far away, he might even be dead, and even if he came back, unless something changed mightily, it would only be to leave her again. The busy cheerfulness of the day, the quiet happiness of the carol singing, seemed bright joys that were slipping away, being engulfed by the rising storm. Thos was going into danger, and for the first time in their lives, she wouldn’t be with him.

  He left the next morning after family prayers, the muffler that Deborah and Mother had knitted for Christmas warm around his neck, saying he’d be back as soon as he could. He’d take Sara the jewelry box he’d carved for her from seasoned black walnut, with Deborah’s gift of earrings, given her by a rather frivolous great-aunt. Though she never wore them, Deborah enjoyed looking at them, but she wanted to give Sara something nice.

  Deborah and her parents drove off to the Christmas service in town. A sense of loss saddened what should have been a time of grateful upliftedness, and when Rolf sat where Thos should have been, Deborah was furious with him, even though, through gestures, he’d asked and received her mother’s assent.

  After the service, he was, of course, invited for dinner, and he accepted with particular enthusiasm. When, riding Sangre, he caught up with them, he had a bulky pack
tied behind the saddle.

  “Where’s Thos?” he asked.

  Father was prepared. “He went to see Sara before leaving for Missouri. If he uses his eyes and ears, he should be able to do a good article for The Clarion.”

  “Isn’t that risky? For the son of a Free State editor to be roaming around Missouri?”

  “No one has to know he’s my son.”

  “That’s so. Wish he’d waited till after today; I’d have gone with him. But I hoped you’d ask me to dinner, and, besides, I had presents to deliver!”

  “Oh, you mustn’t!” protested Mother. “Not after Dane sent such lovely things!”

  “More than ever because of that!” Rolf’s jaw hardened. “I should hope I know you better than Dane did! After all, he was just in the countryside precious little more than a month!”

  Distressed, Leticia said under her breath to Deborah, “I’m glad I worked his initial on a few good linen handkerchiefs your father’s never used. But there was no money for gifts. It was sweet of you, daughter, to let me make Judith a dress from that cambric the storekeeper traded your father for advertisements.”

  “She needs it more than I do,” Deborah said.

  Judith, that morning, had been ecstatic with the gown—the first new one, she said, that she’d ever had. For Mother, she and Deborah had quilted a cushion for the rocking chair, filling it with garnered feathers, and had made a winter bouquet of gentian, cattails, thistles, and grasses arranged in a leached root tangle. Mother had knitted socks for Father, and Judith and Deborah had knitted him a scarf, tucking into it book marks of thin, inner cottonwood bark on which Deborah printed some of Josiah’s favorite quotations.

  From her parents, Deborah got cotton stockings and a new comb. Judith and Sara and Thos had collaborated on a fringed soft leather belt—she knew it was designed to support the Bowie beneath her skirts—and beaded, fringed leather gauntlets, quite beautiful.

  For a moment now, Deborah couldn’t help but think how wonderful it would be to have a tithe of the money Rolf squandered to spend on her family and friends, get them some elegant and useful things.

  A warm new cloak for Mother and a blue wool dress, some bonbons from the drugstore, a suit to replace Father’s shiny one, boots and a rakish Kossuth hat for Thos, shoes for Judith, who, at least, thanks to Sara, had moccasins. Her long, narrow feet wouldn’t fit in any of the Whitlaws’ footwear, so she wore one pair of moccasins outside when there was rain and snow and changed to a dry pair indoors. A red vest for Johnny, a lace shawl for Sara, wool shirts for Laddie and Maccabee. And I’d like an absolutely stunning dress, misty, gray-green or the color of russet leaves, velvet, with taffeta petticoats and a hoop under a wide, wide skirt, and matching French kid slippers; it’s worldly and vain, but just once in my life I’d love something gorgeous!

  She was immediately ashamed to be covering frivolities when her brother was riding off into danger of body and soul. And now, because of Rolf, Judith would have to take shelter in the lean-to instead of sharing the Christmas meal. Deborah sighed. The wrong brother had gone west. If Dane were here, Judith could sit at the table and they’d have such a happy time; he’d even say sensible, comforting things about Thos. But here was Rolf with his bulging pack, clearly set on outdoing Dane.

  He was going to be angry when he learned that now that Thos was gone, she’d no longer go anywhere with him, though he should have guessed that when she wouldn’t go to the Medary Ball.

  Judith, who’d come to expect Rolf after church, had evidently seen him and gone to the lean-to. Rolf and Josiah took care of the horses while Leticia and Deborah put on the turkey, dried green beans that had been simmering with side meat, light bread and butter, stewed dry rhubarb, and mincemeat and pumpkin pies, with a bowl of thick whipped cream.

  Rolf placed his pack by the door and ate quickly, though he complimented the women on the food. His mind was clearly set on distributing his largesse. Deborah would have loitered except for Judith’s exile. Surely he wouldn’t stay overlong at what was a family celebration.

  Father prevailed on Mother to play carols while he helped Deborah with the dishes, and Rolf leaned on the pianoforte and sang in a rich tenor. Mother joined in, laughing with pleasure, for none of her family had more than passable singing voices.

  Because he’d lightened her mother’s spirits, Deborah felt somewhat less resentful of Rolf. When the dishes were done, Mother rose from the pianoforte and excused herself, returning in a moment with the handkerchiefs she initialed for Rolf, gave them to him, and wished him a merry Christmas.

  “A small gift,” she told him. “But it comes with much goodwill.”

  He admired the embroidery, then tucked the linen squares into an inner coat pocket. “I’ll treasure them always.”

  “Handkerchiefs were made to be used,” Deborah said.

  If he must, why didn’t he play Lord Bountiful and take himself off so Judith could come out, so they could talk freely about Thos, share their anxieties and reassurances?

  Casting her a droll look, not at all out of temper, Rolf opened his pack. “Ladies first,” he said, handing to Mother an exquisite box of silver and enamel. When she raised the lid, part of a Brahms sonata tinkled out. The velvet-lined interior held lavender satin sachets.

  A perfect choice for Mother, who put down the lid and gazed at the jewel-bright enameled flowers and birds between delight and dismay. “It’s too much, Rolf. I can’t accept such a rare, costly thing.”

  “It was made for you, ordered out of St. Louis. If you don’t want it, I suppose I could give it to Mrs. Eden.”

  “Keep it, my dear,” Father advised, patting her hand. He smiled at Rolf. “Even had we the money, conscience wouldn’t let us buy such beautiful luxuries while there are so many in need. But a gift—perhaps I’m twisting principle, but I can’t think it wrong for my wife to keep and enjoy what you went to much thought and trouble to get for her.”

  Rolf glanced at Mother, whose face was glowing. She looked so beautiful and young that Deborah realized with a pang that Mother was only thirty-seven but aging early because of frontier hardships and makeshifts. If they’d stayed in New Hampshire, in their comfortable home, there was little doubt that Leticia would have looked less worn, had more time to rest and care for her appearance. Or even if they’d settled in Lawrence instead of taking this farm, where they could serve as a station for the underground railroad.

  Even though Deborah often felt that life without Dane was joyless, she could face the consequence of refusing his terms with much better grace than she could watch her mother’s quiet, daily sacrifices. Father had given up comforts, too, and a safe income, but the main burden of change had fallen on Leticia: the laborious struggle to make a home, and feed and clothe the family from the little that was available.

  Of course things were better. They had the cabin now, not that miserable dark soddy. The garden had given a bountiful yield, and there were stores of dried pumpkin, rhubarb, green beans, corn, and berries. Potatoes and turnips were buried under straw in the storage part of the stable, and in the well-house were barrels of brine-preserved tomatoes and wild plums kept by covering them with plain water. As well as plenty of cornmeal, there was wheat, both ground and to eat as cereal. But the rigorous years had taken a toll on Leticia that Deborah hadn’t fully noticed till that brief transfiguration caused by Rolf’s gift.

  If it hurt Deborah that Leticia’s finest gifts came from the Hunters, it must surely be a sort of reproach to father, but he gave no sign of this; he only seemed happy that his wife was.

  Next Rolf handed Father a leather-bound volume. “I’ve heard you say you admire Walt Whitman,” he said. “And he does seem to make more sense than most poet fellows.”

  Leaves of Grass had been published several years ago. Not being able to afford the books of authors he admired, which were temptingly displayed at Wilmarth’s store, was one of Father’s privations, and he thanked Rolf with no attempt to hide his almost childlike pleasu
re. During the long winter evenings he’d read the poems aloud to the family, pausing at the end of each for discussion and appreciation. Again, Deborah grudgingly admitted that Rolf couldn’t have chosen better.

  Now he drew out something glossy and darkly shining, gathering it caressingly into his arms. He placed it in Deborah’s lap, first holding it so the Whitlaws could see the satin-lined fur cape.

  “Seventy mink in that,” Rolf boasted. “I trapped them on the river, then hired a couple of Indian women to treat the skins and stitch them.” He stroked the lustrous fur. “Fit for a queen! But I didn’t spend money on it, Miss Deborah—at least not much.” He smiled at her, eyes a lighter green than usual. “I spent my time, hours of my life.”

  Deborah had seen mink a few times, weasel-like, graceful creatures with white breast patches. Seventy of them? She stared at the cape and saw not the silken fur but animals writhing in traps, trying to gnaw themselves free, lacerated, freezing. She couldn’t be overly squeamish. Using the hides of meat animals prevented waste; the beasts would be killed, anyway. But she became sickened at the thought of killing something in order to wear its coat. She thrust the cape into Rolf’s hands.

  “I—I can’t keep it!”

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. “It wasn’t costly, not in money.” He glanced at the elder Whitlaws. “You don’t object? I know the rules about gifts of clothing, but surely this is different!”

  “Deborah must do what she feels is right,” Mother said. “It’s not, I think, a question of expense.”

  “Then what?” Rolf demanded, swinging back to Deborah.

  “I hate traps!” The furs even seemed to her to bear the smell of blood and retain some essence of the animal’s pain. Nauseated, she shook her head, trying not to cry. “It’s horrible that you killed these little creatures for me! I could never touch that cape!”

  Her voice broke. Rolf stared at her, eyes dilated to blackness, his face pale. “You mean it,” he said at last, so stricken that she would’ve felt sorry for him, except for the deaths of the minks whose skins he held. “You hate what I thought you’d love to warm yourself in!”