Emiline was ready for him, her hands on her hips. “I’ve come to complain.”
“And I’ve been expecting it. But not out here, I might have shot you.”
“Your dog bit my Eleanor.”
Uriah leaned the smoking musket against a tree. “Your Eleanor pinched the poor dog’s tail with one hand and its ear with the other. I would have bitten her myself. Eleanor is every bit as hateful as you are annoying.”
“She is a poor child, abandoned by her parents.”
“And now we can all see why. Besides, she’s not a child, she’s seventeen.”
“A woman, you mean?” she asked. “Next you’ll say the only way to be shed of her is to marry her off.”
“Impossible, who would have her?”
Emiline smoothed the back of her skirt, plopped herself down on the rock beside Uriah and sighed, “Who indeed? She breaks everything she touches, has no knack for cooking, refuses to sew, has yet to milk the cow without spilling the bucket, and I can take no more.”
“I don’t believe it. Are you saying you wish to be shed of her?”
“I’ve never wished for anything more in my life. But as much as I am tempted, I cannot simply turn her out.”
Pretending to pay little attention, he lightly touched the barrel of the gun. It was still too hot to reload. “What do you think to do, then?”
“Well, in less than a month, men will come from miles around to raise your slave quarters and my shop...men who don’t know her. The only thing preventing a timely wedding is you.”
“Me, what have I to do with it?” he asked, touching the musket once more. Finding it cooler this time, he lifted his powder horn from around his neck.
“The way I see it, I’ll go to all the trouble of sewing a new dress, low in the bosom, pin her hair in fancy ringlets, and give her my last drop of honeysuckle scent...only to have you malign her at every turn.”
Uriah instantly lost interest in the musket and paid more attention. “Low in the bosom?”
“Yet respectable.”
“It just might work.”
“Of course it will work. It has worked since the dawn of time,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But not if you...”
“Your point is well taken.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
“Thank you,” she said, getting up to leave.
“Isn’t this Monday?”
Emiline started back down the path. “So it is. And before you ask, there is no word of Polly.”
He rolled his eyes, quickly set his power horn on the rock and hurried after her. “But you do have news, you always have news.”
“A little.”
“What?”
“Well,” she said, stopping when her skirt caught on a bush, “Jacque La Rue took his Indian wife back to her village. He went straight away to get the judge in Danville to grant a decree of divorce.”
“Divorce?”
“Are you aware you constantly repeat things?” she asked, finally getting her skirt free and continuing on down the path.
“Not particularly. Tell me, has La Rue begun using words such as ‘thee’ and ‘thou?’”
“See for yourself, he’s coming to my shop raising.”
“And are you quite certain no one has heard from Polly?”
Suddenly Emiline stopped and turned to face him. “Don’t you think you’re a bit old to be smitten with a girl like Polly?” As suddenly as she stopped, Emiline was off again, leaving him behind with his mouth open. “Tell John his barge has landed in Harrodsburg,” she yelled back.
Uriah watched until she was out of sight and then turned his eyes upward. “I believe I have enjoyed all of that woman a man should have to tolerate.”
SPRING AT MARYRIDGE brought green leaves, budding bushes, still more settlers and Gideon. With Gideon came Isabelle and Harry, a young African couple. At the first word of the barge, John took the men and two teams of horses to Harrodsburg. He put one team on each side of the river, tied ropes to the barge and pulled it upriver. It was a couple of days before they came to the place where the river meets the Wilderness Road. Then, under the watchful eyes of settlers hoping to secure a ride across the river, the unloading began.
The wagon came off first, then barrels, crates, long boxes, short boxes, furniture, saddles, tools, and a multitude of supplies. Four wagonloads were hauled up the hill to Maryridge, and when he was finished, John paid the bargemen, gave them the barge, watched as people clambered aboard, and headed the team with the last load toward home.
The unpacking was another matter altogether. Lilly delighted with everything she saw, while Uriah hated every place she decided to put it. Finally, John forbade his father to interfere. Uriah ignored him. So John endeavored to get even any way he could...with Gideon’s help.
Among the newly arrived furniture was a lady’s dressing table. “I’ve stayed a week already,” Gideon said, helping John carry the dressing table up the stairs. “‘Tis time I got back.”
“In there,” John said, nodding toward his father’s bedchamber.
A slow grin crossing his face, Gideon carried his end across the upstairs sitting room, eased it through the door and set it down. “He’ll have our heads for this, you know.”
“Aye, but he’ll need something to complain about,” John said, scooting it against the wall. “I’ve filled this house with everything a man could want.”
“Except rum?”
“Aye. You have not mentioned it to him, have you? He might well go another day or two without noticing.”
“He’s not that old.”
“Shhhh, he’s coming,” John whispered, quickly leading the way to his own room. In silence, they listened as Uriah climbed the last of the stairs, crossed the sitting room, opened his door and went in.
“What the bloody hell is this?” he shouted.
“LAUGHING RAIN HAS COME,” John said, pulling back the curtains and letting the sunlight burst through Uriah’s new window panes.
“Don’t you ever tire of waking me in the night?” Uriah groaned, grudgingly throwing back the covers.
“It is not night, it is morning, and Laughing Rain has brought the sand painting,” he answered, hurrying away.
Uriah did not bother to dress. Instead, he put on his smoking jacket and walked down the stairs. Standing in the sitting room with their backs to him, John was in long pants and an ordinary shirt, Gideon wore slave clothing, and Laughing Rain was dressed like a fur trapper. All three were gazing at the bright, colorful picture of three Cherokee children petting a wobbly colt.
“It is magnificent,” Uriah breathed.
“Indeed it is,” John said. “Is Shining Woman well?”
“She is with child,” Laughing Rain answered, beaming as he greeted Uriah and then sat down on the new davenport. Soon, all of them had taken seats.
“How splendid,” Uriah said, “and Brave Hunter?”
“Brave Hunter has seen the great wind.”
“Where?” John asked.
“Across the mountains in Muskhogean land.”
“A tornado, do you mean?” Gideon asked. “How very exciting, did it do much damage?”
“The Muskhogeans tell of whole villages being lifted into the sky, so Brave Hunter did not follow its path. He was frightened, I think.”
“And wisely so,” Uriah agreed. “We have them off the coast of England, you know, though they rarely do harm to anyone.”
Laughing Rain turned to Gideon. “Will you come back? We buy slaves.”
Gideon’s mouth dropped. “Even Indians enslave my people?”
“Our young men go to war. Our old men cannot work the fields. We need them.”
“But surely you do not ask for my help.”
“We are called savages. Your people greatly fear us. We need you to calm them,” Laughing Rain said. “We mean them no harm.”
“Slavery is always harmful. It breaks a man’s spirit, particularly when he is beaten as though
he were a child.”
“The Cherokee do not beat their captives.”
“He’s right,” John put in.
“We buy slaves whether you come or not. Will you come?” Laughing Rain asked again. “Without your help, they live in fear.”
Gideon stared at Laughing Rain for a long moment before he looked away.
“You need not decide just now,” Uriah said. “I say we see to our morning meal first.”
“Agreed,” Gideon said. With that, he followed Uriah out of the room. Laughing Rain waited until they were gone before he asked, “Your father is happy in the Great Meadow?”
“I believe he is,” John answered. “Keeping him busy is not always easy, but he says he is happy.”
“You love him more than most men love their fathers.”
“If I do, it’s because he loves me more than most men love their sons. In the war, he and my uncle brought food to our starving regiment. When the march tore the shoes from my feet, Papa came with new ones. And when I knelt in the battle at Guilford to face the British, my father knelt behind me and shot the man who would have taken my life. In the times of my fever, it is his face I see, his hand that brings water to my lips and his smile I find so very reassuring. Yet, I cannot give him the one thing he wants most—grandchildren.”
“Or Polly.”
“Aye, I cannot give him Polly either. He holds out hope still, but it’s been a year since she left the Kentucky Territory. Papa will not live forever, how long do I make him wait for grandchildren? I’ve thought about searching for Polly myself, but I dare not leave Papa and Polly could be anywhere. She could be dead, or worse,” John hung his head, “she could love another.”
OUTNUMBERING WOMEN twenty to one, word of a house raising at Maryridge made farmers lay down plows, trappers leave snares, and craftsmen close shops. Some traveled for days and all brought saws, broadaxes, hammers, and poleaxes marked at one-foot intervals to land that had already been cleared. For the first two days, the men cut and notched the logs, split and dressed the half log floors, laid the stone hearths, and daubed the chimneys.
On the third day, they prepared the walls for the wall-raising contest, and by noon, they were finished. They bathed in the creek, clipped their overgrown hair, shaved long beards and trimmed mustaches. Finally, the women came. Wearing colorful dresses, long white aprons and an array of bonnets, they brought food fit for kings. With them came children, their elderly, one nearly deaf circuit rider, Sheriff Purdy, and Jacque La Rue.
It was Sheriff Purdy, a stout man with brown hair and brown eyes, who stood on the front porch of the Carson house. He held up his hat until the crowd gathered and held it still longer until they quieted. “Now, men,” he started, putting his hat back on, “we’ve got ourselves two long houses out back to put up, and the widow’s shop over across the road. I’m...”
“Hey, Sheriff, how come you let them bring slaves into the Territory?” a man hidden in the crowd shouted.
“Morgan, I know that’s you,” Purdy said, narrowing his eyes as he skimmed the faces of the crowd. “You been ruffling my feathers over these slaves since they got here. I said it before and I’ll say it again. As long as the Territory belongs to Virginia, we cannot do a thing to stop it. What we need is for Virginia to get on with the separation.”
“What we need is our own country,” James Wilkinson shouted.
Morgan finally stepped out from behind two men. “With you as governor? You’ll not see that day.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Purdy said. “Are we here to hold a convention or dance with the ladies?”
“Dance with the ladies,” the crowd shouted, bursting into laughter and applause.
When Purdy hushed them again, a tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed black beard yelled, “Hey, Wallburn. You remember to bring your fiddle this time?”
“Got it right here,” Lexington’s tailor shouted, holding up his violin.
Uriah wasn’t on the porch with John and Emiline. Instead, he eased through the crowd, nodding to the men and tipping his hat to the ladies. Steadily, he drew ever closer to Jacque La Rue.
“Now, men,” the sheriff was saying, “Mister Carson says once we finish off one of his bunkhouses, we can have our dance on the floor of the other. What we’ll do is—”
“Hey, Wallburn,” the same bearded man interrupted. “You learn any new songs yet?”
Wallburn put his violin under his chin and lifted his bow straight up in the air. Slowly, he brought it back down and began to play: “God save the King.”
“God bless George Washington...” the crowd started to sing.
“That ain’t no new song,” the bearded man shouted.
Wallburn stopped the music. He closed his eyes, again lifted his bow high in the air, slowly brought it down, and played “Froggy Went a Court’n.” At this, the crowd cheered and four couples started to dance.
At last, Uriah was standing next to Jacque La Rue. “Good day to you, Mister La Rue.”
La Rue slowly turned his head and stared. His face was clean shaven and his wavy blond hair was newly trimmed. He wore freshly pressed black long pants, a white shirt and a black vest. “Monsieur,” he said finally.
“I say, shall we help raise the widow’s shop?”
“Together?”
The sheriff’s voice was growing louder. “About sundown, we’ll eat.”
Again, the crowd erupted into cheers.
Uriah patiently waited until La Rue could hear. “The truth is, Mister La Rue, I’ve not put hammer to nail in many years. But I’m willing to have a go at it.”
“You would work with a Frenchman?”
“I wouldn’t want to make a habit of it, naturally, but on this occasion, I see no other choice. After all, if we are together it will be far less troublesome keeping an eye on one another. Don’t you agree?”
“And your son?” La Rue asked.
“John? I’m afraid John will be far too busy to bother with either of us. He has the slaves to tend, the buildings to oversee, and the horses to keep collected. If I know John, he will not give us a second thought.” Uriah suddenly noticed Emiline watching him from the porch. Quickly, he looked away.
Emiline tugged on John’s shirtsleeve and leaned closer. “Usually, your father is painfully predictable. But...”
“Aye,” John whispered back, “he’s up to something. He always is.”
VIRGINIA
The carriage was waiting, Adam was late and with the marketing done, Rose was exhausted. So she sat down next to a stranger on the bench outside Richmond’s general store. At length, she took a harder look at the woman. Her auburn hair was mussed, her face was smudged with dirt and mud was caked on the hem of her Quaker frock.
“You look positively wretched,” Rose said, “are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Polly Lewis smiled, “a little tired is all.”
“My dear, do forgive me, but you look far more than just a little tired. You look as though you’ve walked for miles.”
“I have,” Polly answered, the long, forward rim of her white bonnet wrinkled. “My horse died three days ago. He was older than we thought.”
Rose untied the ribbons of her expensive, fashionable bonnet, removed it and leaned her head against the wall. “Good heavens. Couldn’t you afford a carriage?”
“I could in Maryland, but Virginians will not take Maryland dollars.”
“I see,” Rose said, watching several pedestrians pass by. Some wore fine clothing and were followed by slaves. Others wore rags and had children without shoes. “My name is Roselee Williams. I live just west of here. I can offer a fit meal and a bed to sleep in.”
“Thou art very kind. Wilt thou take Maryland dollars?”
“You are Quaker?”
“I am the Quaker Polly Lewis, of Maryland.”
Rose slowly sat up straight. She turned to study the reddish brown hair, blue eyes and pointed nose John had described in his letter. Then she smiled, “I am pleased to ma
ke your acquaintance. Have you come to Virginia for any particular reason?”
“I have come to find John Carson. He lives two miles west, but I’d not like seeing him in soiled clothing. Wilt thou please accept Maryland money? I’d be forever beholden.”
“I have a better idea,” Rose said, “I’ll trade bed and bath for a favor.”
“What sort of favor?”
“I need cloth for shimmies. I bought some just last week, you see, and Mister Gerhard of the general store has grown suspicious. He thinks I’ve oddly taken to burning my undergarments instead of washing them. Hester was far better at this than I. No one ever questioned her peculiar habits.”
“Hester?”
“Aye, my cousin’s wife. She drowned, I’m sad to say. I liked Hester very much and she was right about one thing. Everyone needs at least one pot to cook in, a spoon to eat with, and soft cloth for undergarments.”
“Thou maketh shimmies for the poor?”
“My dear, the poor have far more than these,” Rose answered. She waited for two men to pass, whispered in Polly’s ear, reached into her purse, and pulled out a handful of Virginia dollars.
At length, Polly’s confusion turned to understanding. “I’d be pleased to trade thee,” she said, taking the money and then disappearing inside the store. Instantly, Rose got to her feet and waved for Mahala’s driver to bring the carriage. Hardly able to contain her excitement, she frantically looked up and down the street for Adam. Spotting him at last, she got on tiptoe and excitedly waved her kerchief to hurry him. But Adam did not arrive until after the carriage pulled up and Polly came out of the store.
“Adam dearest,” Rose said, squeezing his hand too tightly. “We have a new friend. And dearest, I’ve promised a good meal, a comfortable bed, a bath and clean clothes before she meets anyone.”
Adam’s head was beginning to smart. “Rose, why...”
“The poor girl feels herself not yet presentable, you see,” Rose interrupted. “Allow me to introduce, the Quaker Polly Lewis, of Maryland.”
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