Broken Pledge

by Marti Talbott

  Laughing Rain held his musket high in the air and waited. One by one, whites, Cherokee and Africans stepped out, but Shining Woman was not among them. Then, somewhere in the forest – a baby cried. Laughing Rain slid off his horse and raced toward the sound. Then, for a long moment, there was only silence until Laughing Rain’s shout finally echoed through the trees. “I have a son!”

  ON SUNDAY EVENING, Emiline Puddifoot did not stop halfway up the hill to admire the view. Nor did she knock before bursting through the front door and into the Carson sitting room.

  “La Rue has killed a man!” she said, gasping for air.

  Sound asleep in a chair, Uriah’s eyes shot wide open. “For pity sakes, are you going to make a habit of startling me?”

  “Well, I had no idea you were so old you required a daily nap. Go back to sleep,” she snapped, turning to go.

  “Wait!” he said, struggling to his feet. “You cannot go now.”

  She marched back into the foyer and reached for the doorknob. “Oh, can’t I?”

  Just in time, Uriah stopped the door with his hand. “Emiline, please.”

  “Please? I did not know you were familiar with that word.”

  “I am familiar with a good many words. It’s just that you rarely allow me to speak. Now come, sit. You’ve not yet had your tea, and I’m getting too old to chase after you.”

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “If you must know, I am fifty-two.”

  “Good heavens, that is old. I’m surprised you can manage at all.”

  Uriah rolled his eyes, took hold of her elbow and guided her back into the sitting room. “I believe you were telling of La Rue.”

  “I’ll have my tea first.”

  “Naturally,” he said, flashing a forced grin, and then leaving the room. In the kitchen, Uriah found the teakettle still hot, tossed a spoonful of tea leaves in a cup, added her usual amount of honey and rushed to pour the water. When he returned, Emiline was studying the base of the clock on the mantel.

  “What on earth is in here? It must weigh twenty pounds,” she said.

  “Never mind that, have your tea and tell me about La Rue.”

  Emiline shrugged, sat down near the window, accepted the cup and saucer from Uriah and slowly sipped. “Have you shot all your slaves?”

  “No, they’re tending their baths. Emiline, must you postpone me further?” he asked, moving a tall-back chair directly in front of her and sitting down.

  “Oh, very well, let me think... Oh, well, it being Sunday with decent folks in church where they should be, Sheriff Purdy was nowhere to be found, you see. Off gallivanting with his pretty wife, no doubt, and she already having so many children the Good Book’s run out of names. That’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Simon Chester, that’s what happened. He’s a fine man with the good sense to allow his wife only seven children. He kindly waited until Parson Goodall passed the plate... Poor Parson Goodall got but one shilling for the Lord’s work, and he’d not have gotten that without me.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Emiline, get on with it.”

  “What for? Have you something to do at last?” she asked. When he only glared, she went on, “As I was about to say, Simon Chester waited until the last Amen, shouted something about forgiveness, drew his pistol, and headed out the door. I’d have gotten there sooner, but everyone else got in my way. By the time I passed the cobbler shop, I heard a bang. And that was the end of it,” she said, lifting the cup to her lips and slowly taking a sip.

  “Emiline, would you be so kind as to give me a few more details?”

  “There’s little more to tell. The man’s dead, shot through the heart.”

  “Mister Chester?”

  “No, Sheriff Purdy.”

  Uriah let his head sharply drop and closed his eyes, “But you just said Sheriff Purdy was nowhere to be found.”

  “Well, he never is, you know, not on Sunday. Most folks tend to be more respectful on Sundays.”

  “Then La Rue shot Sheriff Purdy?”

  “He did not mean to. Mister Chester called La Rue out, claiming La Rue took his land. He drew his pistol, La Rue drew, and Sheriff Purdy stepped in between.”

  “Did they both shoot him?”

  Emiline rolled her eyes and set her tea down, “No, Mister Chester held his shot.”

  “I see.”

  “Poor Mrs. Purdy, a widow with all those children. Well, I best be on my way,” she said, getting up, pulling her shawl tight and starting for the foyer. “I’ve a pot pie to make. The widow Purdy will not feel up to cooking, and children get hungry no matter what happens.”

  Uriah puffed his cheeks and hurried after her. “Do extend our deepest sympathies. I don’t suppose you have news of another duel between Mister Chester and La Rue?”

  “No, but I doubt Mister Chester has forgotten the matter. Perhaps you might come to church Sunday next and see for yourself.”

  “Perhaps I might.”

  Emiline instantly turned her glare on him. “Is that so? As I recall, you said you’d sooner pull a plow than hear a belly yell’n, mule-faced circuit rider.”

  “My dear, Mrs. Puddifoot, I’ve read the Good Book, and nowhere does it say the road to heaven is lined with uncivil circuit riders, particularly those such as you’ve taken a fancy to.”

  “You’ve read the Good Book? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, I have just the same.”

  “What does it say, then?”

  Uriah stared at her. “The whole thing?”

  “I have not time for the whole thing, I’ve a potpie to make. Just tell me this, is there a hell?” she asked, opening the door herself.

  “I don’t intend to find out – I’m going to heaven.”

  “And how do you intend to get there?”

  “How?”

  “Yes, how?” she asked. “If you’ve read the Book, you must know how.”

  “If it pleases you to know, the Book says the angels will escort me there. Naturally, as I am passing hell, I will pause to tip my hat to those I expect to see there.”

  Emiline narrowed her eyes and put a hand on her hip. “Like me?”

  “I did not say you. But you must admit heaven will not be so very heavenly with the both of us there.”

  “I completely agree. You know, I’ve grown fond of you. But not so fond as to go to hell so you can keep heaven for yourself. And another thing, you need to read the Book again. It says to love thy neighbor.”

  Total shock crossed Uriah’s face. He watched her leave, closed the door and walked back to his chair. Thoughtfully, he put on his reading glasses and picked up his Bible. “Surely, it doesn’t say that.”

  FOR DAYS, THE CHEROKEE concentrated on cutting timber, sifting through the remains of homes and recovering all they could. At night, they slept in a circle in the forest with the children in the center, the women surrounding them and the men keeping watch. In a small clearing, John sat Indian style next to Laughing Rain near a campfire.

  “Have you ever scalped a man?” John asked.

  “Only a dead one,” Laughing Rain answered, drawing smoke through a long pipe, and then handing it to John.

  John took the pipe and puffed on it to keep it lit. Drawing in the smoke, he handed it back. “I cannot imagine such a thing.”

  “The British pay well for white scalps. All Indians take them.”

  “Did you scalp the white men who attacked you?”

  “We did,” Laughing Rain answered. “It is the Indian way.”

  John slowly took in the quiet scene of sleeping people. At length, he leaned closer. “But half your people are white.”

  “In your war, did you take money, guns, and boots off of redcoats?”

  “Of course we did, we needed them.”

  “We need what the British pays for scalps.”

  “It’s not the same. Boots can be replaced, scalps cannot.”

  At that, Laughing
drew on the pipe and slowly let the smoke escape his mouth. “Dead men replace neither boots nor scalps. The British need proof of victory. They do not pay for boots.”

  “Blame the British, you mean?”

  “We do not scalp for pleasure.”

  “But some do, don’t they?”

  “Some. Some men find pleasure in raping a woman or hurting a child. Some men are evil; it is the way of all nations.”

  Just then, a dog quickly sat up and perked her ears. Instantly, both Laughing Rain and John reached for their muskets and got up. For several minutes, they scanned the darkness. Then the dog settled back down and at length, they returned to the warmth of the fire.

  The pipe had gone out and Laughing Rain did not bother to relight it. Instead, he toyed with a twig. “We send our chief to General Washington. We ask for peace.”

  “Good.”

  “Will he give it? Will he send protection?”

  “My friend, he doesn’t have the troops to protect himself. Still, a treaty should have some measure of usefulness. On the other hand, I don’t imagine settlers yet know the difference between a Cherokee with a treaty and a Muskhogean without one. Perhaps we might put up a rather large sign – This way to peaceful Indians.”

  At last, Laughing Rain smiled.

  MORE THAN A MONTH HAD passed when Laughing Rain put several apples in John’s saddlebag and fastened the buckle. He checked the saddle cinch, tightened it a little, and held the reins while John mounted his horse. “Then you’ve decided to marry?”

  “Aye. There is a woman in Lexington I find pleasing. If she’ll have me, I’ll take her to wife,” John answered, wrapping the reins of a second horse around his hand.

  “And Polly?”

  “Polly is lost to me.”

  “Will your father accept another?” Laughing Rain asked.

  “He will once I’ve given him a grandchild. God be with you, my friend. I’ll be back soon with more supplies. Tell Shining Woman Papa desires another sand painting for the study.” With that, John tipped his hat, kicked the side of his horse and set out across the valley. Behind him stood four new cabins, three teepees, the beginning of a smoke-house, and Shining Woman with the newborn baby in her arms.

  Three days later, he began to shiver, the dreaded malaria headache came, and as the pounding increased, the fever started. Then the familiar images of war crept into his mind, yet, he struggled to stay in the saddle. The horses wandered, stopping to graze, and then moving on...in a direction he couldn’t seem to control or understand. At last, he eased himself off the horse, labored to unroll his bedding and collapsed. All around, images of redcoats marched toward him. Fire streaked from their muskets, dead men’s eyes stared, Rebels shouted, horses screamed, and pistols fired.

  Hour melted into hour, then one day became another and another - until he felt himself suddenly bolt upright. His eyes were filled with terror and he heard his own voice scream, “Polly!”

  CHAPTER 12

  He was alone in a place he did not recognize. His mouth was dry and his eyes were hollow. Beard stubble hid his face, his hair was disheveled and his body was wracked with uncontrollable shivers, yet John forced himself up. He crawled to the creek, repeatedly dipped his hand and drank the cool, cleansing water. Less than four feet away, a cougar watched.

  “Papa, where are you?” he called out, inching back to his bed. Spooked, the cougar darted away. Just before he fell asleep again, John looked for the horses. Both were gone.

  When morning came, his horse was back but the packhorse wasn’t. His mind had cleared some. He grabbed hold of a tree branch, pulled himself up, got two apples out of his saddlebag, and quickly devoured them. Then he struggled to roll up his blankets. At last, he tied them to his saddle and glanced around for the other horse, but it was gone. He checked the direction of the sun and used all his strength to mount his horse and head north. But by noon, he could ride no more.

  Again, morning came. This time John woke to find himself surrounded by Muskhogeans. “There are some days,” he incoherently mumbled, “when I’d not mind death.” He turned over and pulled up his blankets. By the next morning, he finally felt better. The fever and chills were gone and so were the Muskhogeans. He washed in a stream, changed his clothes, combed his hair, and managed to ride the whole day. But just as he was about to stop for the night, he saw rustling in the bushes.

  Suddenly, a small black dog shot toward him, scurried up the side of a large rock and leapt into his arms. The whimpering dog licked his neck and then laid her head against his chest. John reeled back and jerked the dog away. Then his eyes lit up. “Sparky?”

  Just then, the bushes began to move again and a man’s voice grumbled, “Confounded bloody dog!”

  “Adam?”

  Instantly, the movement stopped. At length, two tree limbs parted and Adam peeked out. “And who else would chase your bloody dog halfway round the world?”

  “I don’t believe it,” John said, watching Adam limp to the rock, plop himself down and yank off his left boot.

  “Nor do I,” Adam complained, shaking his boot until a pebble fell out.

  “The next time I see Gideon, I aim to shoot him. ‘It’s an easy journey,’ Gideon said, ‘you’ll not mind it at all.’ But we’d been on this bloody road less than a week when—”

  “We?” John asked, slowly dismounting and setting Sparky on the ground.

  Adam dumped dirt out of his other boot, “You did not think I’d come without Rose and the boy, did you? Anyway, we were robbed. Two horses gone, both mine naturally. I tell you, there’s not a drop of civility left in the entire world. I’ve taken to carrying a pistol.”

  “You? Is it loaded?”

  “Of course it’s loaded. Your Mister Thomas Rodes kindly taught me to shoot straight. I cannot say I’m enjoying myself though. Guns make a considerable noise, you are aware.”

  John sat down on the rock beside Adam, removed his hat and felt his forehead for fever. “Did you say Thomas Rodes?”

  “Aye, Thomas Rodes. And he brings a gift for Gideon.”

  John eyed Adam’s arm dubiously and then cautiously touched it. His arm felt real. “What sort of gift?”

  Adam began putting his boots back on. “Well, it was MacGreagor’s doing. He could contain his curiosity no longer, so he sailed back to England. MacGreagor was intent on learning why Rodes had not restored your mother’s bedchamber. But when he arrived, Rodes showed him a scathing letter from a French mistress. The mistress had taken up the cause for an African woman, with a child, I intentionally add, who claimed to be the wife of a man Rodes sold into slavery.”

  “Cesha? He’s found Cesha?”

  Finally, Adam smiled. “I cannot wait to see the look on Gideon’s face. In fact, I’ve decided not to shoot him until after he sees her.”

  “But Gideon’s gone south. It could be months before he returns.”

  “I see. We are forced to wait then. Won’t he be taken aback to find he has a daughter? Her name is Reanie, and she’s not at all certain if she’s American, British or French. Cesha is a sight to behold. No wonder the man is beside himself. She is...” Adam paused to glance back down the path. “She is clearly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, more handsome even than Hester.”

  “Indeed?” John asked, touching Sparky’s nose to see if she was real. Her nose was cold. “Did MacGreagor go to France then?”

  “He did, and Mister Rodes insisted on paying the expense. He means to make it up to Gideon, you see. Naturally, he’s freed Cesha and the child, and John, he brought the other two paintings. Wait until you hear what Rodes has to say. I’ve grown to like the man very much.”

  “You mean he’s here – in Kentucky?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Adam asked. “Rodes would have it no other way. I say, are both those horses yours? I’d very much appreciate not having to walk to Maryridge.”

  When he looked, John saw the missing packhorse. Its reins were tied to the back of his saddl
e. “I wonder if it has been there all along?” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “The pack horse, I thought I’d lost it.”

  “Are you all right? You do look a bit weary.”

  Sparky sat on her hind legs near John’s feet, begging to be let up. At last, John noticed and patted his thigh. “I’m better for the sight of you. Have you come to call or do you intend to stay in Kentucky?”

  Adam sat up straight and smugly smiled. “I happily say I have given the last ounce of strength I can to the boundless, abominable, unthinkable madness of the Legislature. Can you guess what they intend? They think to tax whiskey.”

  “So you said before.”

  “Yes, well, they intend it much sooner than we thought.”

  “Is there no way to stop them? What a man cannot pay in pounds, he pays in whiskey.”

  “Precisely. They mean to tax the only profitable business in the Empire, and there is only one recourse,” Adam said with a mischievous grin on his face.

  “Build our own distillery?”

  “And hide it well. Tell me, have you learned the precious art of distilling?”

  “No. Have you any more news?”

  “Well, there is the bounty land,” Adam answered. “Congress thinks to close the land Virginia set aside in the Northwest Territory and wait until all the Kentucky land is spoken for. I’d not be surprised if Congress keeps the land for themselves.”

  “But they promised us that land as payment for our service in the war. Surely, they’d not risk the ire of every Rebel in Virginia. Besides, they send no troops to rid the land of Indians.”

  Adam smirked and began brushing dirt off the legs of his long pants. “No, but they will. They’ll send General Anthony Wayne to resolve the Indian situation.”

  “Mad Anthony? Someone needs to warn the Shawnee. Speaking of Indians, we’d best move on. This is Muskhogean land and they do not easily take to settlers.”

  “Good heavens,” Adam gasped, instantly getting up and hurrying down the rugged path.