Blood of Pioneers

by Michelle Isenhoff

  She gave him a look of pure disgust. “Lewis and Clark wouldn’t have even found the Pacific without Sacagawea. Face it, Justin, women can do anything men can do, only better.”

  He snorted with contempt. “Except vote.”

  Hannah gave him a shove that landed him in the potato patch. “Perhaps if you were a man, which you aren’t, I would let you drive Rounder to the house. But he’s far too valuable to entrust to a little boy.”

  While he still sat on the ground, Hannah flicked Rounder hard, jouncing the cart over the rough ground, no longer caring if the potatoes spoiled. She had a third of the tubers stashed in the cellar before her brother even stalked into the yard. She worked beside him in tight-lipped silence, wondering if he noticed that she filled three boxes to his two. No boy—not Joel, not Justin, not even Jeremy, had he lived—could have worked faster.

  ~

  A few days later, Mama and Joel prepared for the foreclosure meeting after supper.

  “May I go with you, Mama? Please?” Hannah begged, swiping at a plate with a damp towel. A drive to town sounded more entertaining than staying in the house with Justin all evening. Maybe she’d even find Wes.

  Maddy handed her another plate and butted in. “Have you finished churning the butter?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about those socks that need darning? Winter’s coming.”

  Hannah scowled. “You’re not my boss.”

  “And the peppers you picked this afternoon,” Maddy continued, “need to be cut up and hung over the stove to dry.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Hannah pleaded, turning to her mother, “can’t I do that in the morning?”

  Mama overheard the whole exchange. Her face softened. “I suppose you can. Get your shawl. The air feels damp.”

  Hannah squealed and ran to fetch her covering.

  Joel already had Rounder hitched to the small cart. He handed his mother into the seat while Hannah jumped in back, sweeping aside dirt and tossing out a severed potato. Then Joel climbed up beside Mama and took the lines. Somehow in the last few weeks he had quietly stepped into Pa’s shoes.

  A light slap and the cart bumped over the wagon track. The ruts were only slightly sticky from a shower the day before. At the Plank Road, Hannah laid her head against the cart’s rough bottom to feel the vibration in her ears. She could almost imagine it was the sound of cavalry thundering across distant hills. With her eyes closed, she was one of them, driving toward battle, horses stretched out low, pistols drawn, sabers gleaming. She could feel the wind on her cheeks, hear the throb of artillery, the frenzied shouts of men, the clash of steel on steel…

  The cart jolted into the schoolyard and stopped next to several other wagons. The schoolhouse sat a little apart from town, flaming red in the failing sunlight. Hannah scampered past it in the direction of the Wayland House, but her mother called her back. “I won’t have my daughter prowling about town at night. Stay in the schoolyard.”

  Hannah kicked a tree swing dangling above a patch of gray dirt. “Aw, Mama!”

  So much for finding Wes.

  Settling on the sawn board, she nudged herself back and forth and watched the townsfolk file into the clapboard building. Sue Ellen Huseby arrived in a wagon with her parents. Two years older than Hannah, the girl pulled the highest grades in school and played the only piano ever lugged into town, and her singing voice could transform the Sunday schoolhouse into a cathedral.

  Hannah found her exceedingly dull.

  “Good evening, Hannah.” Sue Ellen smiled, detouring toward the swing. “Is your family here?”

  Hannah jerked her head at the building. “Joel’s in there.”

  The older girl’s cheeks pinked. “I didn’t mean—”

  Hannah shrugged. “What’s in the bag?”

  “My knitting,” Sue Ellen answered, holding it up. “I thought I’d stay busy while I listen.”

  “You’re going in there?”

  “Of course. Aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve wasted too much of my life in that room already.” Let Joel and Mama figure it out. She’d stay outside where it was cool. “I think I’ll see how high I can climb in this oak tree before I get stuck.”

  Sue Ellen gave her a quizzical smile as Hannah shimmied up the swing rope and threw a leg over the lowest branch. “All right, then. I’ll see you later.”

  Hannah was already halfway up the tree and happy to watch the girl leave. It wasn’t that Sue Ellen was snobbish or unkind. She was pleasant, she had no vices, and everything she began she finished well. But she was all industry and no imagination. The girl was boring, like an old married woman twice her age.

  Hannah could hear Mr. Chambers’ voice rolling out the door and hovering over the schoolyard like a fog. “Fifteen years ago there were only a few settlers in sixty square miles of woods. We had no choice but to help each other. If one family had a successful hunt, we’d share the meat. If another needed a house built, all the neighbors showed up and worked together. If there was sickness, we checked in on each other. We couldn’t have survived alone. We need that same unity now.

  “In the past few months we’ve lost four neighbors: Mrs. Parker, the Biltmores, the Sandersons, and old Mr. Peterson. The war has put new strains on our community, and if we want it to prosper, we must find a way to pull together and help our neighbors survive.”

  “I want to know what you expect me to do about it?” Hannah recognized Mrs. Clark’s waspy voice. She was surprised the old tightwad even showed up.

  “Of course no one expects you to act alone, Mrs. Clark. Our strength lies in numbers. There must be a way we can pool our resources and act together.”

  Hannah shut out the voices and wedged herself into a crevice where she could peek down through the branches unseen. She fancied herself a Yankee spy as she peered down at latecomers, filled with secret delight as they passed by unaware.

  “Secret agent Melinda Dare,” she whispered, “on assignment for General McClellan and in position above the assembly of rebel leaders. Officers are arriving singly and in groups. The enemy is now engaging in deep discussion over tactics for an invasion of Washington. Who will save the North from this new Southern aggression?

  “But wait! Generals Longstreet and Jackson seem to be in disagreement. They are gesturing wildly, raising their voices. Lee is having a hard time mediating. Melinda Dare has been given the opportunity to act! If only she can break up the rebel meeting, Melinda Dare can save the country!”

  Hannah pulled a handful of acorns from the tree and took aim. One by one she lobbed the grenades onto the roof of the schoolhouse. Moments later, General Lee himself dug out from under the rubble and staggered underneath her tree!

  “Hannah,” Joel called up to her, “Mama says you’re flirting with Old Hickory.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath and dropped the rest of her ammunition on his head. She should have stayed home to fight with Justin.

  Stretching out on her belly, she let her arms and legs dangle on either side of a stout limb. She could see Horatio stalking a mouse at the edge of the yard and knew Mr. Lawson was in the schoolhouse though she hadn’t heard him speak yet. With nothing else to do, she listened to the voices drifting around her.

  Mr. Stockdale’s deep voice called out impatiently, “These are all nice gestures, but our neighbors are losing their farms. It’s the crops that make or break them. If they can’t get a harvest brought in and sold for a decent price, no charity organization you create will help.”

  “Then perhaps that is where can focus our efforts, William,” Mr. Chambers suggested. “Perhaps we could form work groups and send each one to a struggling family.”

  “But who can spare the time to work two farms? With so few men to hire, we can hardly get our own crops in.” That would be old Mr. Burgess, who was struggling without his sons.

  An awkward silence fell. Most of the farmers were in the same situation.

  Mr. Burgess continued, “I’m offeri
ng top wages to anybody who wants to hire on, and I’d suggest the same to others who want work done. I have to mind my own crops, and I have neither the time nor inclination to work elsewhere for free.”

  The soft voice of a woman spoke up. “I’m in the same situation, Mr. Burgess. I’d be happy to pay for help, but there just aren’t enough workers available. I have acres of corn and wheat standing in my fields, and if I can’t turn them into cash, my land is at stake. My girls and I are working day and night.”

  Silence fell again, but this time it was thick with embarrassment. Hannah could imagine the men shuffling their feet and looking awkwardly about the room.

  Finally Mr. Burgess broke the spell. “Shoot, Mrs. Perkins, you make a man eat his words!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Burgess. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “How about if I send my hired hands over for a day? It’s not much, but it’s all I can spare.”

  “I will pay them well, with gratitude.”

  Another silence. Then, “I could spare one day from my smithy.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Stockdale.”

  Two others followed suit, and Mr. Chambers boomed out, “Well, that’s fine. There are others who need help, and others who can spare a little. And if we work together the whole community will benefit.”

  Hannah was almost asleep from sheer boredom when Mr. Lawson’s deep bass voice boomed out like a cannon and nearly knocked her off her branch. “I agree completely, Nelson! You folks have made me proud to live in such a community, and I’m compelled to join you, but in a different capacity. If, after the harvest, any of our neighbors are still facing financial difficulties, I would be willing to discuss the possibility of a few small loans.”

  There was another silence. “You taking up the banking business, Lawson?” Hannah could hear the skepticism in Mr. Stockdale’s voice.

  “The town could use it,” someone replied. “Nearest bank is in Allegan.”

  The big man’s laughter rolled out low and cheerful. “Nothing so large as that, but I have a bit put aside, and if it would stop another foreclosure, I’d like to invest it to help others.”

  “Well, it’s mighty good of you, Mr. Lawson,” someone said.

  The buzz of voices droned on and Hannah lost interest. Darkness fell and mosquitoes began helping themselves to the exposed skin of her face and neck before she heard the first wagon rumble away. Below her the schoolhouse door spilled its occupants into the yard. She took a firm hold on her branch and swung easily down the tree, landing right next to Wes’s mother.

  “Land sakes, child!” Mrs. Carver exclaimed, her hands fluttering over her heart. “You do know how to startle a body!”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Hannah grinned and started toward the farm cart.

  “Wait a moment, Hannah. I’d like to speak with you,” Mrs. Carver lowered her voice a notch, “about Mr. Covington.”

  Hannah drew in a breath. “Please don’t tell my mother about my outburst.”

  “I did hear that,” the woman chuckled. “He is a beastly man who deserved every word. However, you may want to reconsider your tune. He still wants you in his paintings.”

  Hannah thrust her chin out stubbornly. “Mrs. Carver, I have no intention of sitting for that… that…egotistical baboon!”

  “I know he’s no prize to work for, but he has a few wealthy patrons. And he’s offered to pay you hard money for your time.”

  Hannah’s eyes flashed blue steel. “Thank you for telling me, ma’am, but I will have to be destitute before I go crawling to that man for wages.”

  Mrs. Carver patted her hand. “It’s your decision, dear. I won’t say a word.”

  Chapter 6

  A hoot owl called from the tangles behind the barn, though it was only late afternoon. The sun was still skewered to the tops of the trees like an apple on a garden post.

  Wes’s signal.

  Hannah glanced cautiously around the barnyard. Only a few chickens scratched at the weedy patches. She scooted behind the barn.

  “Get all your work done?” Wes asked. He wore a pair of stained buckskins that were a little too big and carried an ancient Kentucky longrifle. The gun stood as tall as Hannah. It had elegant lines and a carved stock worn smooth as fine silk. Wes’s grandfather had carried the old flintlock over the Appalachian Mountains, and it was now affectionately named “Ol’ Joe” in honor of the pioneer. Across Wes’s chest hung a powder horn and a pouch of bullets.

  Hannah moaned. She’d been cutting wheat all week using a cradle scythe sized for a grown man then stacking the heavy sheaves into shocks so they would be protected from moisture. Her arms, her shoulders, and her back ached, and the harvest wasn’t half finished.

  “Chores are never done. Mama’s down with the ague again. She won’t know I’m gone.” But they’d have to avoid Joel and Justin, who never left the field before black night.

  They skedaddled for the woods. Most of the land roundabouts had been harvested for lumber, though second growth forest reclaimed any area not tilled under. About a mile east of the farm, however, between two arms of the Rabbit River, a stand of old timber that had escaped the lumberman’s ax still stood. It was toward this copse that the children directed their steps.

  They crossed fields surrounded by rail fences. It was common practice to let livestock run wild in the woods. Why waste good feed on animals that could forage for themselves? Pigs, horses, cows, even sheep were rounded up and pastured when autumn brought harsher weather. The fences weren’t built to hold animals in the fields, but to keep them out. But as the land settled up, more and more folks began to complain about the wandering animals.

  In the distance they spotted a figure standing beside a tripod.

  “Is that Mr. Covington?” Hannah questioned, squinting at the figure.

  “Probably. I heard him tell Pa he was going sketching today.”

  “He’s still at the hotel?”

  “Only until Mrs. Clark’s boarder moves out. Then she gets him.”

  “I hope he gets bit by a massasauga rattlesnake!”

  Wes laughed. “Living with that old battle-ax would be more fitting punishment, don’t you think?”

  She giggled. “He and Mrs. Clark are perfect for each other!”

  Soon the homesteads gave way to wild, swampy forest. Mosquitoes flew so thick Hannah breathed them in, but the woods also harbored deer, rabbit, coon, and squirrel. Pa used to bring her here when she was small. Back then, every shadow became a panther or an Indian, but today an entire regiment of Rebels hid among the trees.

  They waded the river and Hannah dropped behind a large rock. “General McClellan,” she ordered, “Take your men around to the right and close in on the rebel’s flank. I’ll go to the left and catch them in a cross fire.”

  Wes moved to obey then spun back around. “I’d rather be Grant.”

  “I’m General Grant.”

  Wes grinned and saluted. He began creeping away, the long upright rifle barrel marking his progress.

  Hannah found a fallen branch to serve as a weapon. Keeping her eyes on Wes, she skirted the woods to his left, stopping on occasion to take out enemy soldiers.

  Suddenly Wes cried out, “Cavalry! Coming up the hill behind us!”

  The friends closed ranks and engaged the enemy shoulder to shoulder until they drove the last rider off the hill. Then, laughing and panting, they slouched against a massive tree trunk. When her breathing regulated, Hannah let her head flop back and closed her eyes.

  “You look pretty done in,” Wes observed. “Sure you’re up for this?”

  “Shoot,” she scorned, “I feel better than I have all week.”

  Wes grinned. “That’s what I like about you. You’re never afraid to loosen up and have a little fun. Not like some old stuffed shirts I can think of.”

  “Like who?”

  “Well, my father, for one.”

  “And Sue Ellen! Can you picture her running through the brambles?”


  “Only if there’s a spelling bee on the other side.”

  Hannah laughed. “Have you heard from Marcus lately?”

  “Not since he got hurt, but I’m not worried. His letter said the bullet only grazed his arm. He’s probably sipping tea in some hospital, amusing pretty nurses with tales of his bravery. Won’t be long till they kick him out and send him back after the Johnnies.”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” she said.

  Their conversation lagged, and Hannah could hear the rustle of some small animal in the dry grass to her left. She jumped up. “Here they come again!”

  They ducked behind the tree as another company of horses swept their lines.

  “There’s too many of them! General Grant, we must fall back!”

  Step by step, the children gave up their hard-fought ground, retreating to the shelter of a fallen log from which they took out rebel officers one by one until the regiment fled in confusion. A pair of squirrels lectured them from above, and one old porcupine peered down at them from a hollow in a tree.

  Hannah slumped in relief. “Any casualties, general?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Wes propped his gun on end. “We’ve shot enough rebs. Time for some critters.”

  He climbed onto a stump to reach the top of the long barrel and carefully loaded the rifle. Unscrewing the cap, he tapped out a measure of powder from the horn and poured it down the barrel. Then he wrapped a bullet in a greased cloth and drove it to the bottom of the barrel with the ramrod. Finally, he poured a bit of powder in the firing pan and cocked the hammer. The old fellow was ready to fire.

  “General Grant, would you like the first shot?” he asked, holding out the gun.

  Hannah accepted it.

  The woods were full of small game, but Hannah had a hankering for squirrel stew. As she scanned the treetops for the fox squirrels that had berated them moments before, she realized how shadowy the woods had become.

  “We battled too long, General McClellan. It’s getting hard to see.”

  “Best time of day to spot deer.”