Broken Pledge

by Marti Talbott

“What’s a Quaker?”

  Just then, three-year old Matthew fell down near the chicken coop. Temporarily concerned, Polly watched until he got up, inspected his knee, glared at a chicken and then started off again. “Quakers are people who love God, other people, and particularly children.”

  “But where do children come from?”

  “Thou asked me that yesterday,” Polly said, putting the knife back in its leather sheath. “Children come from married women. Is that not so, Mister La Rue?”

  “Mademoiselle Polly,” La Rue sputtered, parting the bush with his hands, “how did you know?”

  “Thy shoe, Mister La Rue. Thee is everywhere today; this is our third meeting!”

  La Rue looked at his foot, rolled his eyes, and then stepped out. “Mademoiselle, I can live no more without you.”

  “So thou said last week, but thee looks fit to me.”

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle, my heart is breaked.”

  “The word is ‘broken,’ and thou has not yet removed thy hat.”

  “But Quakers do not mind such things,” La Rue answered.

  “Well, some Quakers do.”

  “Will you marry me if I take it off?”

  “No.” Polly tied a cloth cape around the corncob. Abruptly, she handed the doll to Melba and stood up. “But I might shoot thee, if thou doesn’t.”

  “Oui,” La Rue said, quickly pulling off his cap. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Mademoiselle Polly, you have grown up. You are now sixteen. You are old enough to marry, no?”

  “It is not the age, Mister La Rue. It is the man.”

  “Mademoiselle waits for the Brit...still?”

  “I will wait for John all my life, if need be. Mister La Rue, as I have said repeatedly, I do not take pleasure in rejecting thy advances. Please find another to love.” With that, Polly hurried into the house.

  “Never,” La Rue said, watching her go inside. He waited a moment to see if she would come back out and then shrugged, put his cap back on, and made his way back into the forest.

  “‘Thou was a bit harsh,” Nancy said, her wet hair still wrapped in a towel after her bath. She poured hot water out of a pot into a washbowl, set the pot down, added lye soap, and started washing the tin plates.

  “Mama, the man does not hear me. How many times must I reject him?”

  “He hears thee, Polly. It’s just that he loves thee, as much as thou loves John. Mister La Rue is not the first man to find rejection unacceptable.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “I’ll ask thy father to have a word with him. There’s a house raising next week near Lexington. Mister La Rue will find another, once thy father explains thee has thy mind set on John.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  Nancy smiled and handed her a plate to dry. “Polly, what if John does not come back? What if...”

  “He’ll be back, he promised.”

  “But suppose he cannot? He suffers so from his swamp fever and suppose he...”

  “No, Mama, don’t say it. He is not dead, I would know if he were.”

  “How, Polly?”

  “I just would.”

  “But...”

  “No, Mama, no. I’ll not hear it,” Polly said. Nearly in tears, she tossed the towel on the table, grabbed her bonnet and ran out the door.

  “Polly, come back,” Nancy yelled, rushing after her. But before she got out the door, little Matthew was tugging on her dress.

  “I fall down,” Matthew said.

  Nancy Lewis watched Polly run up the lane, then bent down to pick up Matthew. “Is thee hurt badly?”

  “Uh huh,” Matthew said, showing his scraped elbow.

  POLLY RAN FARTHER THAN she thought and almost caught up with La Rue. Spotting him just in time, she darted into the forest to wait until he rounded the bend. Suddenly, a hand clamped tightly over her mouth. An arm encircled her waist, her bonnet fell off, and she felt herself being dragged backward – into the depths of the forest and into the world of the Choctaw Indians.

  FALL, 1784

  “But Effie, now that we have him, what are we to do with him?” Abby asked, keeping her eyes on their prisoner. The light in Mahala’s barn was dim and tiny particles of dust floated in the streaks of sun coming through the wooden wall slats. Gated stalls held horses and three short haystacks lay in a row down the middle of the floor.

  “How am I to know?” The oldest of the two twelve-year-old twins, Effie, struggled to hold the musket level.

  “I’ve never captured a real Indian.”

  “And I suppose I have? Oh sister, you have not got the gun on him properly.”

  Effie slowly backed up until she could sit on a wooden box. “It doesn’t matter, it will not fire and Papa never loads it.”

  “I know, but the Indian doesn’t. Here, allow me.” Abby grabbed the barrel of the gun with both hands and raised it until it was level.

  The Indian moved.

  Both girls froze. Their eyes grew large and each held her breath. “Now what’s he doing?” Abby gasped.

  Dressed in buckskin, moccasins, and a beaded headband, the Indian slowly inched sideways until he could ease himself down on a three-legged milk stool, all the while, keeping his eyes on the gun.

  It was several long moments after he stopped moving before the twins calmed down. “There,” Effie said, “he’s not so vicious as we think. In fact, he seems somewhat obliging.”

  “That is precisely what they wish us to think. It is a trick. They appear obliging simply to hide their viciousness. But, Effie, cannot you hold the gun properly?”

  “No, I cannot. It is too heavy.”

  In a nearby stall, a mare poked her head over the gate and nudged Abby. “Oh, for pity sakes, Miss Daisy, not now.” Abby studied the prisoner for a long moment. Then her eyes lit up. “We only have one choice, I shall go for help.”

  “You? And leave me alone with him?”

  “I see no danger in that. After all, you’ve got the gun.”

  “Of course you don’t, so long as you are not the one staying. You hold the musket and I’ll go for help. I’m the eldest; it is my place to go.”

  “The eldest by less than a dog’s bark. Besides, Mama has always said the eldest is to protect the youngest. It’s a rule,” Abby said.

  “Well then, we will both stay. Surely, someone will look for us when we don’t come to dinner.”

  “Dinner, we’ve only just had the noon meal,” Abby said, pushing Miss Daisy away again. “Oh sister, what are we to do?”

  Suddenly, the barn door creaked open. Sparky stuck her head in, raced toward the Indian and leapt into his lap. With soft whimpers, the dog happily licked the man’s face.

  “Sparky, no!” Effie shouted.

  “Well, what have we here?” John asked from behind the twins.

  “Oh, John, thank heavens you have come.” Abby finally relaxed. “We’ve captured a dangerous Indian.”

  “So I see.” John relieved Effie of the musket and sat down on the box next to her. “Tell me, did he attack?”

  “Well, no, but he meant to,” Abby answered.

  “Has he any weapons?”

  Abby rubbed Miss Daisy’s neck. “Of course he does, all Indians have bows and things. Some can shoot an arrow nearly a mile.”

  “Fancy that. However, I see no weapons on this one. I say we set him free.”

  “Could we?” Abby asked. “Is it proper, I mean?”

  “Of course it is,” Effie proudly answered. “Once he’s off the property, I mean.”

  “All in favor say aye,” John said.

  “Aye,” Laughing Rain said.

  “Great glory, he speaks English,” Abby gasped. She quickly turned on her heels and headed for the barn door. “Sister, how do you manage to constantly involve me in your trifling’s?”

  “I involve you? You were the one who found him!” Effie shouted, hurrying to catch up and then allowing the barn door to slam behind her
.

  John laughed and gave his old friend a hand up. “I do hope the babies did not assail you.”

  Laughing Rain did not laugh. Instead, his expression was one of pain and regret. “They have taken Polly.”

  John caught his breath. “Who?”

  “I could not be sure.”

  “Indians?”

  “Animals leave clothing and mountain men leave tracks. I found neither. Choctaws were seen on the warrior’s path the day before.”

  “Oh no,” John whispered, closing his eyes and drawing in a long breath.

  Laughing Rain’s words were accusing. “Why did not you come back?”

  “I fully intended to.”

  “But why?” Laughing Rain asked again. “She waits for you.”

  John held his forehead for a moment and then ran his fingers through his hair. “I was afraid of that. I have committed the gravest error a man can commit. I have taken the wrong wife.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Do you? I wish to heaven I did. A thousand times, I have asked myself why, but I have no answer. I don’t even recall asking Hester to marry me. She is a good woman, mind you. She is kind and giving, but...”

  “But she is not Polly,” Laughing Rain said.

  “No, and to say so makes me hate myself even more.”

  “You are young. Young men do not often keep themselves for the right wife.”

  Just then, the barn door flew open and Uriah burst in, “Laughing Rain, you have come,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “It is you!”

  Laughing Rain’s eyes instantly lit up. He hurried toward the elder man and took hold of his shoulders, “I have missed you, my friend.”

  “And I you. Shining Woman and your son?”

  “No Name watches the road for your return, and Shining Woman keeps popping corn ready.”

  “Does she?” Uriah asked. Slowly, his smile faded. “Well, tell them—”

  John interrupted, “I have already explained. Papa, it is about Polly. Indians have taken her.”

  Uriah shifted his gaze from his son to Laughing Rain. “No,” he softly moaned, slowly easing himself down on the nearest box. “When?”

  “Four moons,” Laughing Rain answered, pulling the milk stool closer and sitting down.

  “Son, we’ve a bottle of rum in the bridle closet. Fetch it, will you?”

  John walked to a closet door, lifted the latch and then disappeared inside. He opened a sack of grain, removed the bottle of rum, and brushed it off, and started to go back, but then thought better of it. Instead, he stared at the floor and listened.

  “Have you any idea who took her?” Uriah asked.

  “They left no mark, only her bonnet in the woods not far from the house. But my friend, there was no blood.”

  “She lives then?”

  “Yes.”

  “But can she survive? Will they harm her?” Uriah asked.

  With pain etched across his face, John closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.

  “Indians are the same as whites, some good, and some bad,” Laughing Rain finally answered.

  “Then we must pray she is with the good ones.”

  “La Rue searches across the great river, perhaps he will find her. Her father took up the search, but he fears leaving the family. The poor man weeps for her.”

  “And Mrs. Lewis?”

  “She is a strong woman. She believes Polly is alive and will find her way home.”

  “Then, I believe it too,” Uriah said. “Mothers have a way about them, you know.”

  “I do know,” Laughing Rain comforted.

  John drew in a breath, cleared his throat, and stepped back out of the closet.

  “Ah, there it is,” Uriah said when John handed him the bottle. He pulled out the cork and offered the first drink to Laughing Rain. “And you, do you search for her?”

  Laughing Rain took two swallows and handed the rum back to Uriah. “Many tribes take the warrior’s path to British trading posts in the north. I have asked, but they know nothing.”

  “Then she could be anywhere and you need assistance,” Uriah said. “I’ll prepare to ride immediately.”

  “Papa, I cannot allow it. I’ll not let you go without me, and I cannot leave Hester.”

  “Am I too old to be out of your sight?”

  “Of course not, but winter comes and you greatly suffer from the cold.”

  “He is right, you would only slow me,” Laughing Rain said.

  “But we must be of some assistance. Are you in of need money?” Uriah asked.

  “I’ll have a fresh horse and Shining Woman wants silk—blue silk.”

  “Done,” Uriah said.

  “And white man’s clothes,” Laughing Rain added. “The East is more crowded than I remembered.”

  “Mister Rain,” Effie said, sticking her head through the barn door, “Mama asks you to dine with us.”

  “Oh please do,” Abby said, pushing the door open wider. “We’ve never dined with an Indian.”

  When Sparky sat up and barked, Laughing Rain chuckled. “You have the statue still?”

  “Cannot get it out,” Uriah answered, “heaviest rock in the world.”

  “Then I will stay.”

  With John leading the way, the small gathering walked out of the barn. Nearby, Africans stopped to stare and Laughing Rain stared back.

  “Tell me, how go the settlements?” John asked, climbing the verandah steps.

  Laughing Rain tore his eyes off the Africans and followed John into the house. “The settlements grow quickly and the Shawnee moved their villages across the Ohio River. It is the white man’s time in the Great Meadow.”

  “And redcoats?” Uriah asked.

  “They increase,” Laughing Rain answered, pausing in the kitchen to examine a gold-trimmed fruit bowl, while Clifton and several of the other slaves eased closer to the backdoor.

  “He is a friendly Indian,” John assured them, “he’ll not harm you.”

  Once in the assembly room, Laughing Rain slowly walked around the baron’s statue and then put his shoulder to it and tried to dislodge it. He failed. Only then, did he allow introductions to the rest of the family. When his eyes landed on Hester, he smiled his crooked smile.

  LONG AFTER DINNER WAS finished and the family had gone to bed, Laughing Rain changed into the white man’s clothing, mounted his new horse and rode off into the night. Five hours later, John still stood in the window of the music room, staring into the darkness.

  Alone in his study, Uriah gazed into the dying embers of the hearth. A blanket covered his legs and his Bible lay open in his lap. “Mary,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he lifted his eyes upward, “might you have a word with God? Say...say Polly is in need of Him.”

  WHEN FALL SLIPPED INTO winter, the Carsons again played games, read books, and attended dinners. John sometimes stared at nothing at all, but Hester did not seem to notice. Uriah did not speak Polly’s name and Laughing Rain did not come back. Twice more, the fever overwhelmed Mahala’s only hope of continuing the family name; twice more, Uriah kept Hester away, and twice more, John cried out for Polly. The second time, a tear rolled down Uriah’s cheek.

  Then winter became spring.

  GIDEON ROSS HAD TRACKED the man for days. He planned his move carefully, and even with constant sheets of wind-driven rain beating hard against him, he was not deterred. Lightning and loud thunder rolled across the dark afternoon sky as he chose a place where water flooded across the remote North Carolina road. He arranged the horse and buggy so it looked stuck and stepped into a creek, lowering his height by nearly a foot. Then he waited. He would not have to wait long.

  Clarence Whitley was unaccustomed to transporting slaves. He was also unfamiliar with the land and unnerved by the nine frightened Africans caged in the wagon behind him. With each crash of thunder, their cries grew louder, and Whitley found himself looking back more often than forward. Suddenly, he realized the road was blocked.

  “Whoa
!” Whitley shouted, stopping his team just inches from the buggy. “Get that buggy off the road,” he barked, his hate-filled eyes narrowed at Gideon.

  Gideon held the bridle steady and cautiously peeked around his horse’s head. “I’s can’t, I’s stuck.”

  “Where’s your master, boy?”

  “Off’n Greencrest. Massah Moore, he say I’s ta fetch Miss Julia. Only Miss Julia, she don’t wanna come ta Greencrest in the rain. Massah Moore, he gwanna be mighty mad. Yes’um, mighty mad.”

  “Never mind that, where’s your papers?” Whitley bellowed, water dripping off his wide-brimmed hat.

  “In my’s pocket. Massah Moore, he say...”

  “Bring ‘em here!” Whitley demanded, just as lightning suddenly illuminated the southern sky.

  Gideon waited. Four seconds later, the clouds came alive with thunder. Whitley’s team tried to bolt and the frightened slaves screeched in fear. “Steady, old girl,” Gideon whispered in his mare’s ear.

  “Whoa!” Whitley shouted, his foot on the brake as he pulled the reins taught. He held fast until the team finally calmed and then turned his attention back to Gideon. “I said, bring me your papers, boy!”

  “I’s can’t, I’s stuck too.”

  “Stupid darky,” Whitley grumbled, wrapping the reins tight around the brake handle. He hopped down and withdrew his pistol.

  Gideon slipped one foot to higher ground and held his breath. He waited until Whitley came closer, and then yanked the mare’s head out of the way, brought his other foot up, wrenched the pistol from Whitley’s hand, and shoved. Instantly, the slave driver flew backward, landing hard in the mud.

  “Stand up!” Gideon demanded, grabbing Whitley’s arm. He pulled the stunned man to his feet and breathed hot breath in his face. “Look at me!”

  Whitley slowly raised his eyes. He studied Gideon’s face for a long time, before the light of recognition glimmered in his eye. “I should have killed you on the ship.”

  “Indeed you should have,” Gideon said, putting the cold barrel of the pistol against Whitley’s neck. “Each time you whipped one of us, I vowed to find you. Each time you raped a woman, I vowed to kill you. And in the stench of the ship’s belly, where my people were begging for mercy, I vowed to make your death the most torturous one I could think of.”