Swept into Destiny

by Catherine Ulrich Brakefield

  “Well, you know what we gotta do, son.”

  Maggie rolled over on her stomach. The cold blade against her hot, moist calf sent a shiver through her body. The smell of smoke, burning worms, sweat, and swamp water penetrated the sultry air that promised a hot June day. “Ahhhh. Mary, Joseph, and the Saints… Jesus help me!” the snakebitten Matthew cried.

  She had never heard such pain uttered from a man’s lips before.

  Ben’s dad rested back on his knees, and wiped his forehead. “I think we’ve got them all. Let’s see how Matthew’s comin’.”

  “I’ll leave you to… um, you know.” Ben turned her over. His mouth contorted, suppressing a grin.

  She gasped. Her riding skirt was tangled around her knees; her knickers had been pushed up, too, and her stockings lay in a heap on the grass, exposing her bare toes and white skin against the green of the grass.

  “I have never saw the likes before.” His finger touched the dimple in her knee. “Dove-white and they even feel as soft as a dove’s underbelly—”

  Her open palm whacking his cheek echoed across the hillside. She covered her legs and, beneath the folds of her yards of skirt, pulled on her stockings and lastly her boot. An uncontrollable shiver coursed through her veins, the dark, muddy swampland taunting her. Going back into that swamp to retrieve her lost boot was not something she relished. But she must. How would she explain her missing boot to Mr. Reynolds?

  Ben followed her glance and offered her his hand. “Take it if you like. I’ll only offer it once.”

  There was something vital and exciting about his grip. His riot of curly black hair fell about his soiled red bandana in mischievous abandonment, only there was nothing frolicsome in his gaze when he strolled past her. Pausing before entering the gaping hole of the foul-smelling swampland to remove his boots, Ben glanced over his shoulder at her, and was gone.

  Goose bumps popped up across her arms, recalling the leeches. “I don’t want that old boot, please come out from there—”

  “Got it!”

  “Oh, you did?” Maggie hopped down the hill, grabbed the dirty boot between thumb and forefinger and examined it for leeches.

  “But I’ll throw it back in, after all you don’t need it.”

  “No, please, I’ll clean it up. You spared me a great amount of explaining.”

  “And money purchasing such fine boots, I wager.” His eyes appraised her. “’Twas not easy. I had to do some feeling about before I recovered it.”

  Maggie looked at his mud-caked arms, aghast. “Oh, but you… you must have three times more leeches than I.”

  “Your kind worried about my kind?” He stepped closer.

  My, he was tall and strangely chivalrous in his barbarous sort of way.

  The snakebitten man’s groan split the air between them like a lightning bolt. Maggie followed Ben up the hill and knelt down. The man’s face was pasty white in a sea of black whiskers, his arms just skin covering bones. She glanced at the other Irishmen. Their cheek bones shone beneath mud-blackened, gaunt faces, and homespun shirts darned so many times there was more thread than cloth, plastered their shallow chests.

  Sudden fear clawed her throat. Their needs were far too many for her to comprehend, and she had her school to protect. “I, I must return home.” Grass and dirt particles clung to her wet and putrid garments as she rose. She shook her skirts, trying to rid them of the decay, and backed away from the living corpse sprawled on the grass.

  Her mare nickered softly as she stuffed her muddy riding boot in her saddlebag, then reached for her horse’s reins, trying to block out the memory of death and deprivation not more than ten yards away.

  Ben arms reached past hers, looping her mare’s reins through his arm, he bent his shoulders forward, cupping his mud-blackened hands. Her stocking foot curled around his palm as he lifted her easily into the saddle.

  A spark in the depth of his liquid eyes—bold, yet gentle—the lift of his chin, the thrust of his shoulders, displayed his pride and unbeaten spirit. Poor wretched people the Irish, there was little hope for them of elevating their position in society. It’s a good thing they carry their pride with them.

  “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do. I’ll bring some bandages and soap and clean drinking water back with me.”

  “Sorry, are ya?” Ben said, his hands drawn into fists by his sides. “We know about you landlords from our native Ireland.” His chin poked forward like a boxer’s. “The potato famine we left and then coming to America and no one givin’ us work and our children and women hungry and sick. Lost amidst this sea of conscience and consequence, we are.” In suave finality, he saluted her as eloquently as any southern gentleman, only in tattered rags. “We can take care of our own. Been doing it for more than 300 years and don’t need the likes of you tellin’ the likes of us how to survive.”

  The audacity of this man throwing her goodwill back into her face without even a ‘thank you kindly’ added to the end of it. “This is America, not Ireland, and we do things differently here.” She took off at a gallop, jumped a hedge, and headed for the safety of Spirit Wind.

  Ben’s eyes had said more than his hateful words. He didn’t believe she’d return. Well, she’d show him.

  Chapter 2

  M aggie, those Irishmen are a filthy, rowdy bunch, don’t get too close to them.” Mr. Reynolds’ goatee, which reminded her of their billy goat, bounced up and down with every word. “They’d love to get their filthy hands on you.” His gaze circled her figure like the coil of a snake.

  “Yes, Mr. Reynolds,” she said, knowing full well they were not the only ones who wanted to get their hands on her. She held the pitcher of water firmly to her apron, trying to quiet the turmoil in her stomach as he slithered closer.

  His morning’s coffee, leather, and bad breath whiffed past her nose as his thin body bent over her like a poplar in a windstorm. She dared not look up.

  “Your father should be back from Virginia tomorrow. Remember what I told you, or else I’ll keep you to the confines of Spirit Wind another day.”

  “I understand, Mr. Reynolds.”

  He treated her like one of his concubines. Or perhaps wished she was.

  There was no doubt Father suspected her mother and her of questionable activities. Maggie had voiced her views to Father that every person, including slaves, needed to be able to read and write. Because of her age of fourteen years and her mother’s affiliation to the Society of Friends, Father had given the overseer, Mr. Reynolds, full power over her and Spirit Wind.

  Reynolds snapped his whip across his polished black riding boots, the repetitious noise rippling like waves against rock. “The work in that infested snake pit will whittle their numbers down.” He chuckled. “I’ll be doing my countrymen a favor, what with the herd of Irishmen that come to our shores every year. No need to worry about running out of their practically free labor.”

  Maggie bit back her response. She had to find a way to show her father the truth about the arrogant Reynolds. He was always careful to display kindness and consideration when Father was around. Reynolds was neither. He’d threatened a whipping and ordered her to her room, demanding she tell him what she had been doing riding so early in the morning. How could she deny her whereabouts when her mosquito-bitten face told Reynolds so plainly? So far her little school in the Glenn remained hidden from Father’s and Mr. Reynolds’ eyes, but for how much longer?

  Reynolds stepped closer. He licked his thin lips as his big palm stretched out to grab a curl that had strayed loose of her chignon. She backed away. “I must be leaving now.” Her personal servant, Hattie, followed with a basketful of bandages and liniment hidden beneath cinnamon rolls and scones. They loaded the water, tablecloth, silverware, and baskets into the bed of their buggy and off they went.

  What would Ben think of her now? She’d promised to return immediately. That had been three days ago. Was the snakebit man named Matthew still alive?

  The closer
Maggie and Hattie rode the stronger the scent of swamp and the rancid smell of death grew. The sun shone down without a cloud to shade her from its burning rays. The sweltering afternoon would likely be just as humid in the evening moonlight. Her father allowed Mr. Reynolds to hire these Irishman to dredge out the swampland, too snake-ridden and disease-infested for their slaves to accomplish. Was Ben aware he and his Irishmen were of less consequence than their slaves?

  As they drew near, one Irishman from the sea of twelve stood from his crouching position on the grass. His long legs soon ate up the distance between them. He removed his tattered hat and bowed. Black eyes, bold as brass, stared into hers, with a hint of humor that masqueraded behind a square chin and insolent lips, drawing her gaze to his.

  “Lordy, Miss Maggie.” Hattie’s large eyes opened wider. “These poor men need more than just water and scones to cover their jagged bones. I don’t see how their elbows don’t poke a hole through their flesh.”

  The sudden set of Ben’s square jaw confirmed Maggie’s suspicion that he had heard Hattie’s remark. It was evident the only thing Ben hated worse than poverty was pity.

  Maggie ignored Ben’s outstretched arm and descended from the buggy. Spotting a large flat rock, she walked over and set down the checkered tablecloth. Some of the men were huddled over a fire, stirring a pot of tangled wild grass and a few late dandelions.

  Hattie nodded her head slowly. “What I says, I knows.”

  She always saw more in one glance than Maggie saw in a half-dozen. “Hattie, return to the kitchen. Tell Cook to give you that fried chicken, biscuits, and greens she made for our dinner and bring back a pitcher of milk.”

  Ben took up a corner of the linen to help her arrange it on the rock. His presence was unnerving.

  “Miss Maggie, you’re going to get me in a passel of trouble.” Hattie looked around at the men who were rubbing their muddy fingers on the grass, their eyes fixed on them and the food. She bit down on her nails like a beaver chomping on wood. A habit she had whenever she grew nervous.

  “Have I ever gotten you in trouble? You need not fret. Mother will uphold my actions.”

  “Really?” Hattie removed her fingers from her mouth and wiped them on her apron. “Just where was she three days ago? You locked in your bedroom like a canary in a cage.”

  The men mumbled among themselves, chuckled, and then spoke in Gaelic.

  Maggie could feel the heat of the men’s stares as she waved good-bye to Hattie. Ben’s eyes turned darker, more menacing. Now all that was left for her to gaze at were the puffs of dust trailing the buggy.

  “What do you think you’re doing here? My kind don’t care for your kind.”

  Don’t care for me? Her blue tarlatan, flounced with cream-colored Chantilly lace, sat high and hugged her neck. Why did her collar suddenly feel like a noose? She pulled at her collar, avoiding the Irishman’s angry eyes.

  “So, you were locked in your room,” he whispered. He stared at her, deep in thought. Had he noticed her discomfort? He bent closer and thrust a dirty index finger in her face. “Don’t be getting yourself in trouble on our account.”

  Her lace pantalets beneath her skirt hoops were sticking to her skin like a rain-drenched doily. Her discomfort was most likely due to what had transpired three days earlier, and Ben’s eyes weren’t helping the matter any. She grabbed her large basket and the small basket of silverware off the ground. “I tried to find some way to help that poor snakebitten man.” She bit her tongue; she’d almost told him how the work at the Glenn had stopped. The children were desperate to learn and risked a beating to be educated. She slapped down the silverware on the rock. As if he cared.

  “We can’t afford to lose this job.” Grabbing the pitcher, Ben followed her. She ignored him, lamenting over the teaching days she had lost imprisoned in her room.

  Reynolds had watched her and her mother like a hawk on a rabbit. Only the trusted Eli, their head house slave, was able to get away and warn the other slaves from the adjoining plantations not to come to the Glenn. She laid out the warm rolls and the smell of cinnamon floated in the air.

  Ben set down his pitcher. “Some of the men have wives and children to feed. This is the only paying job we’ve had since leaving Ellis Island. We don’t need your kind of help.”

  His words were pure foolishness. “What good is a job if you lose your life doing it?” Maggie whirled around so fast the heel of her shoe got caught in some tall grass, throwing her totally off balance and falling toward the pitcher of water.

  Ben snatched her into his swarthy arms, swinging her against his chest, then carried her to a stump and plopped her down with a finality that left her dizzily reeling in a total state of confusion. “My… shoe,” was all she could think to blurt out.

  He fished through the tangled web of grass and debris. Grabbing it up, he bowed down and placed the shoe on her foot as chivalrously as Prince Charming. Only the irate eyes that stared into hers declared she was not his Cinderella.

  “A regular Sir Galahad, my Ben is.” Ben’s dad’s eyes twinkled back at her as if daring her to contradict him.

  She turned away to hide her embarrassment. It was as if Ben thought himself better than she. Though poor, ragged, and half-starved, he was not, by any means, broken in spirit. Disillusioned? Yes. He knew there was no hope of their two worlds ever uniting. “You need not fear losing your jobs. Father has waited for over a year to find—”

  “Someone stupid enough to risk his life in this snake-infested swamp?” Ben layered a hand on each hip and laughed mockingly.

  “Exactly.” She stuttered, straightening her skirts in an attempt to regain her composure. Walking back to the makeshift table, she said, “May I be so bold as to inquire of your full name?”

  “Benjamin McConnell at your service. Most of my friends call me Ben, as you already know.”

  “You are different from the other—”

  “Irishmen you have encountered? You mean I’ve not yet learned my station in America?” Ben mocked. “Or that we didn’t slit your throat, nor drink your blood?” A deep belly laugh followed. “No, lass, ’tis but a fable that likes to follow us.”

  The other men muttered in Gaelic, nodding their heads.

  Maggie let out a sigh of relief. “That is good to know.”

  Ben clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. His eyes didn’t miss her confusion. “I believe this land of opportunity will soon see that our Irish spirit will overcome the poverty—and the fables—that have followed us.” He raised his blistered hands and swept the landscape like an artist would his canvas. “Someday I will have a grand place like this.”

  The men laughed.

  “You capture a leprechaun, did ya, Benny, my boy?” one of them said. “You think he be leadin’ ya to that pot of gold?” The men slapped each other on their backs at the joke. Maggie looked at Ben and bit back her laughter, wondering. Her parents had little money when Father came to Tennessee and carved his fortune out of the wilderness. If anyone could—

  “You can laugh if you want,” Ben replied to the men in a bellow that a bull would be proud of. “But I’ll be gettin’ my land.”

  Ben McConnell had grit. Maggie’s heart beat wildly, recalling Jesus’ words …if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, nothing will be impossible for you. Her spirit felt drawn to this man with the rugged cleft chin who dared any to question his dreams. “My father is English. His family didn’t have a cent to call their own when they landed on Plymouth Rock. If he could do it, I see no reason why—”

  “What strange bed fellows wash up on the banks of these American shores.” Ben’s glance swept her form like a hot summer breeze. “In Ireland, the Brits were our enemies; ’twas them the reason we left our homeland. Nearly starved us out, they did, and only the hardy ones found passage to America. Now we meet again.”

  Maggie looked away from Ben’s penetrating gaze, recalling Mr. Reynolds’ whip cracking its warning through the air and snapping agains
t bare flesh. The thought sent a chill coursing through her bones like a stark February wind. Many a time she had doctored the backs of those who had met with Mr. Reynolds’ whip. She wished never to smell the putrid scent of infected flesh again.

  She dared not look up. She feared Ben would see her tortured memories and her sympathy for them and their pitiful fate. “Where is that poor man Matthew, with the snake bites?” Time was of the utmost to her. “Mr. Reynolds, my father’s overseer, warned me not to take long or he’d ride out to see what has delayed me. It was all I could do to keep him from following me. I shall leave after I have seen to Matthew’s wounds. Hattie shall be here shortly. Now, if Mr. Reynolds does come,” Maggie warned him hoping to be taken seriously, “please, do nothing to rile him. He is a wrathful man and quite unforgiving.” Maggie looked around. “Where is Mr. Matthew?”

  Chapter 3

  B en ignored the ache in his shoulders and the twitch in his leg muscles as he lifted the heavy stumps in the swamp. His mind was on more pleasant things like Maggie’s bright eyes and the sweet melody of her voice.

  “Son?” Ben’s father’s salt-and-pepper head poked through the branches of the tree he was hauling. “That Mr. Reynolds is up on the hill yonder and wants to talk to us.”

  So this is Mr. Reynolds. Ben kept his eyes shielded by the branches of the large oak tree. He spread his legs apart, crossed his arms, and listened.

  “I’ll take the taskmaster’s whip to your backs if I hear a hint of someone going to the authorities on this.” Mr. Reynolds glanced down at the dead man, then gazed at Ben.