"And when I grow up, I want to live in a real house with flower gardens and a second floor and lace tablecloths and napkins and polished furniture and a staircase and neighbors who shout 'Good morning' from their side of the fence. I want to learn to read and write and ride in a two-horse carriage to church and have elegant tea parties in the afternoons."
Dougal snorts. "Girls."
The black river lines get bigger; they blur and fill in with water.
"Don't cry, Mary. You'll see Connecticut again someday."
"No I won't," I sob bitterly. "I'll never see Connecticut again, Dougal."
***
When Dougal and my father are snoring in their beds, I lie awake. Farthest from the fireplace, my bed and I are hidden within deep shadows. Every night since the end of April, I have stayed awake, watching my mother sit by the fire and stitch my birthday dress.
I lie absolutely motionless, scarcely breathing, because she'd say, "Hush, Mary dear, and go to sleep" if she knew I was watching. The half-moon curve of her face, arms, and hands is lit up by the firelight.
Before we left Connecticut, she packed away a bolt of bright-blue cloth, the same color as my eyes. So close to the coals, the blue cloth glows almost pink.
She puts the dress down in her lap and rubs her eyes. Suddenly she looks tired and sad. My mother has many friends in Fairfield. Her sister lives there, too, my clever and funny Aunt Orpah, whom we may never see again.
"Hush, Mary dear, and go to sleep."
"I didn't say anything."
"Hush now."
As I roll over, I wonder, How did she know I was awake?
2. May 11, 1759
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY, but I don't feel twelve. I roll over in bed and wait for any change. No, I still feel like eleven.
I turn my head to the sound of my father's feet touching the floor. It's almost dawn and he's going to our neighbors' farm a good two miles upriver. The Stewarts are a young couple with a two-year-old named Sammy. Mr. Stewart and my father are going deer hunting together.
My father shuffles around the cabin, stubbing his toes on bench legs and knocking his knees on barrels, cursing under his breath. I want to ask him when he'll be back, just to see if he'll wish me a happy birthday. But he's in such a foul temper that I stay hushed.
When he opens the door, a slice of lemon-yellow dawn lights up his profile. And then he's gone.
Soon after, my mother staggers in from the barn with a bucket of new milk in each hand. She's always the last one to retire at night and the first one to awaken in the morning. Ma sets the kettle on for tea and places corn bread on the table.
"Mary, it's daybreak."
It's light enough now to see my brand-new birthday dress draped across the chair back-with a lacy, store-bought chemise on the seat. I slip the chemise and dress over my head, and they fit perfectly. I tie my lace collar, the one from Flanders, around my neck. As I whirl around, pretending to be surprised, I admire the deep flounce of the skirt. I lift the hem and see a bit of frothy lace at my calf.
"Oh, they're beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
My mother wags her finger at me. "You knew all about this dress, young lady. You've been watching me when you should be asleep. But I've managed to salvage a few surprises for you."
"The chemise is a surprise. It's from Fairfield?"
"It's from Paris."
I am flummoxed. "France?" Never have I had anything so elegant and pretty. Or expensive.
My mother's mouth is a tight, thin line again, but her eyes are twinkling. "So you were surprised. You're becoming a young lady. Young ladies need pretty things." She points to the table.
At my place is a birthday cake. I smell cinnamon, maple syrup, and the dried apples my mother brought all the way from Fairfield.
"It smells delicious."
She cuts a huge slice of birthday cake and places it in a napkin. "Cake for breakfast?" I ask.
"Surprise."
***
I sit in our front yard and take huge, un-young-lady-like bites of cake. Tiny white violets have filled in the nooks and crannies between the grass blades like a slight spring snowfall. When the sun comes up red over the Susquehanna, it tints the white violets a deep, glowing pink.
Sunlight dapples the wavelets as though someone had scattered gold coins across the river.
What would I do with those gold coins? I'd spend them on dolls more beautiful than princesses. I'd buy delicate china cups and saucers for tea parties. I'd have more candy than at a dozen Christmases, more fancy clothes than in a queen's closet.
My bare feet are cold against the earth, but the spring sunshine glows warm on my face and hands. I remind myself sternly that eleven is much too old to be this excited about a birthday.
And yet ... the air is soft, my dress is new, my chemise is from Paris, my lips still taste of cinnamon. This is my day-fresh, young, and full of promise.
A thunk on the side porch makes me turn my head. My mother is heaving the butter churn onto the rough-hewn planks.
"Mary, take off that new dress and put on your old brown one. The butterfat will ruin it."
I stare at her in horror. "But this is my birthday—"
"Yes, but milk won't churn itself, especially once the sun gets hot. Hurry, or all we'll have is cream for your labors. You'll want butter for your birthday dinner, won't you?"
I sit on the side porch in the shade, punching the churn stick up and down, up and down, in the butter churn. Already my shoulders hurt and I'm hot and sweaty. My sunbonnet is no relief.
Dougal isn't even awake yet. He's here to protect us, and his lazy tail isn't even out of bed yet! Of course he's peevish because he's not deer hunting with the men.
"Not so hard at first, Mary dear. You'll slosh the milk right out of the churn. As the milk turns to butter, you'll be thankful you saved your strength."
Even my eyes are hot, I'm so angry. "Why does Dougal get to lie abed?" I shout. "It's not to be borne!"
"You'll be sorry you wore that new dress, young lady."
I shove the churn stick down hard, and sure enough, milk leaps out of the churn and splatters onto the porch and my new dress. Lady Grey, her kittens, and a mob of other barn cats gather round to share in the bounty.
"Mary," my mother says, "your father and I were up before dawn. He so you'll have meat on your plate; and I so you'll have milk for your tea. We all work very hard."
"And Dougal?"
"You leave Dougal to me. Churning, candlemaking, wool carding and spinning, weaving and sewing, cooking, sweeping, washing and cleaning, preserving, and taking care of children: That is what young ladies need to learn to do. You'll get married someday, and your husband will expect you to do them all."
"I already know how to do them all!" I shout.
"Hush up," Dougal mutters from his bed.
"You hush up, Silent Trapper!" I scream so loud my throat feels like bursting.
An even larger crescent of barn cats is at my feet, licking more milk that has sloshed out of the churn. I see my life in front of me: an endless round of churning, carding, spinning, weaving, sewing, cooking, cleaning, childbirthing and rearing, and following a westering husband even farther away from Connecticut.
I scream, "I don't care if we don't have butter!"
I fling the stick and churn cap out into the side yard. The cats crouch low but still lick up the milk, faster now. They watch me with wary yellow eyes, ready to spring out of my way.
"I can't be like you," I shout. "You can't even read and you live in a one-room cabin in the wilderness. I can't grow up to be you-I'll die!"
Her face turns as white as the milk; her hands fly to her cheeks as though I've slapped her.
We stare at each other for a moment.
"I can't be like you," I repeat through clenched teeth. "You're like one of our cows: dim, dull, and stupid. And you've always loved Dougal more than me."
She just stares.
Strawberries, I think, my he
art in my throat.
I run in the front door as Dougal rolls over in bed.
"Where do you think you're going? And where's my breakfast?"
"The pasture," I whisper fiercely. I pull the hair at the top of his head and pretend to scalp him. "Where the Indians are. Get your own breakfast."
His eyes widen. "What Indians?"
"You're so stupid!" I scream at him. "You're the stupidest boy who ever lived!"
I snatch the rose bowl from the table and run outdoors.
My mother is picking up the churn stick as I run past. Waves of barn cats jump from my path like the parting of the Red Sea.
I don't even look at her as I jump over the fence and run to the pasture.
***
It's a beautiful spring day. The sort of day when I can imagine the blue, green, and golden days extending forward forever.
Our five cattle and the three sheep stand around in a dumb-as-dirt clump, the cows chewing their cuds. As I pant for breath, the livestock gaze at me blankly. One by one they return to grazing. With their noses and hoofs they crush the strawberries, filling the air with a delicately sweet tang.
The sun is already hot. I remove my sunbonnet and lift my long hair; the breeze off the river is delightfully cool against my neck.
The wild strawberries cover the back side of the pasture, which is so far from our cabin that all I can see of it is smoke rolling lazily from the chimney.
The wild strawberries are tiny and pungent-their taste explodes in my mouth like a musket firing. In no time my tongue feels burny and sour from the juice. The jagged strawberry leaves grow close to the earth, and the tiny berries hide underneath them as shy as deer. I stay close to the ground, crawling along on my hands and knees (watching out for cow pies, of course).
A slice of birthday cake, no matter how huge, is no proper breakfast; I'm so hungry, I eat half the berries I pick.
The rose bowl came all the way from Scotland. My grandmother gave it to my mother the day Dougal was born. The bowl has red roses and dark-green leaves painted in the bottom. Strawberries fill the bowl to the ends of the roses. The tips of the painted leaves are still showing. The delicious smell, the sunshine, and the thought of strawberries with fresh cream for our pudding make my mouth water.
I'll give my mother the strawberries, I decide. That will make her happy. She'll forget all about the fight.
We'll have wild strawberries and cream with our midday meal. That's even better than butter. I'll give her strawberries in the pretty rose bowl. The cream will have risen to the top of the churn by my return. She'll have fresh cream, wild strawberries, and an "I'm sorry" whispered in her ear.
Anyway, there would be days and days like this one to come. "Strawberry summer days," I say out loud. My tongue is still burning from all the berries I have eaten. "Not blueberry days, not peach days, not apple days. Strawberry summer days."
Still famished, I eat a lot more berries. Too late, I notice the strawberry stains down the front of my new dress.
The breeze off the river dies, the trees, the birds, even time itself seem to stand perfectly still.
An odd-shaped shadow splays in front of me-a many-headed darkness with shadow feathers sticking out around the top. Cooler air sets me to shivering. The hair on the back of my neck stands up even as my heart starts to pound. Why? Has a cloud blocked the sun? No. But the shadow ... the feathers ... a dreadful feeling that I'm no longer alone.
My father's livestock bolt away. I hear someone gasp "Mary!" I whirl around.
Four Indians in war paint and feathers. Flies buzz around fresh scalps hanging from their belts. The Indians have a stillness to them, as though they're saving their strength.
When I stand up, one of them takes the rose bowl from my hands.
"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Stewart cries out. Her face is chalk white with terror. Two-year-old Sammy Stewart is in her arms, stirring in his sleep.
"We walk," one of the Indians says calmly.
They're dressed in breechcloths and deerskin leggings. Braided hair hangs all the way down their backs. Red paint covers their faces and chests, tattoos swirl over their arms and legs. Copper and silver earrings hang to their shoulders.
"We just came from our farm," Mrs. Stewart cries out. "Our farm in flames! And Mr. Stewart away deer hunting!"
She's right, I think. Deer hunting-my father won't be home until dark.
I hear a roaring sound from the river. Smoke is billowing over the trees. My mother! My brother! Our cabin in flames! A fifth Indian runs across my father's pasture while the livestock trot clumsily out of his way.
"We walk," the first one says, urgently this time. He's older than the others, with iron-gray hair. I take a step backward and then another. I glance toward the forest.
All of them reach into their belts and take out their knives. They take them out slowly and with no malice, as though they just wanted to admire the bone handles or look at their reflections in the knife blades. As quick as smoke, two stand behind me.
"Mary, don't give them any trouble, please," Mrs. Stewart begs. "We'll be rescued. I know we will."
"My name is Mary Caroline Campbell. I live here. Th-this is our farm. I live here." If I could just explain, they might see their mistake. "My father claimed this land ... in Philadelphia. And I was named after our late queen, Queen Caroline.
"This is Mrs. Stewart and Sammy." Mrs. Stewart half drops into a curtsy, then freezes. She pulls herself upright and holds Sammy closer to her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell, named after your queen," says the older one. I notice he didn't say "our queen."
I look toward the pasture gate. The cattle are there, waiting. Our bull looks at me in mild surprise. The four cows crop grass again. Sheep run around in circles, bleating in slack-jawed sheep panic. Our chimney falls through the burning roof with a crash.
"We walk," the older one repeats.
For once, that fussy crybaby Sammy isn't crying. He's staring at them wide-eyed with his hands stuffed into his mouth. Only then do I notice that Mrs. Stewart's hands are bound together with grapevine rope. She's struggling to hold Sammy against her.
"We walk, Mary Caroline Campbell. Now."
I pick up my sunbonnet and tie the strings under my chin with trembling fingers. The old one pulls more grapevine rope from his waist pouch, and they tie my hands together too.
I start to cry. "No, please no."
The grapevine rope smells of tobacco and digs into my wrists.
One of them gives me a shove toward the forest and we walk. Just like that, we walk.
We quicken our pace in the woods. We walk past the tree into which my father chopped a tomahawk improvement to mark the end of Campbell Station. We trot over a stream, then double back; we splash over another stream and double back again. We cross and crisscross valleys and hollows, we run up ridges and passes. Between sobs I remember every crisscross and gulley, I memorize every streambed. The older man peers deeply into my face every hour or so.
By nightfall we have been running every which way and I have no idea where we are. I feel hollow with hunger and thirst and jumpy with terror. I'm exhausted, too, and hot. I can't stop panting for breath. Nothing looks familiar. I don't even know which direction I'm facing.
The old one, the one who spoke English, holds my face by the chin and looks deeply into my eyes, as though trying to gaze into my thoughts.
He does the same thing to Mrs. Stewart. Finally, he nods and speaks to the others. They stop immediately and clear a space for a camp. They use flint and brown pine needles to start a fire.
"Sit down," he says gently. Mrs. Stewart and I fall to the ground just like the walls of Jericho.
"Please, sir," I start to sob. "Please, I want to go home." Little Sammy Stewart hears me crying and commences wailing too.
"I have been watching your face, your eyes," the old one says. "Once you were sure you could find your way back, and now you are not sure. And home is far away, to the west. I have neve
r been there, but we have heard it's a good place. The British have ordered us to go west."
"West! No! It's ... But it's my birthday." As soon as I say it, I know how ridiculous that sounds.
"Food." The old one gives me a handful of samp-that is, cornmeal-and a drink of water from my grandmother's rose bowl. What happened to all the strawberries I picked?
One of them cuts away the rope binding our hands.
The old one says, "Food and sleep."
***
The next morning I know I've been dreaming about Fairfield, because I can almost smell it. The spicy-sweet scent of the bakeries makes my mouth water. The bready aroma of the alehouses fills my nose. I smell the molten iron from the blacksmiths' shops; a whiff of lye soap from Monday washdays almost makes me sneeze. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping I'll go back to sleep and dream more. But then I hear Mrs. Stewart moaning as she awakens. I see the five men kicking dirt into the fire to ruin evidence of our having been here. Fairfield disappears with the sunrise. It was safe there. The Indians were long gone.
Sammy Stewart refuses to eat the wet cornmeal they have given us for breakfast. Mrs. Stewart holds the meal up to his face and he shouts, "No!" with a turn of his head. "No!
"Wan' milk," he says.
"There's no milk, my darling." She holds the meal out again.
"No!"
The men pull on their knapsacks. As we commence to march, Mrs. Stewart staggers under Sammy's weight. He tries to wriggle out of her grasp and cries and cries.
Late in the morning I see a bluebird singing in a little oak tree. His bright-blue feathers are the same color as my dress and eyes. His silvery, liquid voice fills my ears with a promise: I will see my family again.
At evening the old one says something, and the others stop immediately and start a fire.
Mrs. Stewart drops Sammy to his feet. The two of them walk to a nearby creek, and she washes him and his pants.
The Beaded Moccasins Page 2