by RITA GERLACH
In her vision, she saw Lanley watching her. Pulling her from the chair, he wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her. Her lips delighted him, but would not yield. She stiffened as he explored the curves of her body. She pleaded, but he did not stop.
She opened her eyes and met reality in the face. Terrified, her heart cried within. She remembered the vows made by the man who adored her, the warmth of his embrace, the gentle way he kissed her, loved her. Then she recalled his hurt and pleading eyes.
What am I doing! Wake, Rebecah, before it is too late!
She was startled back by the voice of the minister. “Will you repeat the words?” he asked in a whisper, noticing her fearful look. He stared at her with concern.
Lanley took her arm. “The vows, Rebecah. Say them.”
She glanced at the minister then at Lanley. “The vows? No…I cannot.”
Lanley squeezed her hand. “Rebecah?”
“Forgive me, Cecil.”
He caught her as she fell and laid her upon the floor, a look of disappointment and bewilderment bursting upon his strained face. Brent quickly rose from his seat and rushed forward. The witnesses gasped.
“She is dead,” uttered Lanley with wide eyes.
“Have you not seen a woman swoon, Lanley,” said Brent irritated. “Get her up.”
“Here is Lady Margaret,” Lanley fanned his face with his handkerchief. “She will help.”
Her ladyship knelt beside Rebecah. She pillowed her head on her lap and unfastened the lace at her throat. “We must take her back to Endfield.”
“Is she ill, my lady?” asked Lanley on a note of fear.
“Indeed, she is.” She looked over at Brent, then back at Lanley. “It appears the wedding is delayed.”
CHAPTER 21
Frederick County, Maryland, Early Summer
After a long bone-shaking coach ride from Annapolis, Nash alighted at the same spot he had left months before. It was late in the afternoon on a Sunday. He walked down a hillside toward the river and home, on a trail scarce the size of a bridle path. Far in the distance, he heard church bells ringing in Fredericktown.
Returning to Laurel Hill was the foremost thing on his mind, though now and again the face of a girl clouded his goal. He failed to ignore his love for her, yet believed he had been foolish to assume she felt as he did. It annoyed him like the vines hanging over the road. With a quick jerk of his arm, he pushed them out of the way.
He welcomed the rush of cool air and breathed in until his lungs were full. Spring had come and mountain laurel budded along with the dogwoods and hardwood trees of the forests.
He climbed another hill, and from it he could see the tip of a church steeple piercing the horizon. Fredericktown seemed too remote to be rocked with the tumult of the world. Its fine houses of brick and stone sheltered godly folk of neighborly dispositions. Timber whitewashed houses and log cabins gleamed in the sunshine, where children played in grassy yards and housewives hung their washing and churned butter. And like today, the bells of the clustered spires were heard for miles across the valley.
Nash had not slacked his pace. The road turned and there stood a row of evergreens twenty feet high. Passing slowly beneath their shadowy limbs he crossed onto his land. All this would make his memories of England fade he hoped. His heartbreak would be soothed and soon he would be over Rebecah.
He strode across an open field where he had felled trees. It was time to plant wheat. He imagined it knee-deep, rippling in the breeze like waves of the sea. Farther down a slope, he came to a creek shadowed by locust trees. Water sparkled blue as the sky above. He spotted his house now, and sprinted toward it.
Strange, but not a soul came out to greet him. He thought Joab would have been sitting out on the porch. He walked through the door.
“Joab!” he called.
He scowled at the dust that lay everywhere. Joab always kept the house clean—until now. A sinking feeling moved through him. What if something had happened to his old friend?
He went to the old man’s room next to the kitchen. A patchwork quilt lay neatly over the bed, a tic pillow at the head. He searched the floor beneath it. No shoes. But there were some clothes in the closet. The kitchen larder was empty, save for a bit of flour and sugar.
Perplexed, Nash laid his pistols on the table in the front room and drew off his hat. He sat in front of the cold hearth and rubbed one of the barrels with a cloth to polish it. He hated the solitude. If things had been different, Rebecah would be with him tonight, and he would not be polishing pistols.
Tomorrow he would ride to town and make inquiry as to Joab’s whereabouts.
The sun dipped lower, and he lit a candle. Pulling from his writing desk paper and quill, he penned the events of his voyage and journey home to his father. The words flowed at first and then lessened. He lifted the quill in a weary gesture and put it back into the inkwell.
His thoughts were too cluttered to continue. Besides the likelihood of his father receiving a letter was small. It would cost him to send it out from the Chesapeake. Suspicions were running high. The British were searching anything going out of the country.
Instead, he opened his Bible and found a blue ribbon marking a place in The Song of Songs. It was her ribbon, one he had gently taken from her hair while he kissed her. She had smiled and looked into his eyes, willing to bestow such a token of affection. He held it between his fingers and read the verse it marked until his eyes grew weary from the dull light.
Darkness had fallen and the moon shone through his windows. Outside an owl hooted. Though it sounded like the great horned bird, he could tell it came from human lips. He placed the ribbon back in its place, then picked up one of his pistols and pulled the hammer back.
He walked to the window and looked out from the edge. In the moonlight, he saw an Indian standing at the foot of his porch. Over one shoulder hung a bearskin fastened to a leather thong, the teeth hanging down the Indian’s breast. Poised in his large hand was a bow.
He stood silent and tall, in beaded moccasins, with eagle feathers in his hair—Black Hawk, his friend and brother.
Two seasons ago, Nash had been tracking a buck he had shot, when coming through the woods he stumbled upon the lone Indian. Startled by Nash’s sudden appearance, Black Hawk pressed himself against a tree. He stood rigid, proud, at his full height, his thick arms folded and his head raised unafraid. He stared back at Nash through valiant eyes, shaking with the fever that ravished his body.
Taking a step forward in a useless effort to plunge his knife into the breast of the white man, Black Hawk fell. Nash remained standing with his flintlock musket aimed in the direction of the fallen warrior. His body glistened with sweat, smearing the black war paint crisscrossing his limbs and face. Across his eyes, the black band lined in red remained unmarred. His raven hair, long and cropped short at the top, was dressed with feathers.
That day the warrior rambled incoherently. Nash, being the man he was, raised him to his feet and led him back through the forest. He nursed the Indian back to health, and Black Hawk said he would have killed Nash if he had been able. But now he owed him his life and his view of one white man changed.
Moonlight trembled over the feathers in his hair, upon the beads around his throat, upon knife and tomahawk. “I knew when the season of blossoms had come, and the bucks cry in the forests, my brother would return.”
“You are welcomed, my brother,” said Nash, as he came out the door. “Come inside. We will talk, if indeed you will sit in the house of a white man.”
“You’re my friend. We will speak as brothers in your house.”
Black Hawk sat on the floor. “My brother is well?”
“As well to be expected. It was a long journey, and I missed home. You carry your weapons to visit me, Black Hawk. Has anything changed?”
“Not between you and I, my brother. But since my brother left, the woods have been full of noise. The jay has not been silent for many moons. Deer have been swift to h
ide in the deep places. The woods are dark, my brother. Rivers beyond the mountains run red.”
Nash stared curiously at the Indian and frowned. “Trouble and darkness are everywhere. So shall it be until the end of time.”
Black Hawk nodded. “The end of time will come when the Great One will take our bones from the earth and make us live again.” He balled his fist and swept it downward, then upward as he spoke. “The bones of my people will not always be in the dust. We will not always mourn.”
“I believe this too. Why do the rivers run red?”
“There is war. The whites have killed our people.”
“The Indian does not accuse without a cause. He despises a lying tongue.”
“This is so, my brother. But we too are men and act unjustly. The Indian has killed and burned men’s houses. The whites have killed and burned our villages. The Indian has hated as the white man has hated. Our blood is the same color.”
“So we are alike. None is different.”
Nash thrust his boots on his table and leaned back in his chair. “But there are those who are evil men. Logan is a good man. Jefferson is a good man. But I’ve heard of Daniel Greathouse and the evil thoughts he has toward your people and the murders he and his men have done. Few believe it, but I know them to be true and not wild tales.”
“My brother’s spirit moans like the wind. I’ve not seen my brother sad in the face. England was not good to my brother?”
“My time there for the most part was well spent. But I was not wise, for I failed to guard my heart.”
“Perhaps, my brother’s heart is stronger for it. Now you understand when the warrior is not vigilant trouble comes. Now you are wary like the wolf.”
“You are wise, Black Hawk. I’m glad you’re my friend.” He handed the Indian more venison jerky.
“Will your god give you power to heal your wound?”
“He has done so.”
“He gave me the power to take this bear. His skin is a gift to you.” Black Hawk untied the tong and swung the skin over his shoulder, then spread it out on the floor. “The fur is good, my brother.”
Nash touched the bearskin. “It’s too rich a prize to give me. But I thank you for it.”
He knew not to refuse a gift from an Indian. It would be a great insult, and he thought of what Black Hawk went through to get it. “You took it with your knife, I see. You rival Logan in your hunting skills.”
Black Hawk gently smiled at the compliment.
“Have you heard how the British makes war against us?”
“It is in the wind.”
A low growl came from outside. Black Hawk rose and went to the door. “I tamed a cub.”
Nash looked out and saw an animal rolling on the ground. “A mountain lion?”
“He is a kitten, my brother.”
“How did you capture him?”
“The wild thorn growing in the mountains caught him. After I freed him, I brought him here to my brother’s house. The dark-faced man was frightened of him and got his gun. But I would not let him shoot him. When he saw the cub would do no harm, he dressed his wounds with oil and I with the herbs in my pouch.”
Nash smiled. “He will no doubt protect you.”
“When you bring your maiden into your house, he will frighten the wolf from her door.”
Nash frowned. “I’ve no maiden.”
Black Hawk shrugged. “It is time I go.”
“Sleep here if you wish.”
“It is the roof. I cannot sleep beneath it on such a night. I will sleep in the woods beyond the house and look at the stars.” Black Hawk walked into the grass and stood beside his cub. “Logan sits before his lodge. He is troubled. If my brother comes to the village, he will smoke the peace pipe with you to show his love. He asks that you come.”
He watched the lithe warrior disappear into the darkness. For some time, Nash stood alone on his porch. Black Hawk’s words troubled him. Would he ever love again as deeply as he had with Rebecah? Some would call him crazy to think it ever was love in such a short time. But he knew what he felt, that it ran as deep waters within his soul.
He then ran his hands through the length of his hair, and reentered his house.
* * *
The following day, Nash headed into town. The sun was brilliant, the day hot. The shrill song of a red-winged black bird filled the air, the cicadas twilled in the dusty trees.
Mrs. Charlton’s tavern stood on the southwest corner of Market Street. He heard laughter from within and walked up to the open door. Pausing a moment, he stood across the threshold and watched the revelry inside. Tobacco smoke filled the room with a blue haze. A serving girl stepped between rough-hewn tables, laying down mugs frothing with ale.
A gray-headed older man leaped from his chair. No one knew Tobias Johnston’s age, not even he, but most people believed he was the oldest gent in those parts. His dull gray eyes fastened on Nash. Wiping his hand across a bristly face, the old man’s eyes brightened and he raised his arms over his head with a, “Yee haw! There stands Jack at the door, lads!”
Heads turned. Men sprang to their feet and cheered. A tumult of greetings followed. Backwoodsmen, farmers, and local businessmen hurried out of their seats and threw brotherly arms around Nash.
“We see England didn’t swallow ya up, Jack!” A round of laughter followed.
“You’ve returned to the frontier in one piece, bless God. We were worried you’d not come back.”
With a wink and a smile, Tobias raised his mug in a toast and drank it dry, the ale dripping along his beard.
Nash soaked in the warm greeting and smiled. “No one missed this place more than I. It’s good to be home.”
He could hardly be heard over the excited murmur of the men. Meg, the serving girl, put down a plate piled high with meat pie. Nash went to pay her and she pushed his hand back. He stood and thanked her with a kiss. The men cheered “Hurrah!”
Meg’s cheeks turned red and she hurried away.
Soon enough he got an earful of news. “We’re all mad as hornets, Jack. You’d not believe the measures they took to rescue the East India Company.”
“Aye, they were facin’ bankruptcy. Those Parliament men put a tax on tea.”
“Yes I heard. It isn’t right.” Nash sat in the middle of the bench. “But you men don’t drink tea, do you?”
“No but our wives do.” A toothless man seated across from him slapped the table and roared with laughter.
Tobias blinked. “Well those patriots up in Boston gave them a real nice tea party in the harbor lettin’ them know what they think of their tax.”
In a more serious tone, the men talked about the angry southern Regulators, the disputes that brewed between Whigs and Tories, how debates rose to a fevered pitch at local town meetings. Marylanders remained in the thick, while crops prospered and the tobacco trade increased.
“Don’t think, Jack, that it’s been nothing but peace and plenty around here. That’s not all that’s been on our minds.” Andrew Clarke surrounded his mug with callused hands, and his angry eyes looked at Nash.
Nash set down his mug of ale. “What has happened to make you so livid, Andy?”
“The British are bribing the Indians with the promise of guns and food.” Clarke leaned forward. “We’ve had Indians attacking innocent folk west of here and their heading down this way. We’ll be fighting two wars. Word has it some of the chiefs want to kill every white east of the Allegheny.”
While he spoke, the tavern door opened and through it stepped a dark figure of a man. Jean François LaRoux tossed a dozen or more otter and beaver pelts onto the counter. He looked at the tavern keeper with a cruel twitching of his lips, his bronze face hard as clay, his eyes black pools.
“I’d have no dealings with the likes of him, Jack,” said Tobias.
“It’s LaRoux, isn’t it? I’ve heard of this man.”
“Aye, who hasn’t?”
LaRoux was a man without boundaries, with
out an allegiance, or a nation of his own. He was his own ruler and refused to believe a higher authority existed. He did as he wished, took what he wanted, and went were he liked.
Tobias wiped a trickle of sweat off his temple.
“The man makes you uneasy. Why fear him? He blows into town with his furs and leaves.”
Picking up his pelts, LaRoux stalked out of the tavern. The tension in the room went with him.
Clarke scooted forward. “Word has it there was a massacre near the Ohio. Maybe LaRoux was involved. That’s why the Indians are on the warpath.”
Deeply troubled by this news, Nash shoved his plate aside. “What have you heard?”
Tobias clenched his mug. “Nine of Logan’s family was murdered including his wife and his sister who was with child, and Shikellimus.”
Nash’s heart trembled. “Logan’s father? Mellana and Koonay?”
“Aye. You don’t want to hear what they did to Koonay. Only the wickedest of men could have done what they did.”
A chill ran through Nash. He knew these people, had known the warmth of their hospitality and their peaceful ways. He had heard Shikellimus speak to the elders, words so wise men were left in awe and reflective. Chief Logan was a man of peace. But with his heart and spirit broken, he would revenge his people.
“Shikellimus was a peaceful man.” Nash frowned, the news unbelievable to him. “Mellana and Koonay were among the gentlest women. Why would anyone want to hurt them?”
“The blame has been put on Michael Cresap.” Clarke’s mouth twisted. “He may have held the Indians in some contempt, but to butcher women and children and an old man? Cresap is a wiser man I believe.”
“They should have been left alone.” Nash lifted his eyes and looked around the room. “Can any of us blame Logan for wanting revenge? He loved his family as much as any man. How many of us could stand such a loss as his?”
Grim silence followed his words. Then, among the men at his table, others spoke what they knew as well as their minds.
“Some of Cresap’s men have straggled back across the border and have spread the news of the massacres.”