The Frasers Clay

by Ana Leigh

  8

  The morning dawned gray and overcast, with lowhanging clouds that seemed to press the heat closer to the earth. Clay’s massage appeared to have helped, or maybe it was not sleeping on top of that hard box in the wagon. Or maybe the combination of the two. Rebecca’s arms and shoulders felt much better, and the feel of his hands last night kept creeping into her thoughts.

  “How are the aching muscles this morning, Becky?” Garth asked as he saddled his mount, preparing to leave.

  “Much better since Clay massaged them,” she said.

  “Massage them, did he?” Garth said, with a surprised glance at his brother. “Hmmm, that’s interesting.”

  “Wipe the smirk off your face,” Clay grumbled. “She was in pain. The sooner she feels better, the quicker I can get back to doing what I signed on for.”

  “Reckon so,” Garth said, grinning. He swung into the saddle. “Have a good day, you two.”

  “I do thank you for what you did last night, Clay,” she said.

  “I’d do the same for an aching horse.”

  “Your humanity is only exceeded by your graciousness, sir.”

  When he began to hitch up the team, the mules balked and wouldn’t budge. Clay cursed and jumped back when one of them tried to kick him.

  “Let me do that,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” He leaned back against the wagon, his arms folded across his chest. “Be careful the damn animals don’t kick your head off.”

  She walked up to the first set of mules. “Shame on you, my darlings. Caesar, my love, I know you don’t like the smell of Johnny Rebs, but mind your manners,” she murmured, and fed the mule a slice of apple. She then slipped an apple slice into the mouth of the next one. “Mark Anthony, show the man how a real gentleman acts. You see, Captain Fraser was an officer in the Confederate army, and he’s only used to those fancy Thoroughbred jumping horses they have when they chase little foxes….” She cast a derogatory glance in Clay’s direction. “Or runaway slaves.”

  She led the now-docile pair over to the rest of the team, greeted each of those with a slice of apple, and within a few minutes all six mules were hitched to the wagon.

  “Your carriage awaits, my lord.”

  He snatched the reins from her. “Do you always resort to some form of manipulation to accomplish your purpose?”

  “Whatever works,” she replied with a sweet smile. “I far prefer it to pouting or scowling, which is your preferred approach, sir.”

  “I do not pout, madam.” The forward wagons had begun moving out, and he climbed up on the box. “Do you intend to walk or ride?”

  “Definitely walk,” she said. “It will feel good to stretch my legs for a change.”

  “Well, since you’ve got about two thousand miles to stretch them, I reckon your legs will be a damn sight longer by the time we get there.” Clay flicked the reins and the wagon rolled forward.

  Had he actually attempted to joke with her? Rebecca shrugged off the unlikely thought and started off with a comfortable stride. Soon a steady drizzle began falling, which drove her inside the wagon. By the time they stopped for the noon meal, the drizzle had turned to a downpour. Fortunately the canvas on the wagon had been strung tightly, so it didn’t leak, but that didn’t help Rebecca’s mood. Jostled and rocked from side to side, she tried to read her cookbook as the steady rain pelted the canvas. It sounded as if she were inside a drum.

  The rain caused an added problem. Every rut and pothole became a muddy obstacle that each wagon carved deeper into the earth, resulting in constant delays as wagons got stuck in these ruts. The men had to dig and push the heavily loaded wagons to free them, and the side of the trail soon became cluttered as items were abandoned to lighten the loads. Progress was practically at a standstill, and when they finally reached the Kansas River, Mike Scott called an early stop. There were a few sod houses there and a ferry to cross the river, and he announced they would cross in the morning.

  Garth stopped by to tell them he would spend the night in one of Scott’s wagons to get dry. Rebecca and Clay shifted some of the stores around and made room for him to spread his bedroll on the floor of the wagon.

  There was no hope of building a fire, so he went into one of the soddies and bought two cups of coffee. It was bitter tasting, but at least it was hot and helped to wash down the hardtack and jerky they ate for supper. They topped the meal off with apples for dessert.

  Because of the cramped space, they couldn’t move without bumping into each other. Clay made no attempt at conversation and settled down in his bedroll to read. Rebecca dug out her deck of cards and played solitaire.

  “Do you play solitaire often?” he asked.

  The unexpected question startled her out of her concentration. She hadn’t realized he was even aware of what she was doing.

  “It often helps to pass the time,” she said.

  “You know, if you win, you’re only beating yourself.”

  “I figure I’m beating the odds,” she said.

  “Haven’t you learned by now that you can’t beat the odds, whatever you try? Lord knows, we tried hard enough during the war with the odds against us.”

  “By we am I to assume you mean the Confederacy?”

  “That’s right. You Yankees had all the advantages, with your industry, iron, steel, textiles, munitions, and medical supplies. You were the banking capital of this country, had all the railroads, and even a navy. The odds were all against us. But despite all that, for four years we put up one hell of a fight, thanks to the military genius of General Lee and his officers.”

  “But why did you?” Rebecca asked. “For someone who doesn’t believe in bucking the odds, why did you continue to fight?”

  His amazement was clear when he looked at her. “I was defending Virginia against invaders. The same way my ancestors did against the British in 1776 and 1812. It made no difference whether the invaders wore British or Yankee uniforms.”

  “But the Yankees weren’t invaders—they were Americans.”

  “Rebecca, why did we fight the Revolutionary War?”

  “Freedom, of course. Freedom from England’s oppression.”

  “Exactly. Those early Americans did the same thing to England, what the Confederacy did to Washington— they seceded from it. The Confederacy freed itself from Washington’s oppression when the principles of self-government were no longer important to Washington.”

  “To be a united country, the same laws must apply to all the states,” she declared.

  “But who determines those laws? Washington? Prior to the Revolutionary War, Virginia and Maryland each had the House of Burgesses—the first self-governing colonies in America. And when this country needed a leader in that freedom fight, Virginia gave it George Washington. Virginia gave America the wisdom of a Thomas Jefferson, the inspiration of a Patrick Henry. And what of James Madison or Monroe? Why, four of the first six presidents of this country were Virginians. Four of the next six were Southerners, and three of those were Virginians. So where is the real seat of the government, or who has a better right to call themselves Americans, than Virginians?”

  “How can you espouse the noble principles of these men when you Virginians advocate slavery?” she argued.

  “And what of the young children working in factories and coal mines in the North? Are you an advocate of that abuse, Rebecca? Should we have invaded your state to put an end to that kind of slavery? Most of the people in the South didn’t even own slaves—but there’s not a family that didn’t suffer or lose loved ones during the war. If it’s any consolation to a true-blue Yankee like you, there are more white Southerners who perished because of slavery than blacks who died as abused slaves.”

  For the first time since the conversation began, Rebecca saw a look of despair in his eyes. “And the tragedy is that it wasn’t even necessary,” he continued. “You know as well as I that the issue of slavery should have continued to be fought in Congress. It would have eventually bee
n resolved without bloodshed and stomping over the concept of states’ rights.”

  “You truly believe that Virginia and the rest of the South would have willingly abolished slavery?”

  “I do. After all, Virginia was rightfully considered the cradle of democracy. I take pride in my heritage, Rebecca. My family landed in that wilderness in 1607. There was no government in Washington to tell them what to do or think. My great-great-great grandfather built Fraser Keep, and he defended it against the Indians, two English invasions, and any others who tried to take it away from him. He did it himself, with no slave labor. So when the time came for me to defend that home, I could do no less than those before me.”

  “I understand your pride, Clay, But you surely aren’t blind to the contributions such great men as John Adams and Benjamin Franklin made to the birth of our nation. They were all Americans, no matter where they were from. And they were all patriots who put freedom’s interest above their own.”

  “Perhaps we need such men now more than ever,” he said sadly. “Those in Washington appear to be puppets whose strings are being pulled by the wealthy industrialists, whose purpose is to serve their own means.”

  She was surprised to see a sudden glint of amusement in his eyes. “But let me remind you, Rebecca, that there hasn’t been a Southern president in Washington for over fifteen years. So that may be the reason this country’s in the mess it’s in—and why Rebs and Yankees alike are climbing on wagon trains by the thousands and heading as far west of Washington as they can.”

  He closed his book, put it aside, and rolled over.

  Rebecca put the deck of cards away, then blew out the lantern and lay down.

  The splatter of rain on the canvas suddenly had a comforting sound to it, and the bed felt softer. She cuddled deeper into its furry folds and thought about the conversation with Clay.

  As delicate as the subject matter was, she’d learned a little more about this man whose name she carried. Maybe she’d been mistaken about him—mistaken pride in his heritage for arrogance. He indisputably was a man of honor.

  She grinned to herself. And at least he wasn’t pouting any more.

  Rebecca woke to daylight and a camp alive with activity. Peeking out the front flap, she saw that Scott had not waited until seven to move out. She quickly dressed and went outside.

  Already too deep to ford, the river was swollen to a treacherous-looking torrent by yesterday’s rain. Clay and Mike Scott were standing in ankle-deep mud on the bank watching the ferry bobbing in midstream, two wagons strapped to its deck.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Morning, Mrs. Fraser,” Scott said pleasantly.

  “Why didn’t you wake me, Clay?”

  “No need to. There’s still four wagons ahead of us that have to cross.”

  “What about breakfast? I imagine a hot meal would taste good right about now,” she said.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to prepare food on the other side.” Scott said. “This crossing will take most of the day.”

  “Then I’d better make sure everything is tied down tightly.” Rebecca slogged through the mud back to the wagon.

  Determined not to track the mud inside, she pulled off her boots before climbing into the wagon bed, and then glanced at the sodden, mud-stained bottom of her skirt.

  “Modesty be damned,” she murmured. Releasing the skirt, she let it drop to her ankles. Her chemise was not as muddied, but would need a washing, too, once they were across. She changed and had everything folded and packed down tightly when Clay followed the Garson wagon onto the ferry.

  “That’s a dollar and ten cents,” the ferry owner said when he strapped the wagon in place.

  “A dollar and ten cents! That’s outrageous!” Rebecca exclaimed.

  “Fifty cents a wagon, and ten cents apiece for any livestock ’ceptin’ dogs or cats, lady,” the man said.

  “Take it or swim across.”

  Rebecca doled out a precious dollar and ten cents to the ferryman. At the price he was charging, the man could become a millionaire in one season.

  Many on the train could not afford to pay the exorbitant fare and had removed the wheels on their wagons and were poling them across like rafts. Others had their teams swimming across the raging river pulling the wagons hitched to them.

  It was a choppy ride. Even with the heavy wagons and livestock, the ferry bobbed in the water like a cork. Nearing midstream, they watched Howard Garson as he attempted to drive his buggy across the river. The poor horse was barely managing to keep its head above water as it struggled against the strong current.

  To their horror, they saw a huge wooden crate, which had broken free from one of the wagons upstream, floating straight at the buggy. They shouted a warning to the unseeing Howard, but it was too late. The crate crashed into the lightweight buggy, tipping it over. Howard was tossed into the water and disappeared. Hitched to the buggy, the struggling horse could not maintain its balance and was dragged down and swept away with the carriage.

  Helena and the children cried with relief when Howard’s head appeared a few yards downstream, and he started to swim toward the opposite shore, where several rescuers waited to toss him a rope and pull him out of the water.

  “Thank goodness no one else was in that buggy,” Rebecca said.

  “My little brother wanted to ride along,” Henrietta said, “but Daddy wouldn’t let him because Georgie doesn’t know how to swim.”

  “Neither do I,” Rebecca said. “I never had any reason to learn how.”

  A harsh bray erupted from one of the mules. The bouncing was making the livestock restless, and several more of the mules added their discordant protest. Clay went over to quiet them down, but the nervous mules started to stomp and tried to pull free from the ropes that were restraining them.

  “Let me try,” Rebecca said.

  “Stay away from them, Rebecca,” Clay warned.

  Rebecca paid no attention to him. She went over to the one she’d named Brutus and started to unwind one of the restraining lines that had wrapped around the animal’s leg.

  “Rebecca, get away from that mule!” Clay shouted, just as she succeeded in freeing the mule’s leg.

  Braying loudly, the mule kicked out. Rebecca dodged the kick, but lost her balance when the ferry swerved. Arms flailing, she tottered like an acrobat on a high wire for several terrifying seconds. Then, with a terrified scream, she tumbled backward over the side.

  Cold, watery blackness swirled around her, choking her with panic. When she surfaced, coughing, several of the crewmembers threw her ropes—but she couldn’t swim, and made desperate grabs at them before the current seized her and carried her away.

  Clay had already shucked his gunbelt and boots, and dived into the water. The cold shock took his breath away. When he broke the surface, he began to swim. Rebecca was already about fifteen yards ahead of him, floundering helplessly as the current carried her downstream.

  The current aided his progress, and he rapidly gained on her and overtook her. She was still conscious, and as soon as he grabbed her, she clutched at him frantically. They both went under. When they resurfaced, she began choking and coughing, clinging to him with a stranglehold around his neck.

  Now he was fighting not only the current, but also her, and his own waning strength. He had to pry her fingers away so he could breathe.

  “Let go, Rebecca! I have you!”

  His words must have cut through her panic, because she relaxed enough for him to grasp her under her arms and keep their heads above water.

  “Hold on to my belt!” he shouted above the roar of the water.

  Her hands groped at his waist. Then, still grasping her under the arms, he started to work his way toward the bank with a one-arm sidestroke.

  It was a slow process. He was literally towing her and trying to keep her head above water at the same time—a process debilitating to both his breath and strength. At times he had to stop and tread water, allowin
g the current to carry them further downstream.

  After what seemed like hours, they finally reached the riverbank.

  Rebecca had swallowed a lot of water while being towed, and she was coughing and gasping for breath. Clay flipped her over on her stomach and began pumping the water out of her.

  As soon as both had regained their breath, Clay stripped down to his drawers, then lay back, exhausted, and let the sun dry his shivering body. Rebecca’s teeth were chattering, and she had her arms wrapped across her chest to try and stay warm. There was no dry wood to build a fire, and even if there were, he had no way to light it; his flint was in his pack on the wagon.

  “Rebecca, you’ve got to get out of those wet clothes,” he said. “You’ll warm up a lot faster with them off, rather then waiting for them to dry on you.”

  “Are-aren’t we head-heading ba-back?” she asked, unable to control her chattering teeth.

  “Let them come find us.” He pulled her dress off over her head. “Let’s get some friction going to help dry off your skin.”

  “Bu-but wh-what if they don’t try? They-they mi-might th-think we-we’ve dro-drowned,” she said as he began to vigorously dry her shoulders and arms with his shirt.

  “I know my brother—he’ll show up. Now sit.”

  When she did as he said, Clay knelt down and pulled off her shoes and stockings, then pushed up the skirt of her chemise and rubbed her legs and feet.

  He could tell when her body began to respond to his efforts. The shivering ceased, her flesh felt warmer, and her color gradually began to return.

  Until then his actions had been reflexive; now he began to think about what had happened. She might easily have drowned—and regardless of how their marriage began, she was his wife. Clay felt an overwhelming relief that the life of this courageous, beautiful woman had not been swept away.

  She still looked frightened—and so vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her; he knew the crippling fear she had just experienced. He’d been in enough battles to know how terrifying the thought of dying was.