Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

“Gnädige Fräulein, here’s your coffee,” said Conrad, louting low, and they began their meal with merriment.

  That first day set a pattern for most that followed. After household tasks were done, the three went to the church and worked with different ages of children after Elder Goerz had drilled them on. Bible and church history. Since Deborah had no German, either Ansjie or Conrad helped with her class, translating words the children wouldn’t know and helping to answer their questions.

  The twenty-five children ranged from five or six to fourteen or fifteen. Mennonites felt everyone needed enough education to handle business affairs, read the Bible, and appreciate their religious heritage. Beyond that, learning was suspect, a temptation to frivolity and vanity. But when she met the villagers around the well or school, they all, even gruff Elder Goerz and his sour wife, thanked Deborah in halting English for teaching the children about their new country.

  “Perhaps it goes better here,” said Lorenz Schroeder, a thin man with hair like wisps of old rope, stooped from working at his last. “No state church supported by taxes. Many churches, none strong enough to use the government. It may be we will at last be left in peace. It is good our children learn the story of this land.”

  “I must tell them about slavery. I must tell them how the Indians have been driven farther west.”

  Schroeder nodded. His watery green eyes were sad and hopeful at once. “Yes, they must know that. But to us it is a very large thing, that religion and government do not join to rule.” He smiled shyly. “Believe in your country, Fräulein. Before we voted to come here, the Graf—no, he is Herr Lander now—read to us your Bill of Rights and your Constitution. A country with written law like that must try to fulfill it.”

  Touched and shamed by his simplicity, Deborah returned to her teaching with a new perspective, trying to imagine what it would be like to live where the church preached obedience to the government, however corrupt, and the government reinforced the church, where common people had little to say about their laws, judges, or governing bodies.

  Viewed like that, the problem in Kansas was one of too much freedom, not enough law and control. At least the Border Ruffians and, on the other side, Lane and Montgomery and John Brown’s men, weren’t raiding for the government, with its approval. Law would come to the frontier, and surely, someday, so would justice and peace.

  Because these children would be growing up while the slavery question was decided, Deborah took special pains to explain to them the Missouri Compromise and the effects of its repeal, the importance of Kansas as a battleground between Free Soil and pro-slave forces. But she couldn’t resist slipping in at least one story of which pacifist parents wouldn’t have approved: Jim Bowie at the Alamo with Travis and Crockett.

  Blue eyes fixed on her breathlessly as she told how the men of Gonzalez marched into the Alamo, coming to certain death; how none of the men left, though Travis would have let them; and how Mexican bugles played the Degüello, or “Throat-cutting,” an old call from Spain, which meant no quarter.

  “The knife, Miss?” queried the biggest Goerz boy in a voice that was just starting to crack. “Bowie’s knife?”

  “It was burned with him, Hansi.” At first, apart from size and sex, the children had looked disconcertingly alike, watching her with intent variations of blue, gray, and hazel eyes peering from beneath yellow or flaxen thatches or tightly pulled-back braids. After a few days, though, she’d begun to sort them out, and by the end of the week, she knew the names of all twenty-five. “I hope,” she added, smiling at the gangling boy whose older brother was enamored of Ansjie, “that someday you meet Mr. Chaudoin. He learned blacksmithing from the man who made Jim Bowie’s knife.”

  Hansi’s eyes grew wider. “Truly, Miss?”

  “Truly true,” she answered, then went on to explain how Texas remained a republic for almost ten years before joining the United States.

  “Kansas is not a—a republic?” asked Cobie Balzer, a wiry, tanned girl whose mother was always calling her in from playing with the boys.

  That led to a discussion of the differences between states and territories, which took up the rest of the class. Then, between Conrad and Ansjie, Deborah walked home and helped get dinner ready.

  The Landers’ laundry was done by the village women as a thank-you for their teaching, so there was no really tiring work. Deborah helped with the baking, cooking, and cleaning, plus gathering the eggs and feeding the chickens.

  During the first week, at Ansjie’s insistence, they altered to fit Deborah a dark green cashmere and a rust-brown poplin which, ironically, made her better dressed than she’d been since childhood.

  Usually the three of them took a walk in the afternoon, and several times Conrad took Deborah riding, a thing Ansjie did not enjoy since she was afraid of horses.

  Beginning in February, they caught glimpses of prairie chicken males displaying themselves on a booming ground north of the village. Through fall and winter the flocks had moved together, but now the sexes separated while the males vied for the interest of the hens by finding a spot on the booming ground, probably used for centuries, striking the ground, blowing out the bright orange air sacs on the sides of their throats, raising orange eyebrows, erecting neck crests, and spreading out tails like fans. They then boomed—a strange, hollow vibrating sound like blowing across an open bottle.

  Sometimes cocks battled much like barnyard roosters, but seldom tore more than feathers.

  “They’re so much showier than the females,” Deborah complained. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Why not?” Conrad laughed. “The poor males have to go through all this to attract females—who don’t have to do anything but choose!” She had no answer to that, and they rode on.

  When the weather was bad or there was no housework, Deborah read Conrad’s account of Friedental and found it fascinating.

  “I’m sure the publisher will want it,” she told him. “You really don’t need my advice, though there are a few places where I can smooth out the language.”

  “What you suggest makes it much better,” he assured her. His eyes twinkled. “Besides, I want you to read it.”

  “I’d want to do that, anyway,” she laughed.

  After the evening meal and dishes, he usually read aloud, pausing for discussion, but sometimes he played the violin and sometimes he sang, turning the words to English.

  “Oh, when will you come back again, dear love of mine?

  When it snows red roses, girl, and when it rains white wine.”

  But what he sang most was the one he’d sung on the way to Friedental the day that seemed so long ago, but which was only a few weeks past.

  “Oh, child, fair maiden, so lonely, forlorn,

  Who taught your sad heart to treat me with scorn?

  Who says that I may not your sweet roses see,

  And pluck them to pleasure your dear self and me?”

  Deborah felt an inner melting as his voice, so tenderly, deeply male, caressed her. She dared not look at him, knowing that his eyes would catch and hold hers. It would be easy to accept his courtship, easy to be loved and protected. She was safer, happier in this house than she would have believed possible the day she rode here with Conrad almost six weeks ago.

  Though vitally masculine and handsome, he was kind, wise, and patient. Having loved and lost those loves, he understood how she felt; he couldn’t demand her whole heart at once. At such moments it was hard not to lift her eyes to him, give silent assent, but she resisted the urgency till it quieted.

  It wouldn’t be fair to take what he offered for what, just now, she could give. Foolish or not, she still loved Dane, longed for his arms and hard, sweet mouth.

  Though he’d been far away when she needed him most, she still wore his medallion of Saint Rita, that saint who interceded for hopeless causes, and his sketch pad was the only thing she’d saved from the wreck of her home, except the Bible, which was buried with her parents. One night when Conrad’s sin
ging had shaken her, she rose quickly, asking if he and Ansjie wouldn’t like to see the sketches Dane had made along the Santa Fe Trail.

  Ansjie responded eagerly. Conrad’s straight mouth quirked down; he knew what Deborah was doing. “By all means,” he said gravely. “It’ll be a privilege to meet, through his work, the man who has such a hold on you.” The twinkle was unmistakable. “Perhaps I can learn something.”

  Blushing, she fled to the bedroom. That was the disconcerting thing about Conrad, what made her feel so young and, in a way, pitted in a struggle he’d win because he knew how to wait.

  If Dane had possessed some of that humor and tolerance—She sighed, picking up the pad, holding it to her breasts. He wouldn’t have been Dane, then. Besides, Conrad was thirty-five, as much older than Dane as Dane was than Rolf.

  Rolf. Her thoughts veered away, as always, like a hand touching white-hot iron, but this time the nagging question persisted. Where was he? Had he carried out his terrible promise—killed the men who’d murdered her family? What had he done when he came back to find her gone?

  If he lived, he should be back by now. He’d surely look for her at Johnny’s. No news from the outside world had reached Friedental. At first that insulation had been welcome, but she needed to be sure that her friends at the smithy hadn’t been bothered on her account.

  And if Rolf presented no threat, it might be best if she left this comfortable refuge. It wasn’t fair to accept Conrad’s cherishing when she didn’t return his love.

  Taking the sketch pad into the other room, she put it on the table between brother and sister and watched as Ansjie turned the pages, exclaiming here and there.

  Buffalo, horses, birds, plants, Indians, Bent’s abandoned fort, Santa Fe. A journey portrayed in deft, decisive strokes, each one intended, achieving that aim.

  “What a talent!” Ansjie said as they looked at the last sketch, the cathedral. “And he paints, also?”

  Deborah nodded, glad of a chance to speak of Dane, though she didn’t want to overdo it in front of Conrad. “I haven’t seen his painting, but it must be good. He traded portraits to Fall Leaf for Chica.”

  “Practical, as well as artistic,” Conrad observed. He turned back to the picture of the Cheyenne girl, the mantilla-graced lady of Santa Fe, then glanced up at Deborah. He spoke softly, in a tone between gladness and regret. “This man loves you. When he draws a woman, the face is yours.”

  The next day at breakfast, Deborah said that perhaps it was time she returned to the smithy, and that she was anxious to know how her friends were.

  “Oh!” pleaded Ansjie, looking quite stricken. “Stay till summer, at least!” She appealed to her brother: “You won’t let her go, will you? We should miss her sorely!”

  He smiled. “I’m not a robber baron who holds fair maids to ransom, tempted though I may be. I’ll hope that a visit to the smithy will reassure Deborah about her friends, and that Johnny Chaudoin can help convince her that she’d better stay a few more months with us.”

  “You needn’t take me,” Deborah protested. “I can’t lose the road.”

  “Unless there’s a blizzard.” He gave a short laugh and looked at her in a way that made her glance away. “Do you think I’d let you ride that distance alone?”

  “But—”

  “No but’s,” he said sternly. “If the weather’s good, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Ansjie wailed.

  He said serenely, helping himself to more preserves, “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.” He didn’t think it necessary to accent the we’ll.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, Johnny rode in late that afternoon, but even if he’d arrived during school hours, he was in no mood to tell big-eyed youngsters about Bowie and his legendary knife.

  As soon as he’d greeted Conrad and Ansjie, he’d squinted closely at Deborah, making her feel like a heifer or filly being examined for sale, and told her that Rolf had indeed come hunting her, and though he might not have believed Johnny or the others, he had to accept the word of two travelers—people who’d had to stay four days at the smithy while Johnny fixed their broken wagon—that no such young woman had been there.

  “So he went back swearing to wring that Melissa Eden’s neck if she connived at letting you out after he’d paid her a small fortune to guard you.” Johnny shrugged. “Ought to teach her to be more careful of her boarders, providin’ he don’t take her hair like he did those Missourians’.”

  “Hair?” echoed Deborah.

  “Scalps.”

  Ansjie gave a shriek and covered her mouth. Several times, with fascinated horror, she’d asked Deborah about this custom, which seemed to be widely publicized in Europe. Deborah felt a sickness rising in her stomach.

  “Did he—do that?”

  Johnny nodded. “He hired a half-breed Shawnee who knows the country around Westport. Between them, they brought back eleven scalps. Don’t look like that, gal! Them devils had it coming.”

  So. Her family was avenged. Blood covered the blood of her twin, her mother, and her father.

  “It doesn’t help,” she said in a kind of dull wonder. “It doesn’t help at all.”

  Johnny shifted from one moccasined foot to the other. “Won’t bring back your folks, honey. ’Course not. But that bunch won’t cross the border to kill more people in their own stableyard.”

  “This Rolf,” said Conrad. “You don’t know where he is?”

  “It was about two weeks ago he came foggin’ to the smithy.” Johnny rubbed his sideburns pensively. “Took off for Lawrence when he finally believed Deborah wasn’t with us. Ain’t heard anything about him since, so I’d reckon he didn’t do much damage to Miz Eden.”

  Ansjie had recovered enough to remember hospitality. “Supper will be ready soon, Mr. Chaudoin. But you’ll have coffee now and a few honeycakes?”

  “Well—” Whatever was bothering Johnny eased enough to let him grin at this plump, pretty girl of whom he clearly approved. “That sounds prime, ma’am, if it’s no trouble.”

  “A pleasure,” she assured him. And she bustled to set out a plate of cakes and a cup of the coffee to which Conrad was so addicted that there was always a pot ready.

  Johnny passed on the latest news he’d heard from travelers. Eli Thayer, founder of the Emigrant Aid Society and now a Massachusetts Representative to Congress, had said late in February, “I would rather see a state free for the worst reasons than see it slave for the best reasons.” And he had gone on to scoff at the Southerners who’d hoped to gain Kansas by repealing the Missouri Compromise. He’d said that New Englanders could hold a town meeting, vote to emigrate, and be on their way in two weeks, as compared to the great length of time it took a slave-owner to sell his land and move with his slaves, and he had crowed that pro-slavers had insisted on a game at which they were bound to be beaten.

  Doy, with his son, was still jailed in Missouri awaiting trial, and even Kansans who had no love for abolitionists were still incensed that the arrests had taken place on Kansas soil. John Brown had vanished north with the slaves he’d freed or stolen, depending on one’s view. Republicans were planning to organize in Kansas, taking advantage of resentment at the Democrats’ mishandling of the Territory’s problems. The election of 1860 would be crucial; no matter which party or factions triumphed, the conflict between North and South was coming to a head. It would be a miracle if the nation escaped war.

  “Not but what we haven’t had it here for the last five years,” Johnny finished grimly. He looked at Conrad. “Tucked away where you are, I hope you folks can stay clear of the mess.”

  “So do I.” Conrad frowned. “I brought these people here because I’m sure Prussia will become increasingly militaristic, and Mennonites will be forced into the army or have to pay even higher rates for exemption. They’ll have no cause to thank me if I’ve trapped them in the middle of a civil war.”

  “Oh, I don’t reckon much will happen back here,” Johnny comforted. �
��Probably the chousin’ back and forth across the border will get worse, but the fightin’s goin’ to be where there’s lots of people and supplies. Not too much’ll take place out west.”

  Though he complimented Ansjie on the cakes and coffee, Johnny was upset about something, and it certainly wasn’t Rolf’s scalped raiders. “Has Judith gone north?” Deborah asked. “And how is Sara?”

  “Judith may just stay with us.” A fleeting grin loosened Johnny’s features before his jaws clamped audibly. “Sara—well, I need to talk to you about her.”

  Conrad rose. “Ansjie and I will leave you for a bit.”

  “Much obliged,” grunted Johnny. “This is sort of private.” As Conrad ushered out his sister, the blacksmith’s gaze followed them warmly. “Good people. No need to ask how they’ve treated you.”

  “They’ve been wonderful. Now, what’s this about Sara?”

  Johnny stared at the floor. The knuckles of his clenched hands showed white. “Sara—I don’t know how to say this. Hell, what can I say? She’s goin’ to have a baby.”

  xvii

  Deborah’s brain whirred. “A baby? But—” Swallowing, she fought back a flood of questions and simply asked, “Thos?”

  Johnny nodded. So Thos and Sara had loved, delighted in each other, and there would be a baby of that joy, a living part of the father. One part of Deborah rejoiced in this while another part was shocked for her friend.

  Ironic that Thos hadn’t thought it fair to marry Sara when he might leave her a widow! Trying to spare her that, he’d left her a child with no name. They must have been carried away, past reason and waiting. And how it must grieve Johnny, who’d loved his ward enough to stand aside for her young lover.

  “How is Sara taking it?” Deborah asked. And you?

  “She’s glad there’ll be a child.” Johnny’s tone was gruff. “So’m I. Who could grudge that pair their lovin’?” His massive shoulders slumped forward. “Trouble is, Sara won’t marry me. Says it wouldn’t be fair. Real proud, that wastewin! No matter what I say, she think’s I’m just sorry for her!”