Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140)

by Crawford, Dianna; Laity, Sally

  Setting her work aside, Rose placed her sewing basket on the ground and stood, trying to compose herself. “What can I do for you?”

  “Milk.” The word came out in a croak. “For my baby. I dried up.” With effort she drew a ragged breath. “I’m…dyin’.”

  “That cannot be.” Rose glanced out across the village, but no one was paying them any mind, as if a woman so obviously suffering didn’t merit the slightest consideration. Swallowing her abhorrence, Rose motioned toward the sitting log. “Please, sit down. I’ll get milk for both of you.”

  Trembling, the woman dropped down with a gasp.

  Her heart crimping, Rose moistened her lips. “I’ll take the baby for you.” She lifted the infant out of the ragged sling, noticing that though the baby was thin and dirty, it seemed unhurt. She estimated its age to be four or five months at most. The little one gazed up with wide blue eyes, hungry eyes that made her wonder when it had last eaten.

  Leaving the child’s mother, Rose hurried down to the brook, where she kept a pail of milk cool in the water’s flow, and fetched it back. She shifted the baby to one hip then plucked a couple of dipping gourds from her wigwam, along with one of the few small metal spoons Mr. Smith possessed and returned to the slumped woman. Setting down the pail, she quickly dipped some milk for her. “Here. This may make you feel a bit better.”

  She raised a discolored arm and pushed the gourd away. Her hand burned with fever. “Jenny needs it more.”

  Rose shook her head and thrust the milk back to her. “I’ve plenty for your baby girl. This is for you. Please drink it.” Satisfied when the woman acquiesced and raised it shakily to her lips, Rose dipped the second gourd into the pail and took a seat on a nearby fur blanket within eyesight of the baby’s mother. She began spoon-feeding the infant. The poor little thing slurped at it so greedily, Rose’s eyes swam. She could hardly get it to her fast enough.

  The mother looked longingly at the baby devouring the milk, and she tried to smile. “My name…is Hannah Wright.” The strangled whisper seemed to sap much of her strength, but she took a sharp breath and went on. “I come from a homestead up near…the west fork of the Susquehanna.” A pause. “My husband’s name was Adam.”

  As Hannah Wright drew another breath, Rose felt a sudden ache in her throat. Past tense. He must be dead. The baby squawked and kicked its tiny feet, and Rose resumed feeding it.

  “Adam’s folks live east of there…near the main branch. Names are Edith and Chadwick Wright. Take Jenny Ann to them. Please.” She coughed. “You…only hope.”

  “But you’re a hostage, are you not? Will the Indians allow me to take the baby?”

  The still half-full gourd slipped from the feverish hand, and Hannah moaned, rocking back and forth as if consumed by pain.

  Seeing the poor woman’s struggle to speak further, Rose propped the fur securely around the baby and stood to her feet. “We can talk later. First we need to take care of you. My name is Rose.”

  Hannah held up a hand and wagged her head. “It’s…too late.” Moving aside her ragged skirt, she exposed a swollen leg that looked as if it had been hacked at with a tomahawk. Discolored and covered with dried blood and oozing pus, it smelled like rotting fish.

  The hideous sight almost caused Rose’s stomach to heave. Unable to fathom such vile cruelty, she quickly inhaled to keep from fainting.

  Mr. Smith ambled up to them. He stared at the woman but did not appear surprised or appalled upon seeing her. “Who’s this?”

  His indifference angered Rose. “We must get this poor woman out of this place.”

  “Too late,” Hannah whispered again. She tried to raise a hand but barely succeeded. It fell back onto her lap. “Take my Jenny.”

  Furious now, Rose swept Hannah’s skirt aside, displaying the putrid injury the unfortunate young woman had suffered. “Look at this, Mr. Smith. Have you medicine at the store that might help her?”

  He took one look then shrugged and shook his shaggy head. Bending over, he gave the woman’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Sorry as I can be, missy. It’s past any helpin’ at this point. Should’a been tended days ago.”

  Her reddened eyes filled with tears.

  Rose stared at him in dismay. “But we must do something.”

  “Fawn Woman!” Smith hollered, straightening up.

  The squaw looked over at him with a sour face as she sat stringing some shiny beads near their wigwam. She grudgingly got to her feet and came to join him.

  He glared at her. “When was this gal brought here? Why weren’t her wounds tended to?”

  The baby began to fuss, so Rose stooped down and fed her a little more milk while Fawn Woman rattled off an explanation in her language. Then, as if Hannah didn’t exist, she turned around and sauntered off to her beads again, obviously devoid of interest in the matter.

  Such heartlessness and savage inhumanity revolted Rose. So the stories she’d heard about the hellish treatment whites received from Indians were true, after all. Hannah Wright was proof. The possibility that such vicious cruelty could one day be inflicted upon her, but for the trader’s presence, made Rose’s blood turn cold.

  Mr. Smith turned to her. “This is how it is. The woman an’ babe were brought here as slaves by the son-in-law of an old woman. He was replacin’ his wife an’ son, who both died during the birthin’. The brave’s not real fond of his wife’s mother, an’ he decided to rid himself of havin’ to care fer the ol’ gal. Problem is, the girl was hurt pretty bad when she ran the gauntlet. Worse, the baby’s not a boy, so the mother-in-law says she’s been cheated. She threw this one an’ her babe out an’ is refusin’ to claim them. Nobody else wants a dyin’ woman, an’ nobody wants the babe, either, ’cause there’s already a lot more women than men in the village, what with all the warrin’ betwixt the tribes. She’s been draggin’ herself around fer days, fightin’ the dogs fer scraps to eat.”

  It was hard for Rose to get words past the clog in her throat. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she went to Hannah and wrapped her arms around the poor woman.

  Hannah made an effort to stand, finally managing with Rose’s help. She gasped for breath. “Now I understand.”

  Rose struggled to support the weakened girl’s nearly dead weight. “Mr. Smith, help me to get her to my bed. I’ll do what I can.”

  She began to cry. “Thank you, Rose,” she whispered between gulps. “God bless you.”

  Giving little thought to her clean bedding, Rose and Mr. Smith lay Hannah gently down onto her pallet. Filth could be washed away. Help could not wait. Rose touched the burning brow. “I’ll get some cool water and a washing cloth. We’ll have you clean and comfortable soon.”

  “My baby.”

  “Don’t you worry about Jenny. We shall tend her as well.” She slanted a pointed look at Mr. Smith and arched a brow. “Will we not?”

  “Aye.” He grimaced. “Fawn Woman’ll see to her right away.”

  Moments later, Rose brought some washrags and a bucket of water into the wigwam. Hannah appeared to be fast asleep but startled when Rose ran a cool cloth gently over one of her arms. She closed her bruised fingers around Rose’s hand. “My name is Hannah Wright. My…husband’s folks are near—”

  “Shh,” Rose crooned. “I remember. The Susquehanna. Rest now. You and your baby are safe here.” But a new worry assailed Rose. Wasn’t the Susquehanna the river up which Lily had been taken? Was any white person truly safe in this wild land? She breathed another swift prayer for God to watch over her little sister.

  “Jesus promised…to send someone,” Hannah whispered. “And He sent you.” She closed her eyes, and the slightest smile played over her cracked lips.

  The sentiment stunned Rose. Me, sent by God? Had God planned months ago, before she’d ever left England and sailed to America, that she would be here at this very place to help Hannah Wright? Freshening the rag in the cool water again, she felt renewed hope spring to life in her heart. God truly did have a purpose for
bringing her here.

  Hannah mumbled something unintelligible just then.

  “What did you say, dear?”

  Her eyes still closed, she drew a labored breath. “I don’t mind dyin’. I’m goin’ to my Adam. He’s…waitin’ for me.” She smiled again, a real smile this time.

  Blinded by her own tears now, Rose continued to wash the precious woman. She needed to be beautiful for her husband.

  Chapter 20

  Rose felt the little warm baby stir beside her as it breathed in soft content. Having gotten only snatches of sleep, she opened her eyes to the pitch-dark night and listened once again for Hannah’s raspy breathing.

  Ominous silence filled the air.

  Pulling back the light cover over her and Jenny, Rose crawled across to where the child’s mother lay. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she reached out and found Hannah’s face. Where there had been a raging fever, the skin was cool to the touch, and no breath issued from Hannah’s lungs. Already on her knees, Rose sank the rest of the way down onto her folded legs with the realization that Jenny’s mother had died. She’d put up a valiant struggle to stay alive until she knew her little one was safe, and once she had that assurance, she’d let herself go.

  Tears Rose had banked earlier that day broke through her resolve and streamed down her cheeks. Hannah was the second young mother whose untimely death she had witnessed. Rose’s own mother had been only a few years older than Rose was now and had been in the process of giving birth to a new babe when the angel of death had paid a visit. It seemed so senseless at the time—just as Hannah’s dying seemed senseless now. And it, too, had left Rose in mourning and burdened with the responsibility of a baby.

  She crept back to the slumbering little one and snuggled close to her softness, breathing in her little clean smell and seeking comfort for herself and for the tiny orphan.

  Then terrible doubt surfaced. Father God, the Bible says our times are in Your hand, but I cannot understand how You could allow such a tragic thing to happen to someone so undeserving of this horrid fate as Hannah Wright. She was Your child. Surely she must have cried out to You to save her. But You did not. Are You really there? Do You really care?

  A wracking sob swelled within her breast, and Rose sat up to stifle the sound before she disturbed Jenny. She clamped her hand tightly over her mouth as her cheeks and hand were washed with her tears.

  Completely unexpected, a soothing sense of peace spread through her, and she recalled plainly the words of comfort her father had given her when her beloved mother breathed her last. “The Bible tells us that our days are numbered by the Lord before we are born, Rosie-mine. It says there’s a time to be born and a time to die. He alone knows when those times come to us. Even though there will always be suffering in this life, He knows all those who love and trust Him. He never leaves us or forsakes us. He stays by our side through all the hard times. And He will always see us safely through to the other side. God is waiting to welcome us home.”

  The gnawing ache inside her lessened as her sorrow eased with hope. Hannah Wright’s last words played across her memory. She was looking forward to being reunited with her Adam…and the two were probably even now embracing in the presence of the Lord, happier than they had ever been. Despite the evil torture the poor woman had endured, her ultimate victory was her everlasting joy in a place where sorrow and pain and death would never again intrude.

  The baby made a sighing sound.

  Rose lay back down and drew little Jenny close. The tiny girl was her sole responsibility now. God had put the precious child into her care. From this moment on, she must remember that her coming here—despite the hardships and fears she’d endured along the way—was no accident. The Lord had placed her here in His time and for His purpose. Whatever she had to face, she would be strong in her faith, just as she had promised her mother so long ago. Strong for God and strong for Jenny.

  Rose chose a small knoll just out of sight of the Shawnee village where she felt Hannah would finally rest in peace. Mr. Smith had Running Wolf and Spotted Elk dig the grave in a spot shaded by a towering maple tree, and the two lowered her body, wrapped in a clean blanket, into the ground. Rose held Jenny close as she and the trader watched the braves fill in the gaping hole. Then Rose placed the few late wildflowers she’d found nearby atop the mound of fresh earth.

  After the two Indians walked away, Mr. Smith pulled a thin book from inside his belted shirt and exhaled as he opened the worn volume. His high-pitched voice broke the silence as he began reading. “ ‘Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ ” Rose recognized the familiar passage from the apostle John’s writings and looked up at the trader while he finished. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  Astonished that the man actually had a New Testament in his possession and made sure Jenny’s mother had a Christian burial, Rose tried not to let her surprise show.

  Mr. Smith reached out with his gnarled hand and ruffled Jenny’s silky hair. “We should bow fer a word o’ prayer.” He cleared his throat. “Almighty God, Ya know what took place here that put this young gal in an early grave. Ya say in Yer Word that vengeance is Yourn, an’ I guess we have to leave it at that. I know Yer lookin’ after her, an’ we’ll do our best to look after the little one she left behind. Amen.”

  Touched by the heartfelt prayer, Rose raised her head…only to be assaulted by laughter a short distance away. This unfortunate white woman died because no Indian deigned to tend her wounds, and these people found humor in something so despicable?

  She swung toward the noise and saw three native girls about the same ages as her sisters playing some sort of game. Each had a short-handled paddle of sorts and repeatedly hit into the air what looked like a small ball with a tail of feathers.

  Rose wiped perspiration from her brow and relaxed. At least the girls hadn’t been laughing at the death of Hannah Wright. Nevertheless, it irked her that life in the village went on as usual. As she and Mr. Smith returned to the trading post, she could see older women seated in front of their wigwams weaving reeds into baskets or stitching leather. Another kneaded a lump of clay. A few collected vegetables in their gardens, while some of the men stood in the river casting nets for fish. Not far from them, youngsters splashed about in the shallows near the bank. No one cared a whit about the fact they’d caused mortal injury to an unprotected woman—an innocent baby’s mother—and then allowed her to die an unspeakable death.

  Still, Mr. Smith had cared. For all his gruff talk, the man truly cared. Rose’s respect for him went up a notch.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught him rubbing his stomach as he so often did of late. As she turned to him, he stretched out his arms. “Let me have that sweet little gal fer a spell. I had me four sons b’fore my Ellie passed on. Never did have us no little gal.”

  Rose smiled and handed the baby to him. “I didn’t know that. Where are they now?”

  He tossed his head as if it was of no import, but Rose didn’t miss the spark of pride in his eyes. “Scattered about back in Virginny with fam’lies o’ their own now. I seen to it they was all set up in a prosperous trade. Good boys, one an’ all.”

  Listening to him imparting personal information, Rose realized she wasn’t the only melancholy one today. Hannah’s funeral must have brought back memories of the first Mrs. Smith’s death. “Have you and your present wife been blessed with any children?”

  He snorted. “No. An’ we ain’t likely to, neither.” His jaw tightened.

  Rose had more questions, but from the derision in his voice, she thought it best to drop the matter. “If you’d be kind enough to entertain little Jenny for a while, I’ll go cook you both a nice rice pudding with raisins and cinnamon. How’s that?”

  He laughed and lightly tweaked Jenny’s button nose, making the little one catch a breath and giggle. “We’d like that
right ‘nough, wouldn’t we, sweet thing?”

  Watching the two of them, Rose knew she had certainly misjudged Mr. Smith. He wasn’t nearly the heartless man he’d led her to believe. It was all a big act.

  During the long weeks that followed, Rose kept a number of pressing questions to herself. Days were growing noticeably shorter. Many of the village crops had been harvested and dried or stored for the coming winter. As the weather began to cool, the leaves started turning the magnificent colors of autumn. Yet Nate and Robert Bloom had still not returned.

  Mrs. Smith now paraded before the other squaws in another daygown Rose had made her, a blue checked one. But the trader’s wife couldn’t hold a candle to her two brothers, who strutted around in matching green-and-yellow-striped shirts Rose had sewn for them.

  Now besides caring for the baby and doing the cooking, Rose was learning the fur business—which animal furs were the most valuable and the subtle differences within a species that determined the quality of each pelt. Mr. Smith was her teacher, and he also had her bargaining with the Indians whenever they came to the trading post with canoes loaded down with bundles of furs. She still hadn’t mastered any of the Shawnee language, much less the dialects of any of the other tribes, but she’d picked up on a primitive sort of sign language that was used in trade and got by fairly well with it.

  Rose had never questioned the man regarding his reasons for these new duties, but she knew instinctively why he’d been so intent on having her learn his trade. He did not trust Fawn Woman, and no matter how mild and smooth the food was that Rose made for him, it was obvious he continued to suffer pain in his stomach. His straggly beard no longer hid the sunken cheeks bearing witness to a noticeable loss of weight. She suspected he was much worse off than he let on.