Under the Tulip Poplar

by Diane Ashley

  Before the beginning of the new year, there had been little news, only the report from Mr. Partain, who owned the farm over the rise, that there had been a large group of volunteers. Nearly twice as many as expected. But not to worry; they had sufficient provisions to last for a considerable length of time. When they learned of the need to send more supplies, she and Ma had contributed baskets of cornmeal and flour, as well as jars of honey and canned tomatoes.

  She sure wished she could tell Andrew Jackson a thing or two. He was the reason everyone had gotten so riled up. She had seen the famous general once while they were in Nashville, but her parents had not sought out his acquaintance. He was a good-looking man, tall and proud, even if he was old. Probably as old as her pa. But no matter his age, the man undoubtedly had a silver tongue. One rousing speech from him, and Asher had decided to answer the call to arms instead of wrapping his arms around her.

  A sigh filled her chest, and Rebekah let it escape quietly. No need to upset Pa. She already knew he didn’t really want her to leave to stay with Aunt Dolly. Last week, she had heard her parents arguing late into the night. But Aunt Dolly was sick, and Ma could not go tend to her. Eleanor was too young and Pa had to work the land, so Rebekah was the logical choice. Ma had explained the situation to her two days ago during breakfast.

  At first, Rebekah had been excited. Staying in Nashville would be a dream come true. All of the shops, the people, the excitement of being in the midst of things. She would know all the news well ahead of her parents. Everyone in Nashville heard about current events from the traffic along the river. Unlike at home, where news came weeks late, if at all, the newspaper would likely be delivered to Aunt Dolly’s home the day it was printed.

  What would life be like at Aunt Dolly’s? She remembered visiting her aunt last year and being awed by the luxurious furnishings and modern conveniences that her ma’s sister enjoyed. She even had running water in the house—a long-handled pump that could make water gush out faster than a river during the spring melt.

  No more buckets to be filled at the creek. Rebekah flexed her hand. Even with a cloth wrapped around the handle, a heavy bucket could raise blisters when it had to be carried into the cabin several times a day. That was a chore she would not miss.

  She would miss other things, however. She would miss sleeping next to Eleanor and teasing her younger sister. She would miss playing with the baby and practicing her reading and writing with Pa’s guidance. She would even miss sewing and cooking and making jams and jellies with Ma.

  But how silly she was being. Aunt Dolly most likely sewed. She might even have some new patterns Rebekah could use to embroider a pair of pillowcases for Ma and Pa. If she could barter something for material, she could also make a pinafore for her little sister and stitch Eleanor’s initials on it. What a grand scene it would be when her family arrived to fetch her. Aunt Dolly would be recovered from her illness and doting on her. Everyone would be very impressed with her skills, and Aunt Dolly would be reluctant to let her return home.

  The front wheel of the wagon hit a rut, forcing Rebekah to abandon her daydreams and grasp the edge of her seat.

  “I want you to mind your manners while you are staying with your aunt Dolly. I do not want to hear reports of your acting like anything but the most gently bred young lady in Nashville. Always get one of the servants to accompany you when you leave the house, no matter how close your destination. There are dangers around every corner when you’re staying in a bustling city like Nashville. You cannot imagine the types of characters who would love to prey on an innocent country girl.”

  “Of course, Pa. I’ll be very careful.” Rebekah couldn’t keep the note of surprise from her voice. She’d seen no evidence of troublemakers when they’d traveled to Nashville last year.

  Looping the reins over his left hand, her pa reached his right hand under her chin and raised her face toward his. “I know you mean that. But you’re very young and innocent, my dear. I don’t know if we did you a service to keep you so insulated from the dangers of city living.”

  Rebekah put her hand over his larger one and squeezed it. “You and Ma have done an excellent job of raising me. You’ve taught me to rely on God and His instructions in the Bible. I won’t let you down.”

  “You could never let me or your ma down, honey. We love you and only want the best for you. Your ma thinks this visit may be an excellent opportunity for you, as well as a boon for her sister. Aunt Dolly has apparently decided it is time for you to think of marriage and raising a family of your own.”

  Rebekah blushed at his words and looked away at the rolling hills, dotted here and there with the remnants of last week’s dusting of snow. “I’m nearly seventeen years old. Wasn’t that how old Ma was when she married you?”

  Pa nodded and returned his attention to the road ahead of them. “But I didn’t realize then quite how young she was. I guess you’ll always be my baby.”

  “You don’t have anything to worry about. You know I’m waiting for Asher Landon to return from fighting. I’m not likely to have my head turned by anyone in Nashville. Besides, I’ll be spending all my time nursing Aunt Dolly back to health. If she gets better soon, I might even be traveling back home within a month. And if I’m not, maybe you can bring everyone for a visit.”

  “We will see. . . .” His voice faded away as they topped a hill.

  The sun’s weak winter rays made it hard for her to make out the gray shape some distance ahead of them. “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know.” Her pa reached under the seat for his musket and swung it across his knees.

  Rebekah could feel her heart racing as their wagon slowly gained on the dark shadow. When it was a couple of hundred yards away, she giggled her relief. “It’s only an empty cart.”

  “Yes, but where is its driver? The horses? Why is it sitting out here unattended?” Pa slowed their wagon to a crawl. “I want you to get in the back. Get under the blanket, and don’t come out unless I tell you to.”

  “But, Pa—”

  “Don’t argue with me.” His curt tone got her attention.

  Without further protest, Rebekah gathered her skirts and climbed over the seat. She shifted her baggage and the crates of corn around until she had made an opening she could squeeze into.

  “Are you hidden?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rebekah pulled a horse blanket up and over her. It was warm and stuffy under the woolen material. She fought the urge to sneeze and strained her ears to hear over the creaking of the wagon wheels. After a few moments, she heard the unmistakable thunder of several horses racing toward them. Why didn’t Pa speed up? If she were driving, Old Bess would be halfway to Nashville by now.

  The hoofbeats drew closer until Rebekah was sure the riders would run right over Pa. Then the sound changed to stomping paws and whinnies. The wagon came to a complete stop and shifted slightly, indicating her pa had stood up to face the horsemen. She heard his calm voice question the riders about their intentions. The answer was a series of staccato syllables. Indians!

  Her scalp tingled with remembered stories of Indian braves and their trophies. She could not make out exactly what was said because the flaps of her bonnet had been mashed against her ears by the blanket that covered her. Rebekah wished she had the courage to pull the bonnet off or even stand up and face the Indians. But she dared not move an inch.

  After what sounded like a heated exchange, the Indians rode away. Her pa clucked to the horse, and they ambled down the road.

  “Stay where you are. I don’t want them to know you’re here.” His voice was gruff with repressed fear. She recognized the tone from past incidents. Out on the untamed frontier, danger lurked at every bend of the road.

  Rebekah gritted her teeth and remained hidden for what seemed an eternity. The road grew rougher, causing the wagon to lurch uncontrollably and throw her against the rough edges of the wooden baskets at her back. By the time this was over, she would be a mass of bruises and splinters.
Finally, Pa brought the wagon to a halt. She felt the blanket being pulled away.

  “Are you all right?”

  “What happened? What was that all about?”

  Pa’s face was creased with worry. “A group of Cherokee braves claimed the travelers who drove that cart were ambushed and left for dead by a band of Creek Indians.”

  Rebekah could feel the blood draining from her face. Since the massacre at Fort Sims near Mobile, there had been more and more stories of Indian attacks on innocent farmers and traders, although the area around Nashville had remained relatively peaceful. Rebekah prayed that was not changing. Some of the Indian tribes had joined forces with the English and, some said, the Spanish. All three groups seemed determined to crush the expansion of the United States.

  Rebekah knew God was in control, but sometimes she thought how wonderful it would be if He would just step in with a few miracles and stop all the terrible killing. With a shake of her head, she looked around, only now realizing that she did not recognize their surroundings. “Where are we?”

  “The Cherokee warned me to get off the road and make haste to Nashville. You’ll have to get back up here and look out for trouble.”

  Taking a deep breath for courage, Rebekah gathered her skirts and clambered back onto the seat. “It’s a good thing you taught me how to use your musket.”

  ❧

  Asher was on guard duty again. He marched wearily forward, turned, retraced his steps, and then turned back once more. Evening was beginning to darken the landscape. Another day in the unforgiving wilderness. At least it was no longer as bitterly cold as it had been. After the desertion of so many of the troops in January, it seemed that Jackson’s command was doomed to failure. But the warmer weather had brought provisions, new soldiers, and defeat of the enemy.

  After the resounding victory over the Creek Indians at Horseshoe Bend, the talk was that the Indians no longer had the weapons, support, or manpower to mount an attack against innocent settlers. They had been decimated. Remembering the carnage that followed the battle still tended to make him feel ill. Six months of fierce battles and forced marches without sufficient rations had hardened him so much that few things had the power to make him queasy anymore. But the savagery that had been visited upon the Indians had been beyond vicious—as brutal as the attack on Fort Mims that had precipitated this campaign. It proved to Asher that any man, white or Indian, could be overcome by bloodlust. He was thankful that his faith in God had helped him resist the temptation to take revenge on the hapless survivors.

  “Do you see that man?” The quiet voice of a nearby soldier distracted him from his somber thoughts.

  Asher looked at the soldier before turning his attention in the direction indicated. Two soldiers were escorting an Indian across the center of the camp. “Who is he?”

  “Someone said he’s Chief Red Eagle come to surrender to General Jackson.”

  Asher looked curiously at the tall, fair-skinned man being led toward General Jackson’s tent. He wore his hair long in the style of an Indian and was bare from the waist up, but somehow, he didn’t fit with Asher’s idea of an Indian chief. “He’s the one who led the massacre at Fort Mims? Except for his dress, he doesn’t even look like an Indian, much less a chieftain.”

  “They say he’s only half Indian.” The soldier spat at the ground next to Asher’s boot, obviously to show his disgust and contempt for the chief. “His pa was a Scots trader.”

  The Indian walked ahead of his horse, on which a deer had been strapped. For some reason, he stopped and looked toward them, his piercing gaze seeming to see right through Asher. With a gasp of dismay, the gossiping soldier slipped off into the gathering gloom.

  His gaze caught by the stranger, Asher refused to look away. He would not be cowed by an Indian, no matter what title he might hold.

  Another soldier confronted Red Eagle, and after a brief altercation, the two entered General Jackson’s tent.

  Asher sighed and once again began his slow walk back and forth across the camp. Sixty-four paces to the tall oak. Turn. Sixty-four paces to the edge of the pine forest. Turn.

  A tiny sliver of moon appeared on the eastern horizon, and Asher’s stomach rumbled. Given the amount of noise it was making, he probably wouldn’t hear an Indian attack until an arrow pierced his chest. He should have brought a biscuit to assuage his hunger. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. Turn.

  “You’re being summoned to the general’s tent.” The voice of his captain interrupted the monotony of Asher’s measured paces. “I’ve brought Johnson to relieve you.”

  Asher didn’t know whether to be excited or worried. Why would General Jackson want to see him? He didn’t even know the general knew his name. Had he done something wrong? He tried to be so careful to meet and even exceed every order he was given. He’d volunteered to remain with the troops even when his tour of duty had officially ended in January. Many had chosen to return home, and Asher had wanted to see his family—and Rebekah—again, but he was here to serve a purpose for God and his country. He would not leave his duty incomplete, even for the chance to be reunited with his love.

  His mind went back over the events of the day. He’d risen from his pallet at first light, made up his bedroll, and dug out the battered coffeepot that his pa had sent with him last October when this campaign began. He’d been lucky enough to trap a rabbit yesterday and had traded part of the fresh meat for a double handful of chicory-laced coffee grounds. The coffee he’d made this morning was wonderfully delicious. And he still had enough to stretch out the luxury for a week or more.

  Then it had been time to drill with the regulars. Even though they had defeated the Creeks, General Jackson said it was only one battle in the war. They had to stay sharp and ready. Their countrymen were counting on them.

  “Are you asleep, boy?” The captain’s voice prodded him forward.

  Asher shook his head. Apparently thinking about Rebekah had led him to daydreaming as he teased her about doing. He saluted and hurried to the tent into which the Indian chief had disappeared earlier. He pulled back the flap, surprised at the tableau in front of him. Maps had been rolled and stacked in one corner. Neither of the guards was inside, but several high-ranking officers were present, most of whom he recognized. He nodded to Lieutenant John Ross, who sat next to General Jackson, a quill poised in his hand as though he was ready to pen whatever words his commander might utter. Jackson was talking and nodding at the Indian whom Asher would have thought would be kneeling at Old Hickory’s feet instead of being treated like an honored guest.

  As he snapped a salute, Asher couldn’t help but notice several similarities between the general and the Indian chief. They were of comparable height and age and shared intense blue eyes that seemed to see right through a man’s skin to his soul. While General Jackson’s distinctive mane contrasted with the darker hair of the stranger, there was something about them—some attitude or stance—that made them appear more like distant cousins than deadly adversaries.

  Both men bore the scars of many battles, but those scars only enhanced their charismatic appeal. Even though the general had undoubtedly lost weight during the six months since they’d left Nashville, no one could say he had lost an ounce of his steely determination. It was that strength of will coupled with his genuine concern for his men that had won the love and admiration of both volunteer and regular soldiers.

  “Soldier, I want you to meet a man who has seen the inevitability of defeat and decided to act with honor. This is William Weatherford, formerly known as Chief Red Eagle.”

  Asher controlled his features with some difficulty. What was going on here? Why did General Jackson call his enemy an honorable man?

  “Thank you, sir.” He turned to the stranger. “Mr. Weatherford.” Asher observed the man’s eyes narrow as he and Weatherford studied each other.

  With an abrupt nod, Weatherford returned his attention to Jackson. A wordless message seemed to pass between the two.

/>   “Mr. Landon, your commendable loyalty and devotion to duty have been many times brought to my attention. So I have a special assignment to offer you. Mr. Weatherford, here, needs an escort out of the area. He has expressed his willingness to work toward the absolute and peaceful surrender of any holdouts there may be among the Creek nation. You will accompany him for the next two months before returning here to report the success or failure of his efforts.”

  General Jackson turned back to Weatherford. “And if any harm comes to this man, or if you should change your mind and decide to once again take up arms against this sovereign nation, your life will be forfeit. Do we understand each other?”

  Weatherford nodded. He was obviously a man of few words.

  “You’ll leave at daybreak.” General Jackson nodded in his direction, and Asher thought for a moment he saw a smile of encouragement. “Dismissed.”

  Two

  As Rebekah and her pa drew closer to Nashville, they began to see homesteads here and there, as well as other travelers. They topped a hill, and the city lay before them as if it had sprung from the banks of the river that twisted through it.

  Even though she’d traveled to Nashville before, Rebekah was amazed at the beehive of activity. Carriages, horses, and pedestrians filled every street. On the main thoroughfare, dozens of people scurried along as if they were on important errands. She wrinkled her nose at the multitude of smells. An unpleasant odor of hot iron and horse leavings emanated from the livery stable they passed. But a little farther down the street, the smell of fresh bread made her want to stop and visit the bakery.

  They passed a millinery, its windows filled with hats ranging from simple bonnets to wide-brimmed, feathered concoctions that looked much too heavy to wear. “How will you ever find Aunt Dolly’s home?” Rebekah’s head was spinning with the hustle and bustle around them.