by Lori Benton
“But it is another chain of which I mean to talk about now. One that is not broken. It is a chain of friendship between two families.” He spread his arms wide, rope-veined hands extended. “I see it in the faces shining in the light of this fire. It is a chain forged through sorrow and pain, but it has come through that fire bright with hope and love. I think in time it will grow brighter as some hearts heal.”
He looked steadily at her eldest son, then at Reginald.
“We have cause to mourn, but we also have cause to rejoice, for Creator has restored our lost one at last, and soon the family of Good Voice of the Turtle Clan and the family of Aubrey will be united in heart and in blood.”
Anna Catherine, crying openly, and Two Hawks shared a lingering look. Good Voice felt the tears come to her own eyes, helpless to stop them, as she watched her son wipe away those from Anna Catherine’s cheeks. She wrapped her hands around her swollen belly, feeling the child within kick and turn, and the heart above the unborn one burned with its aching. Oh, my husband, that you should not be here to witness this, to hear these words, to see the child that is to come…
Stone Thrower had seen his firstborn. Spoken to him. Touched him. Bright Arrow had told her everything, every word that passed between him and his father and brother at Oriska, during the journey to rescue Aubrey, and in that dreadful clearing. She would hold these words as treasures in her heart, as she once held the words Two Hawks shared about the boy called William Aubrey, told to him by Anna Catherine. And she would not rage against her husband’s fate. She would not proclaim it unfair. She would believe, she would hope, that all things, even this, would weave together for good for her. For her sons. And for this new child to be born into a world that was changing so fast it threatened daily to throw her off her feet.
“The path Creator has laid for us to walk,” Clear Day went on, as though he’d read her thoughts, “has not been an easy path. Not always straight. And it will not be easy in the coming days. But when Creator said He would make rough ways smooth, I believe He was not talking about moving us to an easy path. He meant He was going to make our stride long enough, our legs strong enough, to carry us through. And when we reach our limits, He puts us on His back and He carries us and shields our eyes and hearts from that which would destroy our souls.”
Good Voice murmured her approval and wept a little more over these good, strong words of her husband’s uncle.
They waited to be sure Clear Day was finished saying all he meant to say, then Reginald stepped forward. He held three strands of white beads, the wampum given in the greatest act of forgiveness Good Voice expected ever to witness. He raised them so all could see, a symbol of the covenant chain between them.
“Daniel Clear Day, your words are life and healing to me.” Aubrey paused, struggled with emotion, and cleared his throat. “Look you, I know ’tis not your custom to name the dead, but I will name him now and give him the honor he is due, for it was Caleb Stone Thrower who forged this chain of friendship through his obedience to the Almighty, through his mercy, through many prayers for my soul, and through his sacrifice…”
Again he paused, and Good Voice was astounded at the softening in the man, the love he had come to feel for her husband.
“May the grace and forgiveness he offered me be the pattern by which we live our lives from this day forward. May that same spirit always shine in our hearts. And in the hearts of our children,” Reginald Aubrey concluded.
Iyo. They were fitting words for this sacred moment, this moment of remembering and looking ahead. Good Voice of the Turtle Clan looked around her lodge at all the shining faces, but it was those of her sons, and the women who had chosen them—though her firstborn was likely unaware of it as yet—that pulled the strings of her heart with the surest strength. In them she could see the promise of children to come—a promise to which her soul clung.
And so she stepped forward, a hand resting on the child in her belly, and to all the good words already said added, “In the hearts of our children, and their children’s children, like a fiery arrow may it shine and point the way.”
EPILOGUE
June 1778
Aubrey farm
The wedding was held on a clear summer day that promised to wax warm with morning’s passing. Few friends had elected to be present—recent frontier raids by the war chief, Brant, had turned the hearts of many against all Indians, even those Oneidas loyal to the Americans—but they were surrounded by family, hers and his. Soon to be theirs. As Papa placed her hand in Two Hawks’s, declaring to the attending minister he gave her willingly to be married, and she faced her husband-to-be, his strong brown hands clasping hers, Anna glanced round at those crowded into Papa’s sitting room to witness their vows.
Good Voice wore her best and brightest garments, silver in her hair and on her arms and ears, beads around her neck. Her daughter, Autumn Moon, watched the proceedings nestled against her mother’s shoulder, with eyes like polished brown pebbles beneath a cap of silky black hair. Beside them stood the Doyles, Lydia, and Strikes-The-Water, lovely and skittish—it was her first time inside a white man’s house. Standing next to her was William, or Bright Arrow, as he preferred now to be called. This day marked his first visit to the farm since the night he learned of his true heritage and rode away in furious rejection of it. Rejection had transformed into acceptance, and, over the months, an embracing of his Oneida identity, an acceptance forged through joy and sorrow.
Stone Thrower’s absence was keenly felt this day, though with nearly a year passed, the time of formal grieving had been set aside, freeing Two Hawks at last to marry. His family had arrived yesterday, when Anna, Lydia, and Maura Doyle had been up to their ears in cooking, baking, and last-minute stitching to the embroidered cream gown Anna now wore. There had been insufficient time yet to talk to William or to coo over his baby sister, born in the Moon of Giving Thanks. Anna didn’t know if William had yet spoken to Papa, beyond the courteous greeting she’d witnessed. Even now a prayer crossed the edges of her mind. Let it be today…
Papa left her to stand beside Lydia, who took his arm, smiling up at him. Anna thought the smile looked strained. Little wonder, vastly pregnant as she was with Papa’s child who, by Lydia’s calculation, was a week late in making its natal appearance. Beneath her gown Lydia went barefoot, her feet too swollen to fit her shoes.
Anna made a mental note to remind her stepmother to rest, once the ceremony was done. She would talk with them all, embrace them all, laugh and cry and remember with them all, but now her gaze settled on Two Hawks, who had never looked away from her, as the minister led them through the vows to love and cherish.
Lips speaking…hearts pledging…a part of Anna seemed to stand apart from it all, seeing the man before her in exquisite detail: brushed brown coat and matching breeches, the cloth at his neck white against the skin of his throat; hair grown long around his handsome face, raked back in a queue, glossy as wet ink; full lips curved with happiness, showing straight white teeth as he spoke; eyes clear beneath the strong line of his brows, seeing only her. Seeing her as only he had ever done. Bear’s Heart.
She thought of how they used to look at one another, meeting as children at the wood’s edge—unabashedly fascinated by the new, the strange. Now she saw all the ways they were the same, and the way he was looking at her, with a promise of long-awaited intimacy that tingled through her and found its echo deep within, a resounding yes, and yes, and yes.
Two Hawks slipped a ring onto her finger, the silver metal warm from his hand, and pledged to her all that ever would be his. Then the minister was praying, pronouncing them bound forever in the eyes of the Almighty and those witnessing: Jonathan and Anna Catherine Aubrey.
Voices then. Laughter. Her husband’s dazzling smile…
Papa was the first to embrace her. “Anna Aubrey. My dear girl.” She hugged him tight, whispering words she’d said many times in recent months. “Thank you, Papa.”
Then Lydia stood
before her, biting her lower lip and smiling.
Or was it a grimace? Anna hugged her tight from the side and was startled when Lydia didn’t quite stifle a groan. The daze of happiness cleared like mist before a stiff wind. She placed a practiced hand on the swollen belly between them.
“Lydia? Are you…?” She felt the telltale tension in her stepmother’s flesh. “You are.”
Papa, talking with Two Hawks, caught Anna’s tone, looked their way, and blanched. “Lydia?”
Clearly mortified, Lydia admitted, “I was trying to hold on. I didn’t want to spoil your—” The last words were bitten off between clenched teeth.
Anna didn’t know whether to hug Lydia or shake her. “How close in time are the pains? Has your water broken? No, you couldn’t have hidden that. You didn’t, did you?”
Lydia shook her head. “It hasn’t broken yet.”
Two Hawks was at her shoulder. “Bear’s Heart. What can I do?”
“Look after Papa?” She met his gaze with longing, hating to abandon him, but a baby didn’t take the convenience of its midwife into account when deciding to be born. Anna kissed her husband’s mouth, lingering briefly, then sought his understanding with her eyes.
He gave it. “You are the one she needs. Go.”
She didn’t go alone. As she propelled Lydia toward the bedroom, Maura Doyle was on her heels, having seen what was afoot and run to the kitchen for water and kettles and towels.
Anna glanced back once at the scene of her wedding, at the guests and minister standing about the room, and saw Good Voice hand her daughter over to Strikes-The-Water, coming to join them.
He tried to be the attentive host, to encourage their guests to partake of the bride’s cake and refreshments laid out on the table decorated with loops of tiny white paper chains, but Reginald was undone. He found himself gazing at the shut bedroom door, in agony for Lydia’s agony, unable to prevent his thoughts winging back to a dim hospital casemate full of the dying…
God in heaven, have mercy.
He wasn’t certain how he made it outside. Rowan and Two Hawks had to do with it; they stood one to either side of him in the yard while he drew gulps of air and his heartbeat settled, his mind cleared.
“Better?” Two Hawks asked.
“A bit.”
“I thought you would go over into the cake.”
Reginald smiled at the bridegroom, barely married before his bride abandoned him to her calling, but felt the effort sag. “ ’Tis not what either of us expected today, is it?”
Two Hawks gripped his arm. “Anna Catherine is with her. And my mother and Mrs. Doyle.”
He didn’t say all would be well. He’d merely named Lydia’s allies in her battle. And formidable allies they were. Reginald was more reassured than he’d have been by empty promises.
They waited. Others came and went, talking to him in the yard. Ephraim Lang. A few of their crewman who had known them long. A few neighbors who took their leave with proffered prayers and words of encouragement. Two Hawks saw them away, performing the duties of a host, taking up the slack Reginald had let fall.
An hour passed. Then another. Reginald paced the yard, sat, paced again, refused to eat. Once he heard a babe’s wailing and wrenched up off his seat on a fence rail with his hip protesting, only to realize it had been Good Voice’s daughter.
Sometime after that, Two Hawks came out again and sat beside him, strong hands braced on his knees. He’d removed his coat and rolled the sleeves of his shirt off his forearms. “Mrs. Doyle says all is well thus far. It is a first baby for her, so it can take much time. We are praying.”
Reginald grasped the young man’s shoulder in a brief squeeze. Barely a month had passed since Two Hawks had returned from General Washington’s camp at Valley Forge, where he’d gone in April with nearly two hundred Oneida warriors. They’d fought with the Continentals and acquitted themselves well at a place called Barren Hill. Again and again the Oneidas had amazed him with their sacrifice and dedication to their chosen allies in this seemingly unending war. Though conflicts had sprung up like wildfires all over the frontier, no further reprisals on the scale of Oriska had fallen from the hands of their fellow Iroquois since last summer’s cruel destruction, but it had been a difficult winter for the Oneidas. Many warriors had scouted instead of hunting, and no one felt safe, not those who went out or those left vulnerable and hungry at home. And yet when the call came in spring of that year to join General Washington in the east, the Oneidas had answered.
Reginald hadn’t expected Two Hawks to go, until William came through Schenectady and urged him to it. It had been the first Reginald had set eyes on him since their parting the previous August. Arriving by canoe with the warriors of Kanowalohale, he’d been distinguishable from them only by his lighter skin, his full head of hair. William hadn’t wanted to see Reginald but had visited with the women and his twin at the house they still maintained in town.
It had been hard for Anna to see the pair go off to war together, but Reginald was surprised at the wrench to his own heart. He grieved after William, worried for his safety, yearned to fulfill his seemingly impossible promise to Stone Thrower to be a father to both the lads, yet he found his worry for Two Hawks just as deep. It was good to have him back, safe and whole. Good to see his Anna so happy on this day. Good, too, to see the bond that had formed between the brothers during that brief campaign, even as he was forced to watch from a distance, still waiting. Hoping.
Where was William, come to that? Reginald thought he’d seen him with Rowan, headed down toward the barn. That seemed hours ago.
“Sir,” said Two Hawks, pushing off the fence rail to his feet.
Reginald looked up, blinded by the sun, high now in the west. Two Hawks was gazing past him. Reginald swiveled to look, and there was William standing in the lane, a stick in hand.
Not a stick. A bow.
It was a surreal moment, seeing the pair of them, Two Hawks in his wedding clothes, William in a calico shirt that would have stood out as garish on the streets of Schenectady even without the silver armbands constricting its billowy sleeves and an equally colorful sash belting his trim waist, a breechclout and leggings, beaded moccasins on his feet, hair tied back with feathers.
Bright Arrow.
Reginald stood, observing some silent communication pass between the brothers that had Two Hawks stepping away, going into the house, leaving him alone with William for the first time in nearly two years.
“I would speak with you, sir.” William’s tone was respectful, undergirded with a confidence Reginald didn’t remember the last time he’d heard him speak, in his mother’s lodge last August. “But first I need to give you this. I was waiting until after the wedding.”
He held out the bow. Only then did Reginald see that it wasn’t an Oneida bow. It was Welsh. And old. “I thought it lost,” he said, reaching for it. “Before General Arnold broke the siege at Stanwix.”
“It was,” William confirmed. “Taken in that sortie while the battle was underway. After the siege was lifted and St. Leger cleared out, I went to the fort and found Sam Reagan.”
Reginald was glad to hear the name. “How is our rascal Sam?”
That made William smile wryly. “You know Sam. He’s landed on his feet as always. But he helped me find the bow, still among some of the plunder taken out of Sir John’s camp, stored away in a corner. No one had claimed it. I did.”
Reginald hefted the bow, one he’d shot as a lad in Breconshire. In another lifetime. It must seem so for William as well. “Thank you,” he said. He looked up to find William staring at him with that disconcerting blue gaze.
“That isn’t all I wished to say.”
Reginald nodded him on, heart thudding.
“I wanted to say I’ve made my decision. I’m going to stay with the People. My people.” William looked aside. Reginald followed his gaze. The young Tuscarora woman he’d first seen in the woods near the Seneca camp last summer, Strikes-The-Wate
r, had come out of the house, holding William’s sister.
“I want you to know something else,” William said. “Once all this fighting has passed and things begin to settle—and if it’s still a thing a man can do in this country—I intend to finish what I began at Queens. I intend to read law. American law, perhaps.”
Reginald felt his heart leap. “You mean to continue your studies?”
“I do,” William said. “Whatever is coming, whatever this country will look like—under British rule or the states or Congress—it won’t be easy for the Oneidas. Too much has changed, is changing, and I want to stand an advocate in whatever way I can. But this is what I want you to understand,” he hurried on. “I see now that I could never have hoped to do such a thing without having been to Oxford, for having seen what I have of the world, and what my place in it could be.”
“William,” Reginald said, regret thick in his voice. “You know that if I had it to do over again—”
William held up a hand, a deliberate gesture that reminded him strikingly of Stone Thrower. “No more regret. That’s what I’m trying to say to you, sir. That I’m thankful for all you provided for me, thankful to you and to Mother.”
Heledd. The reminder of her jarred. Had she been better off never knowing? Was she happy, those last years in Wales? He prayed she’d found peace. And then all thought of his first wife was swept from his mind by the sight of William holding out his hand.
“Will you take my hand, sir?”
Still clutching the bow, too choked to speak, Reginald grasped William’s outstretched hand and held it tightly.
“If I continue with the law, I would do so as William Aubrey, if you will permit still the use of the name.”
Reginald’s hand froze in that of his son’s. He found his voice as quickly as he could, though it was but a croak, so gripping was his relief. “Yes. Yes, by all means. I would be pleased if you would.”