Thorns in Eden and The Everlasting Mountains

by RITA GERLACH

  Rebecah heard Davies whisper behind her. “She could be a spy. You want Redcoats to come down on the frontier like bats out of hell, do you?”

  She sighed and turned to face them. “I may be English, gentlemen, but I’m no spy. A gentleman sympathetic to your Glorious Cause sent me to visit his son who lives near.” She pulled off her gloves, revealing hands clean and soft.

  “Pay no mind to the men, miss.” Davie’s wife stepped beside her. “They haven’t had this much excitement in quite a while.”

  After a brief stay, it was time to resume the journey. The horses were rested, the coachmen refreshed. Rebecah’s skirts whispered along the rough-hewn floor as she walked to the door. The men stepped aside, hats in hand. She turned, one hand upon the jamb and smiled to the woman.

  “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  The woman nodded, her hand over her son’s shoulder, as the locals gathered on the porch.

  After Rebecah boarded, the coachmen climbed into their seats. With a snap of the reins, the horses moved on, and the coach rolled away leaving a cloud of brown fog behind.

  Rolling fields banked each side of the road. It turned and entered the forests, thick and lush, dark and cool. Trees entwined overhead. Sunlight spotted the brown earth with ovals of light. Each passing moment, each turn of the coach wheels, brought her closer to the man she loved. And he had no idea she was on her way to him.

  She had been brave thus far. But now she felt she was losing her courage. There was the chance he no longer loved her. For all she knew he could have married. Nevertheless, she would keep her promise to Sir Rodney, deliver the gold, and inform Nash his father had been arrested. If he rejected her, she would return to Annapolis and return to England.

  But what if war broke out? She could be trapped. No family. No friends. She’d have to find work and wait the whole thing out.

  She bit her lip, stared at the sky.

  Does he still care?

  Her heart leaped at the thought.

  Jack is a good man, and a good man would never send a lady away who has traveled across the ocean and through the frontier to him. He may not want me at first, but I’ll find a way to make him want me in the end—if he is free.

  The breeze strengthened. Forests murmured with the whisper of wind. The sky grew dark as slate. She watched the whirl of clouds. Thunder pealed. The wind calmed.

  The trees stood motionless. An eerie hush fell over the land. Rebecah fell back against the seat. She remembered what Jack had told her about the wilderness storms, how fierce they were.

  The coach rattled on. Thirty and five miles left to cover before the spires of Fredericktown broke upon the skyline— thirty and five miles of wind, storm, and shaking trees. She wished they had stayed longer at the trading post, at least until the storm passed and the sky broke open again with the sun. The rain would have sounded differently beating upon the logs. She could have sat and talked with the woman and her boy, listened to the men’s tales.

  But now they were miles away, and the storm swallowed the light of day.

  Lightning crossed the sky. Thunder shook the land. Rebecah sat stunned. Her hands gripped the side of the door. Lightning struck a tree. She screamed and covered her ears. The horses strained. The horses whinnied. The coach pitched to one side and veered off the road. It creaked and moaned, slid down an embankment, and landed in a ditch.

  CHAPTER 3

  Nash placed another log on the fire. His men huddled for shelter in a cave. Cleft into a granite outcropping, it was high in the mountains, hidden by enormous trees. Damp and crusted, it smelled of earth, mold, and years.

  Clarke snored with his hat over his eyes, embracing his well-oiled musket. Black Hawk sharpened his knife. The preacher read from his well-used Bible, the size of which fit in his palm.

  As the storm raged outside, loneliness for Rebecah seized Nash and he stared with a searching heart at the flames. He could not shake the thoughts, nor purge the feelings. He loved her. But it was over and she was unattainable.

  Maldowney came beside him. The fire played over his face and heightened his red hair and beard. “You miss the lass, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but I need to forget.”

  “Maybe if you married…”

  Nash shrugged. “I’ll remain unwrung.”

  “Life is too short to pine away for a lost love.”

  “Or be bound to a second choice.”

  The rain lessened. The thunder rumbled no more. Sunbeams shot through the clouds and Nash watched them from the entrance of the cave.

  “The storm has passed. Let’s head back to town.”

  He stepped away from the fire out into the coolness. The elms and evergreens sagged with rain. Mist streamed down upon the land and bathed the flora in white veils. Ribbons of fog lay in the glades, and a hungry hawk flew above the treetops.

  From where he stood, Nash looked down into the valley. The air smelled sweet and he was reminded of the way her hair smelled. It had been so fresh and clean, and felt like silk when he ran his fingers through it.

  Leaning against a pine, he cradled his musket. The breeze rustled his hair. And as much as he tried not to, he thought about Rebecah with a wounded heart. Was she with Lanley, in his house, in his bed, with his ring upon her finger? Then the memory of her rejection, her believing he sentenced her father to an untimely death pressed on his mind.

  He turned and rested his forehead against the rough bark, balled his fist and struck the tree. A moment later, the men emerged from the cave. They took the old trail down the mountain into the gorge. His heart pounded as he kept pace with the others, and he ignored the pain in his leg. He had not brought Meteor this time, thinking the exertion would do him good. Now he regretted it.

  Rounding a bend, they came upon an Indian village nestled amid trees. Nash stepped up to Black Hawk. “Go ahead of us. Speak to the elders.”

  As soon as Black Hawk’s moccasins touched inside the village, old men came out to meet him. Between them a council fire smoked and hissed. Black Hawk raised his hands and spoke, and Nash stood several yards behind him.

  “I am Black Hawk, son of Running Fox, chief of my village to the north among the Nations. My fathers have no reason to fear. We come in peace. Tell me, fathers, why do you mourn?”

  An aged chief moved through the people and stood before Black Hawk. His face was wrinkled in ashy seams.

  “My eyes saw General Braddock fall in battle,” he said in an oratory discourse. “My eyes saw the young Washington, tall and lean upon a great horse, dodge French bullets and escape the Indian arrow. Now, my eyes are old and I am weary of war. You are a warrior. Are you among those who kill all in their path for pleasure?”

  Black Hawk frowned. “I am with the rangers as their scout.” He turned and pointed at Nash. “This man waits to speak to you.”

  The chief raised his face to the sky. “The time of peace is past, my son. The moon is red with blood and the sun with smoke. Enemies are on every side. Who can my people trust?”

  “You can trust Logan’s friend. He is my brother. Hear his words. Tell him what has happened to your people.”

  The old chief nodded. “We will meet with him. I had a dream two nights ago. A white man came to our village. Upon him lay a wolf’s skin. The head of the wolf was upon his head. Its teeth were large. Its eyes were black and angry. He was sent to hunt the bear. Perhaps your brother is that man.”

  “Black Hawk, tell the chief we will not harm his people.” Nash spoke softly, so not to cause alarm. “Tell him the women and children have no reason to fear us. I give him my solemn oath.”

  The chief pulled his blanket further over his shoulders. His eyes showed signs of cataracts and peered at Nash through the smoke. “I understand the white man’s tongue.”

  The chief sat, motioned for the others to do likewise. “Many moons ago white missionaries came up the river. I believed their words. I began to think white men were good. But when the crazy fox came, he proved to
me there is evil in the heart of every race.”

  Something lurched inside Nash, for he wondered if it were LaRoux the old man spoke of. “Tell me what he has done to your people.”

  “He has shot arrows into our hearts that will last forever.”

  “Where are your young men?”

  “Many have joined Logan.”

  “And the rest?”

  “The women mourn for their husbands, the children for their fathers.” The old chief hung his head. “They fought the crazy fox and died.”

  “Who is this crazy fox?”

  “He is a man both white and Indian. His hair is black as the crow. But his eyes are not Indian eyes.”

  Nash twisted his mouth. “LaRoux.”

  Two women helped the old man rise and he walked on. The sun filtered through the trees and bathed the forest in a veil of eerie light. Blue jays darted ahead and made wild calls that echoed through the forest.

  They came to a clearing, a circle of grass beneath a lodge made of deerskin. The bodies of the fallen lay side by side. Steams of blood crept through the blankets beneath them. Women knelt and wept.

  Nash walked over to look at the dead. He stood silent a moment, his emotions troubled and growing. Then he turned away. From the campfire, he scooped up ash, rubbed it onto his face as a sign of mutual mourning. Maldowney and Black Hawk followed Nash’s lead. But Andrew Clarke stood at a cool distance. He watched them with anger brimming in his eyes and his hand grasping hard his musket.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sunlight touched Rebecah’s face. She opened her eyes, pulled herself up, and stretched out her legs. They were stiff, and her body ached all over. A raindrop sparkled with sunshine, dangled in the window casement. She watched it lengthen and fall like a diamond, splash upon her dress. It made a dark round stain.

  She tried to open the door. But it was jammed. The horses whinnied and the coach rocked as they pawed the ground. She called for help. No answer. She shook the brass handle and pushed.

  Then a hand with nails blackened along the rims, thrust through the window. A face appeared, and she shrank back.

  Yanking the door open, he reached for her. “Take my hand and I’ll pull you out. It is useless for you to sit there.”

  She looked at him guarded. “Where is the coachman?”

  “Out here. He is unharmed.” He shook his hand at her. “Come, take it.”

  “But…who are you?”

  “My name is Jean LaRoux. Give me your hand.”

  Though reluctant to accept his help, she grasped his hand and he lifted her out. There were two other men standing in the road, their hair long to their shoulders, their faces tanned and beardless, their eyes dark like their comrade’s. He wore dirty buckskins and a string of beads around his throat. She thought perhaps he were a backwoodsman or trapper.

  The soles of Rebecah’s shoes touched the ground and the man let her go. She turned and saw George Mac standing stark still, his back up against a tree, a musket aimed at his chest.

  “Mr. Mac!”

  LaRoux grabbed her arm and held her back.

  “Leave the lady alone,” Mac dared to shout.

  LaRoux nodded to one of his men, and Mac was struck across the face. Rebecah gasped and hurried forward. Somehow, she wanted to help him, wipe the blood from his lip, and stay close to him. LaRoux swung her around.

  “Where is the other?” he charged. “Tell me!”

  He meant Mr. Stone. She glanced at the woods and back down the road. He was nowhere in sight. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The footman I think you call him.”

  She set her mouth and looked away.

  LaRoux shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” His hand eased off her arm. “Tell me your name.”

  Rebecah gave no reply.

  “Where do you come from?”

  Still she did not reply. LaRoux leaned forward. “You will not answer?”

  “I won’t.”

  He seized her hair. She let out a cry. He twisted the locks between his fingers and came within inches of her face. “Are you saving this hair for a man?”

  “Let go of me, you blackguard.” Her teeth clenched. “Let go or I’ll—”

  A musket ball whizzed past LaRoux’s head and smacked the tree beside him. Rebecah screamed and ducked. She looked up, saw George Mac wrestle the musket from his captor’s hand and take aim. He cocked the hammer back, and LaRoux’s men sprinted away. Grunting in defeat, LaRoux held up his hands, spun around and made for the woods. Mac fired but missed his mark.

  Jebediah Stone ran forward. “Mr. Stone!” Rebecah cried as he came out of hiding.

  “Laud, I wish I had hit that rascal. Are you alright?”

  “A little bruised…and shaken.” She gave him a weak smile, forcing back tears. She wiped her eyes, her hand trembling. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not a scratch on me. I was tossed off the coach, as you can see by my torn and muddy clothing, but not a bone broken. What about you?”

  “If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking and keen shot, Mr. Stone, I fear what would have happened. And you Mr. Mac, you were so brave. Thank you both.”

  Stone tipped his hat. Mac smiled. He lumbered into the ditch and grabbed hold of the horses. “We best get this coach out of this gully and hurry away. Those scoundrels might change their minds and head back.”

  “Right,” said Stone.

  Soon the coach was back on the road with Rebecah safely inside. The men climbed to their seats, and the horses pulled forward down the muddy path into the valley.

  CHAPTER 5

  John Nash stood in front of the Courthouse window watching passersbys move along the street. His face was shaved, his hair clean and tied in a broad black ribbon, his coat and breeches fresh, and his boots polished.

  It was a hot day, and all the windows stood open, the breeze wafting inside. People nodded and tipped their hats to one another. Smiles were on their faces, but not his. He wished he could shake off the sick feeling in his stomach. He was a brave man able to bear much, a courageous man. But bravery and courage were not enough to remove the gruesome pictures in his mind of burning homesteads, butchered settlers, and of the fallen warriors.

  A blood red sunset sparkled in the windows across the way. The clock struck and at the last stroke, Clarke walked in.

  “Word’s come. The forts are filling up with refugees from the frontier, and the militia under Cresap has left to scout the Monongahela.”

  “I’m not surprised people are fleeing.” Nash turned sideways in the window and leaned against the frame.

  While he spoke, a postrider rode into town. Dust whirled beneath his mount’s hooves as he passed out handbills marked with skull and crossbones, mourning wreaths and liberty caps.

  “News from Boston!” He slid off his lathered horse.

  Interested, Nash leaned through the window to listen.

  “By the bones of George Calvert it was no easy ride, people. Storms rolling to the south every day, storms so fierce my horse bolted off the road into the woods and stood frozen with fear. I couldn’t make him budge for the life of me. I would’ve been here four days ago, if it hadn’t been for the weather. Roads were muddy. Where’s the tavern? I’m hungry and thirsty.”

  He headed off in the direction pointed out to him. The townsmen talked among themselves. Some gathered in front of the window.

  “Says here the Port is closed by order of the Crown,” one man said.

  “Aye, and to enforce the law, it says reinforcements of new regiments were sent in May backed by the Royal Navy in the harbor.” An old man shook his gray head in utter dismay. “Those poor folk up in Boston. May God have mercy.”

  “The citizens are forced to suffer,” said another, “until every pence and duty is paid up for the soggy tea rotting at the bottom of the harbor. What’s King George mean to do, starve every last one of them?”

  The old man scratched his beard. “And look here. Says Quebec Act. What’s that? What we
need another Act for? Says boundaries for Quebec are to extend far south into the Allegheny Territory.”

  Fists were raised in angry protest. “They can’t do that,” a farmer said. “We have grants out there, treaties with the Indians. What about the settlers?”

  Nash saw Mr. Boyd, the town clerk, step from his house across the street. It was a red brick building of two stories, with narrow mullioned windows and a double chimney. He shut the door behind him and tugged on the cast iron latch. He then squashed on his hat, and for a moment stood watching the crowd across the street.

  “What goes on, gentlemen?” he said, approaching with a steady stride. “What’s that you have there?”

  “Postrider from Baltimore, Mr. Boyd. News from Boston. They’ve closed the harbor and are starving the people.”

  “Let me see that.” Boyd began reading. “May God have pity on the good people of Boston. How much does the Crown think we shall tolerate?”

  “We won’t,” Nash said from the open window. “Good day, Mr. Boyd. Come inside. We men have things to discuss.”

  A long, polished mahogany table stood in the center of the meeting room. The floor was bare, the walls empty. Seated was Mr. Thomas Johnson who had come up from Annapolis. Mr. Boyd, looking grave due to the news from Boston, took a seat next to him. The chairman John Hanson and a number of prominent citizens set their hats down and took their places.

  These were troubling times. The day had brought worry and anxiety over the future. Hanson held a handbill in his left hand. Dread covered his face.

  “Before you begin, Jack, we need to hear this.”

  Thomas Johnson leaned back in his chair. “Read it to us, sir.”

  Hanson read the news aloud, then slapped it on the table. “Does the King intend on starving every town that stands against him?”

  Johnson leaned on the table. “You men know I only arrived home last night. I heard this while in Annapolis. Tensions are running high.”

  “What can be done for the people of Boston?” said Nash.