by RITA GERLACH
“Aye, and Lord Dunmore appointed Cresap as major-general of militia.”
“And wants a thousand savages to serve under him in the event of rebellion.”
“Cresap would never fight for the British once Revolution is declared.”
“He’s a traitor and a coward!”
“He’s been wrongly accused, Andy. It’s Greathouse that’s the guilty one.”
“Logan and Cornstalk won’t join forces with Cresap, either way. Dunmore is out of his mind.”
“Dunmore is crazed alright. He’s promised twelve pounds sterling for every rebel scalp taken by the Indians.”
“We’ll have to wait and see how God sorts this out. The killing of women and children will incur His wrath.”
Nash’s blood boiled. The more the men talked, the more enraged he grew. He could not help but picture the fear in Mellana’s eyes, hear Koonay’s screams, and Shikellimus’s pleas for mercy. And the children—oh, what they must have suffered. And Koonay’s unborn child—
Now settlers were reaping what wicked men had sewn.
Nash stood, his fist clenched. “So Dunmore sprung his trap. By this, he started a war that will turn the Six Nations against us. If it is treason to make a stand, then I’m guilty. We must resist these bullies who say they have a divine right to govern us.”
The room roared with cheers.
“We are with you, Jack!”
“Liberty or death!”
Nash’s speech was heated and the men listened intently. It was now a life for a life, and many scalps now decorated an Indian’s belt. That night, the black horse ran through the wilderness and made its way down the banks of the Potomac, across the mountains into the westward frontier.
Tossing the waiting girl a coin to pay for his ale, he picked up his hat. “I’m looking for Joab. Do any of you know what he’s been up to?”
“He didn’t run off, Jack,” Tobias answered.
“I wouldn’t think so. But he isn’t at Laurel Hill.”
“Mrs. Cottonwood has him. She figured he’d be idle out there at Laurel Hill and so asked him to work for her until you’d come back. We heard she promised to pay him for his labor, seein’ he’s a free man.”
“Did she now? Well, I’ll make sure she does.” Nash put on his hat and stepped out the door.
* * *
After making a round of visits to friends, all of which greeted him home with the warmest of welcomes, Nash made his way to the Cottonwood house moments before sundown. Shadowy silhouettes pranced like marionettes behind the white muslin curtains of an upstairs window. Bounding up the stairs, he knocked upon the black oaken door and waited.
When it opened, Mrs. Cottonwood raised her arms and let out a shriek. She howled so loud, Nash feared she would rouse the neighbors. But they were accustomed to her screeching, for she performed it whenever company arrived.
‘Beware, Mrs. Cottonwood’, they warned. ‘You’re like the boy that cried wolf.’
She was a widow in her middle years, her hair steel gray in tight curls about a face that resembled a full moon.
“Bless my soul! ‘Tis you, Mr. Nash! Come home have you?” Her voice sounded like she was stricken with a nasal cold. “And so far a journey. I did not expect to see you. My, the night is a balmy one, and how the stars do shine. Do come inside.”
With her mobcap on her head, and her tiny almond-shaped eyes blinking, she snatched Nash by the sleeve and pulled him in. Hurriedly, and with a catch of her breath, she shut the door.
“I’ve come for Joab, ma’am.” Nash turned his hat in his hands, anxious to get this over with.
“Oh, I see.” Pausing a moment, she wiped her nose with a handkerchief. “I figured as much.”
Nash smiled politely. “I’m sorry, but this is not a social call.” He followed her into the parlor. “I’ve only been home a day.”
“A day, Mr. Nash?” She turned on her heels and leaned toward him. “And weary to the bone from your journey, I imagine. And you’ve brought no wife home with you from England?”
“As you see, I am empty handed.”
She laughed. “It would be better if you found a nice girl from here, like my Drusilla.” With a heave, Mrs. Cottonwood sat in her best chair. “Do be seated, sir.”
“Forgive me, but I cannot stay. Where is Joab?”
“He has been a great help to me. I shall compensate you for his time.”
“There’s no need, Mrs. Cottonwood. Joab is a free man. Compensate him.”
“Yes, I forgot. Since my husband passed on the work, well you know. A woman cannot do such tasks. The girls spend their time doing needlework and practicing music, as girls should. Good breeding is so important.” She sniffed.
“Of course.”
“I hope you’re not angry with me, Mr. Nash. I may have spared you a lot of bother.”
“How so, ma’am?” He grew irritated by the wait and shifted on his feet.
“Joab might have left the county,” Mrs. Cottonwood explained.
“I arrive home and my house is a shambles. If he had stayed, I doubt I would have found it so.”
“I’m sorry to hear your house is not up to your expectations. There was nothing for him to do out there alone. You know what they say?”
“No, Mrs. Cottonwood, I do not.”
She squared her shoulders, bobbing her head like a hen. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop. I think that applies to idle bodies as well. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would, Mrs. Cottonwood. But Joab is neither idle in body or mind.”
“He willingly accepted my offer.”
“It was his to make.”
“Then you should not be bothered.”
“You must forgive me. Now if you do not mind, I would like to see him. It’s late and I have a ways to go.”
Bustling from her chair, she went to the open doorway. “Joab!” she called, in a singsong voice. “Mr. Nash is come home. He wishes to see you.”
In haste Joab appeared. The degree of his imprisonment at the Cottonwood home was more than Nash expected. Joab’s attire consisted of a black waistcoat, beige breeches, polished shoes and buckles, and a white cravat. When he entered the room and saw his friend, he broke into a wide smile.
“Mr. John!” Jubilant, Joab put out his hand and they shook. “I’m sure glad you’re home!”
“You’ve put on a few pounds.” Nash smacked Joab on the side.
“Mrs. Cottonwood has a good cook, Mr. John. I’m afraid she’s spoiled me—the cook I mean.”
“You plan to continue your employment here?”
“Well, it was a temporary thing, until you was to come back.”
“Go get your belongings, my friend, if you wish to come home.”
“I’ll be right back.” Joab swiftly left the room.
“Leave the good clothes, Joab,” Mrs. Cottonwood called after him. She turned to Nash. “Such things cost a pretty penny these days, Mr. Nash. If I get another man to help, I shall need them.”
Mrs. Cottonwood followed the pair to the front door. With a cautious glance, she scanned the neighborhood to see if anyone watched. “Shall we see you in church on Sunday?” she asked.
Nash nodded his reply and lifted his hat.
“My Drusilla is near sixteen now. I expect you’ll see her there and perhaps pay us a call later.”
In an upper story of the house, curtains over a front window were pulled back. Out popped the heads of the Cottonwood girls. Nash lifted his eyes. The three younger, Lila, Penelope, and Felicia, were fair-haired and skinny, the marks of adolescence showing on their faces. Drusilla, the eldest, was clear of skin and bonny, with brown hair to her waist.
Nash walked out into the street. No one could compete with Rebecah. If he were to give his affections to a girl like Drusilla, it would be half-hearted. He pushed back his hat with a sigh and looked over at Joab striding beside him.
“Those clothes suit you much better.”
“More comfortable, that
’s for sure.” Joab slapped on his hat.
“Please, tell me nothing has happened to Meteor, that you stabled him in town.”
“I did, Mr. John,” Joab answered. “Mrs. Cottonwood let me keep him here. He’s around the corner.”
The moment Nash stepped inside the cramped stable Meteor lifted his head and nickered. While he patted the horse’s neck and spoke to him, Meteor nudged against Nash.
“He’s sure pleased to see you, Mr. John.”
“I’m pleased to see him. Thanks for taking good care of him, my friend.”
“As if he were my own chil’, Mr. John,” Joab replied with a big smile. “I love that horse.”
“You wish to ride him?”
“No, sir. He and I are good together walkin’.”
Nash climbed into the saddle and walked Meteor alongside Joab. Market Street was quiet, candles in the windows, a few folks sitting in their rockers on front porches.
He felt the coolness of night sink in and tried not to think of war. But his heart spoke a painful verse, and he considered the girl he loved.
He imagined she most likely was married to Lanley by now. If Lanley had been a man half worthy of her, he would have been happy for Rebecah. But for her to be that conceited blue blood’s wife made his mouth twitch with anger. Memories were hard to shake and he tried to suppress the pain that gripped him.
“Tell me what you did while I was away, Joab.” He looked down from atop his horse, wanting to divert his thoughts. “Perhaps you’ve a few stories to tell?”
For the next mile, Joab spoke of the Indian and mountain cat, of the storms that had come over the hills, and of Mrs. Cottonwood and her girls.
“You’re a free man, Joab. Why did you go there?”
“I’ve a hard time sayin’ no to folks needing’ help.” Joab walked on with a whistle, with his hands in his pockets.
They came to a bend in the road, an open place where moonlight bathed the land misty blue. Joab moved closer and touched the side of Nash’s horse.
“Over there’s where they found a man dead few weeks ago beneath the pines. He’d been robbed. Scalped too. Whoever done it left him sitting against that tree with his hands and feet hangin’ limp as rags. Nobody ever found out who the man was. He’s buried up there on the hill in Mount Olivet.” Joab stood stone-still. “What’s that?” He laid a hand upon Nash’s boot and gripped it until his hand shook.
“Let go, Joab. It’s nothing but shadows and the wind moving through the trees.”
“It’s the dead man’s ghost.”
Nash leaned down. “Dead men cannot walk, Joab.”
He nudged Meteor with his knees, and the horse stepped forward. It whinnied and halted again. A twig snapped. The sound echoed through the woods. Nash made out a dark form moving toward them and drew his pistol. Slowly he pulled back the hammer. Shadows of swaying trees and flickering moonlight danced upon a man. Cautiously he stepped forward with his hand on his knife.
“A shot from your pistol might be swift. A thrown knife can be just as fatal.”
Nash’s horse shifted under him and he steadied him with a touch. “I’ve no reservations as to whether or not I should shoot if you pull your knife from your belt. If it’s money you seek, seeing you lay in wait for a passerby, I’ve none to give. If it is my horse, men hang for less.”
Raising his hand, LaRoux pointed his finger. “You’re John Nash. You’re a friend of Logan and an Indian called Black Hawk. You treat them as your brothers.”
“I treat any man well who has well within him.”
LaRoux twitched his mouth. “Little good is found in the heart of the Indian.”
“You speak against your own people.” Nash set his pistol against his thigh, while keeping his eyes fixed on LaRoux.
LaRoux stiffened. “I’m French. The blood of nobles runs through my veins.”
“A Frenchman is deemed worse than any renegade Indian in these parts. People haven’t forgotten the last war. Dark memories haunt some minds.”
“A troubled mind is what they deserve,” seethed LaRoux through clenched teeth.
LaRoux drew closer to Nash’s restless horse. Nash raised his pistol.
“Stand aside!”
“Of course. The path here is too crowded.”
Swift as a deer, LaRoux plunged into the forest. A horned owl glided from the broad limb of an oak. Its body and outstretched wings floated like a black kite as it screeched.
“We best hurry home, Mr. John,” said Joab.
“Here climb up.”
Nash pulled Joab up behind him. Soon they were free of the dark woods, entering upon a field brightened by moonlight. Purple clouds hung low above dark hills in translucent veils. Stars stood out bright and fiery to show the way home.
After a short distance, Nash turned in his saddle and looked back. The forest was level. Branches bobbed in the breeze. In a bloodcurdling cry, Jean LaRoux cursed white man, soldier, and Indian, including the man he just reckoned to his list of enemies. In revelry and violence his voice rose, fell, and went deathly silent.
CHAPTER 22
Rebecah closed the book she had been reading.
“Lady Margaret is downstairs wanting to see you.” March held out to her another letter, one sealed in scarlet wax. “It is her wish you read this first.”
Curious, Rebecah took it in hand, held it near the candlelight, and broke the scarlet seal. Her heart lurched when she saw it was from John Nash.
Dear Rebecah,
I’ve enclosed the lock of hair you bestowed upon me. It is no longer mine to possess. Yet the memory of it is mine, of its softness and color, and how the light played within it when I first kissed you. In time, such a remembrance will fade, just as I shall fade from your mind as quickly as I did from your heart. I pray you shall be happy in life.
Your Servant,
John A Nash
She ran her finger over the lock of hair and laid it back inside the letter. The thought of him so far away hurt. Now she must face Lady Margaret. There was no telling what she would say. When she stepped inside the room, her ladyship looked at Rebecah with a quick and friendly smile, and held her hands out for her to take.
“I’m so glad to see you. Samuel does not know I’m here. No matter. I would have come with or without his approval. I tried to come twice, but twice he told me I could not see you. A wretch of a man is he…Have you been crying?”
Rebecah wiped her eyes. “I’m composed now. Shall I have March bring tea?”
“The letter made you sad? I’m sorry I gave it to you. But it would’ve been wrong of me to have kept it.”
“How were you to know what he would say, my lady?”
“His words would not have hurt you so deeply if you did not care.”
An inner aching surged. Windswept were her hopes and dreams. It was yet too painful to speak of him. She gestured for Lady Margaret to sit. Lady Margaret looked over the room, her mild eyes showing worry. A plate of untouched food sat on a table near Rebecah’s window.
“You’ve hardly touched your breakfast. And your bed looks as if no one has slept in it for days.”
“No one has.”
Her ladyship looked surprised. “Where have you slept?”
“Over in the window seat.”
“That is not healthy, Rebecah.”
“I have blankets.” A mound of warm flaxen-colored wool lay on the seat.
“Why do you sit there, sleep there?”
“I like to look at the moon and stars. I end up falling asleep.”
“March tells me Samuel has ordered you to stay in your room.”
Rebecah nodded. “He has.”
“That is nonsense. Such a rule is ridiculous. What is there for you to do all day long?”
“Read. Write letters.”
Her ladyship set her lips tight. “I’ve brought some other news…from your cousin.”
Thrilled, Rebecah looked at Lady Margaret. “Uncle Samuel has disowned her and forbidden he
r to come to Endfield. I’ve written, but I believe all my letters have been intercepted.”
“I know they have. March told me that too.”
“How is Lavinia?”
“She sends her love and is well and happy as you would hope. She is with child.”
Joy filled Rebecah. “How wonderful for her and David. Too bad my uncle is so bitter.”
“Ah, yes, bitterness. It keeps one from many things.”
“How is David?”
“His practice is prospering. He too sends his well wishes. Lavinia asked me to give you this.”
Rebecah pressed the letter to her heart. “I’m grateful. Thank you.”
“It is the least I could do. Your cousin would be upset to see how you’ve been treated.
“Indeed it would grieve her. She is helpless to do anything about it.”
“But you are not.”
“I shall not stay here forever.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But you will be cut off too.”
“Foolish as it may seem, I do not care.”
“You must pray for strength, Rebecah, for surely you are in despair. It does no good to bury what you feel. If you do, it will rob you of any happiness you might have. If you love him, forgive him. Then go on for your own good.”
Rebecah shook her head. “You make it sound so easy.”
“I never meant to imply it was.”
Rebecah stood and looked at the courtyard through the window. “Has Sir Rodney come with you?”
“I’m afraid not. He is away on some kind of venture and will not step foot in the house. He is angry.”
She saw a hawk circle above the southern line of trees, and one of the farm cats pounced across the grass. She desired to go beyond the gates, to see other people and do other things. To get away from Endfield forever was what she wanted.
“Men always seem to be away.”
Lady Margaret rose and stood beside her. “Do you wish to be away, to leave Endfield?”
“Yes, more than anything.”
“Come live at Standforth. You can come and go as you please. See whomever you wish.”
Rebecah turned to Lady Margaret with wide opened eyes. “You want me to live with you after breaking off with your son?”