by RITA GERLACH
Joab nodded and wiped his sweaty brow. “I ain’t goin’ to Mrs. Cottonwood’s no matter how much she begs. I’m stayin’ right here. Godspeed, Mr. John.”
Nash smiled at his friend and slipped his musket into the leather holster on his saddle. Then he rode off toward the forest. The Indian walked alongside him.
With the sun burning above the horizon, Nash and Black Hawk traveled along the banks of a stream, down to the Potomac. A great swell of mountains loomed above, the tops round and smooth as river stone.
Upon the slopes grew oaks and locust trees, sycamores and maples. Hanging from limbs were stocky vines. Airy ferns covered the forest floor competing with moss and lichen. Poised at the water’s edge leaned willows. They swayed above the mirror of the current, while in the distance deer came to drink in shallow pools.
Nash followed Black Hawk into the water and they crossed a shoal where it flowed knee-deep. Small islands, formed from ancient rock, dotted the river. Cranes and blue herons stood upon them.
From there they traveled through rough forests. A sense of awe overwhelmed Nash as he passed under the leafy canopy above him. Deer dashed and leaped. Bird calls echoed.
At night they camped near the water’s edge, broiled fish over the open fire, slept under the stars. Before sunset, on the third day of their journey, they came to a precipice of limestone. Nash dismounted, and with Black Hawk moved to the edge and looked into a canyon of trees to a rushing stream littered with rocks. Black Hawk pointed at a band of Cayuga warriors passing through the trees. When they had gone, they carried on, going into the deeper cover of the forests until they reached the Allegheny Passage and traveled across the Youghiogheny River.
When they reached Logan’s camp, a dog ran alongside Meteor’s flanks and barked. The horse sidestepped and snorted. Nash loosened the reins and went to climb down from the saddle.
Black Hawk forbade him. He walked into the center of the village, was met by a dozen or more braves dressed in deer hide loincloths and beaded moccasins. Their chests were bare, gleaming in the sunshine from the bear fat rubbed upon their skin. Scarlet cords held their hair in tails and feathers adorned them. Circled around their biceps were copper bands and war paint riveted down their bronzed skin.
Black Hawk spoke. Savage eyes turned upon the white man. Nash felt the beat of his heart quicken and pound against his chest. A warrior stepped forward wearing the mask of the wolf. Clenching his teeth, he spoke a harsh word that could not be stripped of its bloodthirsty intent. He threw back his head and shook his fist.
Black Hawk stood in front of his white brother’s horse. In an instant a breathless hush fell. Tense like the loll before a storm, it struck the anxious heart of John Nash as his palms grew slick.
“Hear my brother’s words.” Black Hawk raised his arms. The warriors listened with stern faces. “Talgayeeta has sent for him.”
Their leader shook his head. “Lies. He is of the same mind as Cresap. He will die, as will all white men for the deaths of Talgayeeta’s family.”
“My ears do not hear your words, Angry Bear, that I’m to die,” Nash said. “My ears hear the weeping of your women for Logan’s children, for Shikellimus his noble father, for his sister Koonay, and his beloved wife Mellana. Logan has sent for me and I’ve come.”
“Lies! You come from Cresap. You come to kill our chief and our people.”
“Logan is my friend,” Nash told him, sliding off his saddle. “You will dishonor your slain by killing me. Will you will betray Logan in this way?”
Black Hawk moved beside Nash. “He speaks the truth. Honor your slain.”
The Indians stared at Black Hawk.
“He is my brother,” cried Black Hawk, with marked authority. “He saved my life. Talgayeeta smoked the peace pipe with him. Will you, when you sit in his lodge answer when he asks where his friend is? Brothers of a war chief, are you fools or men? Will you strike the war post?”
“The war post has been struck.” Angry Bear threw his fierce look at Black Hawk and drew his hunting knife. “He must die.”
Black Hawk shook his head, forbidding him to continue. “Because of the paleness of his skin you would send him to his death? Your words are not wise, my brother. They are mixed with bitter water.”
Nash steeled himself and approached the throng, fixing his eyes on Angry Bear. “Go tell your chief I’ve come. Ask him if he demands of me my life this day. See what he will answer.”
The Indian sneered. “I will go to him as you ask. But stay clear of my knife, white man.”
The warriors fell back as Angry Bear turned. He headed into the forest, slipped into the shadows and was gone. A moment passed until Angry Bear was seen again coming through the trees. Chief Logan, known as Talgayeeta, appeared behind the warrior. He wore soft doeskin leggings and moccasins. Four white-tipped eagle feathers thrust through his scalplock quivered in the breeze. A row of beads hung around his neck, and upon his youthful forearms were bands of beaten silver.
Logan’s face was scarred and lined with sadness. For a moment, no words were exchanged. Logan stared up into the canopy of leaves. Then he lowered his eyes and stood on a rise of ground in front of Nash.
Nash made the sign of brotherhood. “It has been a long season since last we spoke, and by the cinders on your brow you mourn for the dead. I too mourn for them.”
Logan held out his hand. Nash took it. Relieved by the gesture, and with pity in his heart, he met the eyes of this noblest of men, a peacemaker bereft of his loved ones.
“Sit with me, for we must speak.” Logan turned and stepped through the doorway of his lodge. “Black Hawk must come to.”
Together they sat upon soft, fine skins. A squaw brought them smoked fish and corn cakes. A mockingbird sang in a tree outside the door, and Nash felt a sense of dread fleet through the air.
Logan handed the calumet to Nash and blew blue smoke into the air. Lines on his face deepened into crevices and the shadow of his eyes into dark pools clear and determined.
“For many moons I’ve not seen you.”
“I was in England.”
“I dreamed you had forgotten your Indian brothers. It brought me much sadness.”
“I had not forgotten.”
“Why did you go to England?”
“To see my father and his wife.”
“I remember now. They are well?”
“Yes. I gave my stepmother your string of beads.”
“She did not reject them?”
“No, she sends her thanks.”
Logan pitched his brows. “Your father and his lady are noble people. But some whites in my country are not.”
“You speak the truth, brave chief.”
“There is liberty in truth.”
“Yes, and suffering in war.”
“You understand this?”
“I do, for Dunmore, Cresap, and Greathouse all declared war upon you and the Five Nations.”
Logan balled his fist. “Their hands are stained with the blood of those they have murdered. This blood stains the land and cannot be washed away by the rains. I have great anger in my heart. Once I loved my white brothers, so much my countrymen said, ‘Logan is the friend of the whites’, whenever they saw me. If a white man entered my lodge, I gave him meat. If ever he came cold and naked, I clothed him. If he were wounded, I dressed his wounds. Such was my love for them.”
“I’m a witness to your love,” Nash said grieved.
“The moon, once white and full of peace, is now a moon of blood. I vowed for peace, but now I seek vengeance. Do you see women about my lodge? Do you hear the laughter of children? Have you spoken to my noble father, to my wife, and sister?”
A tear fell from the corner of Logan’s eye, slid down his cheek, touched the quivering hard lips.
Nash’s heart ached. “I’ve heard of their fate. My heart is crushed within me.”
“When I found them, great anger swelled in my spirit. I found my wife Mellana in the dirt, her face covere
d in blood, her beautiful eyes no longer looking at me with joy. I saw fear in them and cried out. In my love for her, I gathered her in my arms and when I touched her lips, I found them cold.”
Shaking with emotion, Logan drew in a long breath. Sweat beaded on Nash’s forehead. He glanced at Black Hawk. His eyes were intent, his mouth tightly pressed.
“I cut free the body of my sister,” Logan went on, speaking slowly as if he were reliving the event. “They had torn her clothes from her young body—hung her from a pole with her feet above the ground. They cut open her belly—killed the child she carried. My father lay dead near his lodging.”
“And Koonay’s husband?”
“John Gibson was not there. He has wept bitter tears over Koonay and his unborn son. His daughter lived and is with him. He is of the same heart as I. He went to find Cresap—to kill him.”
The atmosphere was storm and stress. Nash knew what it meant for the settlers surrounding the dominion of such a powerful man. Blood, tears, and sorrow would plague the land alongside revolution.
The squaw reentered and placed a jug of fresh water before Logan. She whispered a word to him, yet he did not reply, nor did his dull eyes leave their fixed place upon the ground. Food lay cold within the wooden bowls, and the feathers on the calumet fluttered.
Logan looked at Nash. “You must leave me in the morning. You are safe here among my people for the night. When you return, tell your people hailstones will not beat me to the ground. Pleasant words will not quench the fire burning in my heart. Peace is no longer upon my lips.”
“I’ll do as you ask.” Nash took in a breath to calm the anxiety moving through his body.
Chief Logan rose slowly to his feet and made a promise. “My word to all warriors is they are not to harm you or anyone within your house. You were adopted into my family. If they harm you, they harm me.”
“You have my thanks.”
Then from around Logan’s neck, he drew off his beads. “These are the sign you are our son and brother. Wear them so you may show any warrior you are beloved among my people.”
Nash nearly wept. He took them in hand, drew them over his head and looked into Logan’s eyes. “Thank you, my father, my brother.”
Logan called his sentry. Then he grasped Nash’s arm. “I wanted to see your face one more time before I join my fathers in death. We shall not see each other again.”
Nash squeezed Chief Logan’s hand and thought how many lives could have been spared if men had not hated with such wickedness.
* * *
Nash lay on a fur mat in a lodge kept for guests. The moon rose high and he thought of the girl he left in England. His heart longed for her and he hoped he would soon forget. He must invest his thoughts in other things, but while the stars burned softly, while the breeze whispered through the trees, when loneliness was most apt to fill a man, he lost the battle of forgetting. She was ever with him, especially now.
Sleep eluded him, so he rose with a groan and walked out into the cool night. The fire that once blazed in the center of the village burned low in a heap of glowing red coals. He raised his hand to the Indian sentry who sat beside it with a musket over his arm, then passed on into the forest.
The moon poured through the breaks in the trees. Crickets and tree frogs murmured. Nash stared hard at the stars and the tranquility amazed him. It dominated forest and sky, and he wished he could take it in his fists and hold it, feel that sense of peace that passes all understanding. His heart grew heavy and he walked to the edge of the river where he sank to his knees, his hands upon them and his head lowered.
“God,” he breathed. “It seems you’ve given me a commission. I take it, but I need your help…all of us will. Father, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. Forgive us…as we forgive…Lead us not into temptation…deliver us from evil…”
He raised his hands to meet his face where anguish caused him to tremble. Wind rose and blew on the other side of the river and rustled through the trees. It crossed, and the pines surrounding Nash freed their dry needles. They fell to earth where ancient layers of the same lay rotting. He listened to the sound they made as they fell, stared at the steeps of pines, while a voice rose in his being that reassured him of his safety.
He stood and remained there until the moon sunk beneath the hedge across the river. The memory of his time in England came back. He could still feel her touch, hear her voice as if she stood beside him.
Closing his eyes, he breathed out in an effort to return to the present, which was not a good place to be.
CHAPTER 25
The realities of such dangers were unknown to the girl who had lived all her life sheltered in the English countryside. She had never seen an Indian dressed in fringed leggings and bright beads, his face painted for war, his belt laced with the scalps of his enemies. She had not drank from a clear mountain stream, walked through an all engulfing forest, felt dwarfed by towering hills and trees, nor experienced both the joys and horrors of wilderness life.
Today Rebecah sat in Lavinia’s garden watching insects play over the marigolds. Worker bees moved from blossom to blossom, their legs heavy with bright golden pollen.
“The London papers say war is certain with the Colonies.” Lavinia sat in a white wrought iron chair and set her teacup on the saucer.
“David said, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin were slandered for their tough stand on independence, and Patrick Henry’s orations could cause riots in London. All loyal Englishmen should agree the King’s army is invincible. David says America’s revolution will fail in a matter of weeks.” She leaned back against the chair and sighed. “The worst of it, traitors could either be hung or sent to prison.
Rebecah wondered what Nash’s fate would be. She admitted to herself she cared what awaited him. She listened to Lavinia drone on. Prison, execution, these words seized her heart.
Lavinia groaned. “Rebecah, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
“I’m sorry, Lavinia. I don’t know what to say.”
“Doesn’t the news worry you?”
She swallowed. “No, I’ve had other things on my mind.” But it wasn’t true. She was worried—terribly worried.
“I’m anxious for Jack. He will be in the thick of it, I believe. We must pray for him.”
“It is not in me to hate him, you know.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“I have tried not to.”
“Have you forgiven him?”
“If ever God does a thing for me, I pray He spares his life, for I fear something terrible has come upon him…something far worse than my not having forgiven him.”
Lavinia’s lips parted and concern covered her face. “Oh, Rebecah. That is a knowing that comes from deep within. I shall fear for him more than ever.”
The coach, meant to take the ladies on a day’s outing, rolled down the gravel drive toward the house, and upon hearing it, Rebecah rose with Lavinia and went inside. Lady Margaret had fetched her hat and was adjusting the ribbon beneath her chin.
Together they boarded, with Lavinia seated beside her ladyship. Dressed in pale blue and cream lace, Rebecah’s wide-brimmed hat shadowed her eyes. She pulled her hair over her right shoulder and leaned back against the seat.
When they reached their destination, she looked from the window to a field where people gathered. The field belonged to a rich man who loved his Bible and honored the men that preached it. He had leant it that day to John Wesley, along with a wagon Wesley used for a platform. Having never seen so many people gathered in one place, Rebecah watched the crowd with a sense of excitement. Most were farmers and herdsmen, among them well-to-do ladies, shopkeepers, weavers, and blacksmiths. Children nestled against their mothers’ arms, and there were lame and sick folk.
The coachman opened the door and led Lady Margaret out, then handed Rebecah down. She stepped onto the thick carpet of field grass and looked over the shoulders of the people to see a man who could be heard
from afar. His voice was pastoral, robust, smooth and convincing. He held a well-worn Bible in his hands. Its pages fluttered in the breeze. People huddled together and drew closer to hear the words Wesley spoke.
John Wesley wore a black coat with an upright collar and narrow white stock. His hair was clean and cut above his shoulders. Rebecah thought his face, his eyes, were kind.
“How unlike others who stand in lofty pulpits, my lady,” Rebecah commented. “And his voice. Is it not comforting?”
“Indeed it is, as it should be from a man of God. Let us draw closer.”
They walked into the crowd and stopped to listen a few yards away from the wagon. Two clergy of the established church stood nearby. One had his arms folded across his chest, a look of irritation on his blanched face. The other stood with his fists clenched at his sides and his head lifted high.
Wesley raised his hand, bidding all come near and listen. A hush fell over the crowd. The sun stood halfway behind a cloud and beams of light filtered down through the heavens onto the land.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Wesley said, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Hear what Luke’s gospel says. But love your enemies, and do good…and lend hoping for nothing again, and ye shall be the children of the Highest, for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil.”
Rebecah fixed her eyes on Wesley while he spoke. The words pierced her like a dagger. Tears swelled in her eyes and she felt convicted.
“Be ye therefore merciful, as your father also is merciful. Judge not and ye shall not be judged. Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned. Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Oh, people of God, you are most blessed when you forgive your brother. If you’ve aught against any, go to him and be reconciled to your brother. Forgive those who have trespassed against you, else ye be given to the tormentors.”
Her hand went to her mouth and she looked down with her vision blurred.
“All our trespasses and sins are forgiven us if we forgive and as we forgive others.” Wesley stretched out his hand. “This is of the utmost importance. Our blessed Lord is so jealous lest at any time we should let it slip out of our thoughts, that he not only inserts this in the Lord’s Prayer, but presently after repeats it twice over. If any malice or bitterness, if any taint of unkindness or anger remain, if we do not clearly, fully and from the heart forgive all men their trespasses, we so far cut short the forgiveness of our own.”