The Crockett Chronicles- The Complete Collection

by Jennifer Lynn Cary

  Willie had no signs, keeping a constant vigil with the old man. Maybe loved him more for that.

  Whenever there was a moment, she’d steal away to check on Cookie and find Willie keeping him as comfortable as possible. This day something was different. Cookie’s fever spiked, his spots appeared angry and red. “Has the surgeon seen him, Willie?”

  Willie shook his head and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, no. He comes a little later.”

  “I think he needs to see this. She laid her hand on Willie’s shoulder only to pull back. The heat told her he’d caught it. “Oh, Willie. Ye should’ve said something.”

  “What was there to say? We all knew what was coming. Cookie needs me. I can’t get him any sicker.”

  “But ye can get sicker. Ye will. I’m getting the surgeon.”

  She heard him try to restrain her, but his weak attempt only made her hurry that much faster.

  * * *

  Willie’s head hurt like never before. He couldn’t remember having a sniffle, let alone a childhood malady. So this was how sick felt.

  Heat emanated off him, but his body shivered as if he were in a snowstorm. His eyes burned, his head pounded, and his throat was raw. Still, he wouldn’t leave Cookie. The old man was in worse shape. It had been awhile since Cookie opened his eyes and recognized who sat with him. For two weeks, Willie bathed him in cool water, cleaned his cot, sponged his pox, keeping him as comfortable as he knew how. And for two weeks, Cookie had thanked him, scolded him, and shared secrets of his life. Willie had grown to love the curmudgeon. He wouldn’t give up on him now.

  Standing, he grabbed the basin. With more water, he might bathe Cookie’s fever, possibly lower it. He managed two steps toward the galley when the world began to spin. Willie reached for the doorway, but his hand missed. He sensed himself falling, falling, then—

  * * *

  Maybe returned with the surgeon to find Willie unconscious, blocking the door. She knelt next to him. Who did she help first? Willie needed immediate help, but Cookie might be dying.

  The surgeon touched Willie’s head, tsked, and stepped over him to Cookie.

  Maybe remained with him. The basin lay under his body. She tugged it free and filled it. The tepid water felt cold next to the heat projecting off Willie.

  He appeared so long just lying there, though he’d filled out from all the work he’d done. Willie was a tall man. She couldn’t move him, so she stooped and bathed his head and neck where he was.

  His eyes fluttered. “Maybe? What happened?”

  “I dunno. Found you like this.”

  He tried to move, but his hands grasped to his head. “Never had a headache like this.”

  The surgeon noticed him moving. “Stay where you are. We’ll get you help. First, we need to help Cookie. Maybe, I need you over here.”

  She stepped past Willie to the surgeon.

  He leaned in, his voice low next to Maybe’s ear. “Cookie won’t be with us much longer. His spots are infected; it is in his blood. There isn’t anything I can do. Can you stay with him? I’ll get help to carry Mr. Stewart to his bunk.”

  Maybe nodded. No, not Cookie. He had been so kind to her, helping her to understand when things were strange. Giving her a place to belong. Next to losing her mother, father, and sister, this was the hardest parting. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes.

  The surgeon patted her shoulder. “It’s never easy.” He went for help for Willie.

  Three hours later, Cookie was gone. Mr. Cox and Mr. Hawkins came to wrap his body and remove it. Since the crew was quarantined, they had the burial at sea that evening. Any of the crew not stuck in bed attended, as sunlight had faded to twilight by then.

  Two days later, Mr. Swain was given the same service as Cookie.

  Of the original thirty-five crew members, only twelve had never had the chicken pox. Of those twelve, they buried four. Maybe cried for the first two, Cookie and Mr. Swain. Then, she had no more tears. Plus she was too worried about Willie to think. His fever spiked more than once until the spots appeared. If his fever broke, and he could keep from scratching, he should come through.

  Maybe prayed. A part of her felt guilty, not worthy to bring a plea before the God of the universe. But she didn’t care what happened to her. Every time she placed another wet rag on his head, she prayed. Every time she gave him broth or a drink, she prayed. Perhaps she wasn’t worthy enough to be heard, but she determined to be persistent enough not to be ignored.

  Within a day after his fever broke, Willie was sitting up on his cot and being his old self, or a weaker version. He was ravenous. Maybe saved extra for him as she continued to cook for the men. In five days, he returned to normal, except for her reminding him not to scratch. His expression reflected how badly he wanted to. She remembered the dreadful itching and could only imagine how much worse it was for a grown man. He took over duties below deck as he was still to stay out of the sun until the spots had finished scabbing.

  Several days later, Maybe found him talking with two men. They whispered. Something serious from what Maybe could tell. It came to a stop as she wandered up to them.

  The others sauntered off.

  “What was that all about?”

  He shook his head. “Ah, not anything to worry about. They’ve got an idea. It’s just not a good one.”

  “An idea about what?”

  Willie scanned their surroundings as if making sure they were alone. “They think since we are down four men, we need to impress from the town before we sail.”

  Impress? “Oh, Willie, yer not goin’ along with that, are ye?”

  “No! Of course not. But we need the hands. We were just making it work with who we had. To be short four is not good.”

  “What’s Boatswain Johnson say?”

  Willie looked at the floor, twisting his toe on the floorboard. “He doesn’t know. You know how sick he was, just now pulling though and staying in his quarters out of the sun. I doubt the men even brought it up to him. I’m sure he would not approve. He’s not that type of man.”

  “On that we agree. We need to tell him.”

  He grabbed her arm. “We can’t! Think about it. If they are the kind to impress someone, they won’t hesitate to take it out on anyone who gets them in trouble. You can imagine what Boatswain Johnson would do for punishment.”

  She pulled free. “If ye won’t, I will.”

  “Maybe, you can’t. They will know it was you. Promise me you won’t go up there.”

  She clamped her mouth shut.

  “Maybe, I know what I’m talking about. Promise me, for your own good.”

  She stared at the floor, hoping he wouldn’t get too technical. “I won’t go up there.”

  He relaxed, accepting her word.

  She hoped he wouldn’t be too angry when he found out what she planned.

  * * *

  Mr. Hawkins brought his dinner. Smelled pretty good.  Maybe did well with today’s catch.

  Sam told Mr. Hawkins to set the tray on the bureau and thanked him. A moment later he was alone.

  He felt like his old self, but the surgeon insisted he stay out of the sun until every spot scabbed and no more showed. Other than wanting to scratch himself to death, he was fine. Well, the sun would eventually set. Come nightfall he’d go on deck, see how things progressed. A reflex, he caught himself, hand raised to scratch his chin, and grunted. At least he could pick at his food without fuss.

  He moved his plate and noticed a folded piece of foolscap. Opening it, he recognized the handwriting. Maybe’s.

  A few crew members are talking impressment.

  So, some think they know better, huh? Well, that tears it. He would definitely have a talk with the crew. They hadn’t thoroughly considered it or they would understand impressment would not work. Maybe was too young to understand. Or perhaps it was fear of the word. But he was a good lad.

  Aye, he would talk with the crew, but with care. Maybe delivered the message in secr
et. No one would find out.

  * * *

  At twilight, word passed among the crew for everyone to meet on the main deck.  No one was feverish or bedfast. All could attend. Willie joined the men standing around the master and boatswain.

  He spotted Maybe across from him, not making eye contact. Had she done something? He told her not to, and she promised!

  “Men, according to the surgeon, we should be able to resume our voyage in three more days. That will give time for me to go with Mr. Hawkins to town by jolly boat to make arrangements for new crew members. We will speak with those interested and choose the best. As we’ve been cautious in our dealings with the town to keep them from getting the chicken pox, they’ve sent their appreciation. Perhaps you were unaware of extra food stores we were allowed to purchase. Because we have been fair, they are treating us fair.”

  Willie was now sure she’d talked to Boatswain Johnson, but he never said the word “impress.”

  “What if no one signs? What do we do then?” It was one of the men who’d been talking to him that afternoon.

  “I don’t believe we have a problem. Are you worried?” So, the boatswain would make someone else say the word.

  “Aye, we’re worried. Why all the fuss? Why not just grab the ones we want and bring ’em along?”

  The boatswain cleared his throat. “Not only is it wrong, it’s foolish. We don’t work that way on the Frances Pearl. Anyone brought forcibly abroad will be returned to their port, even if it means losing time and money. This ship does not impress. Is that clear?”

  The “aye, sirs” floated around the circle. Willie caught Maybe’s glance. So, she was behind it. He could see it in her eyes.

  She lied to him.

  “Dismissed.”

  The crew went in various directions. Willie made a beeline to Maybe, dragging her to the rail. “So, your promise doesn’t mean a thing, huh?”

  She pulled her arm from him. “Willie, I promised I would not go up to see him. I didn’t go.”

  He sighed. “Then what did you do?”

  “I sent a note.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eleazar Ferguson stared at the closed drapes darkening his parlor. The pain and humiliation of the past month repeatedly played through his mind. He heard every jeer as he stood helpless in the pillory, felt every piece of refuse that smacked him in the face—the face that now bore the brand of the rapist on his right cheekbone. Sometimes at night he woke himself screaming, still smelling the burnt flesh. His cheek remained tender. The R prominently visible in his mirror. The mirror he shattered moments after returning home.

  Not one person in that courtroom had the right to stand in judgment of him. That girl was his property. He could do with her as he pleased. He’d paid for her, given her a home and food. She owed him. She did this. His hand crept his face, lightly tracing the rough scar tissue protruding from the hated brand.

  What good were fine clothes and money and power when everyone could see his mangled face and judge him, without cause?

  He rose to his feet and paced. Even his faithful cook and housekeeper took to the hills. Once he was convicted, she was sure everyone would think her virtue besmirched as well. Ha! Like he’d even go near the cow. The only reason he’d kept her on was that she did her job. Now he had to fend for himself. Who would cook his meals? Bring his tea? Clean his house? Do his laundry?

  Who cared about him?

  Oh, he’d make them care. They would care about what they had done to Eleazar Ferguson.

  They would wish they cared sooner.

  * * *

  The thundering at the door coincided with the big bell in the center of town clanging.

  “Stay here, love. I’ll go.”

  Joseph’s mind was a fog, having been roused from a deep sleep. Why the clamor?

  He left Sarah in their bed and pulled on his breeches, tucking in his nightshirt while stubbing his toe on the way to the stairs. Bethy peeked out of the girls’ room. “Stay there, girl. I’m going.”

  At the door, he pulled it open. Thomas Miller stood, frantic, fist poised mid pound. “Fire! At Judge Gibson’s home! Gathering all the help we can get!”

  “Let me get my boys. Go to the next house. We’re on our way.”

  Joseph ran back upstairs for his shoes. As he passed, he pounded on the door for the boys. Jason opened the door. “Wake John. Then go to Joseph Louis’s house and get him. There’s a fire at the judge’s house.”

  Sarah was up, her wrapper tied about her. “I’ll get the girls. We can help.”

  “No, stay here. We may need you to feed and house people, depending on how bad this gets. The Gibson’s have several close neighbors. The fire might spread. I’ve got to leave.” He brushed a token kiss across her forehead and ran out the bedroom door. “Boys, let’s go!” Tearing down the stairs, he heard Jason and John fast behind him. He didn’t turn back, trusting them to follow.

  Flames climbed into the night sky. He raced harder, spotting the constable on his way. “Did everyone get out?”

  “No idea. They may be gone somewhere, no one has seen anyone.”

  Joseph covered his mouth, holding in his thoughts. Then another thought took hold. “The neighbors, they are all out of their homes?”

  “Aye, they are safe, though it looks as if the Turners may be needing a place to stay until they can rebuild.”

  Joseph and his sons joined the fight to save as many homes as possible. The Gibson and Turner homes were a total loss. Two other homes had minor damage but were repairable. The sun shone bright as they stomped the last spark.

  He glanced around at the tired, dirty men. Each wore a mask of dread at the next job, searching through the remains of the Gibson home. But it must be done.

  Joseph stretched his back, then pulled his sons close. “I don’t want you in there. I don’t know what we’ll find. Perhaps nothing, but if we find someone I don’t want you with us. Understand? Go home, tell your mother that the Turners will be needing a place to stay. She might find room for the boys at our house.”

  His sons nodded. Jason opened his mouth like he might argue, but John put his arm across the boy’s shoulder and turned him toward home.

  Henry Waddington, looking nothing like his tidy self, and Thomas Miller led the small group of men into the charred remains. Wood was the quickest way to build; it was plentiful. But it was susceptible to fire. A shiver ran up Joseph’s spine. He should have used the more expensive bricks to build his home.

  Nearly everything inside the home was combustible, leaving very little to look through. The bricks from the chimney still stood. Wrought iron and copper kitchen items lay about with broken crockery and cracked china. The fire had burned the floorboards and ceiling so that the second story crashed on the first. Charred bedroom furniture lay scattered amidst the first floor living quarters. Things that might have been parts of beds also lay broken and burnt, without signs of bodies.

  Until they found the scorched remnants of a large brass bed. “Over here.”

  Joseph followed the voice. He didn’t want to see what he knew he would.

  A charred body reclined just under the bars of the headboard.

  The late Judge Robert Gibson.

  He didn’t know whether to cry or vomit.

  * * *

  Sarah divided the girls into groups. Beth and Mary worked on getting the boys’ room aired with fresh linens on the beds. Martha and Janie helped her in the kitchen, making enough food to feed a British battalion. What was not needed at her house to feed guests might be taken to help others. Besides, Janie and Martha were due for another cooking lesson. If she focused on that, she would not worry so much about her men or her neighbors. Worry. She wasn’t supposed to do that. She sent up a prayer and kept busy.

  A little before noon, Jason and John came home.

  “Where’s yer father?”

  They each kissed her cheek.

  John snatched a honey cake. “He’s fine, Mama. The fire is ou
t, but the Turners lost their home too. They all got out, though. Da says to make a place for their boys, that they can stay with us.”

  Sarah smacked his hand as he reached for a second treat. “Leave some for the others. What about the Gibson family? Are they all right?”

  Jason stared at the honey cakes. “There’s been no sign of them. Da is hoping no one was home. They planned to search what was left of the house. That’s why he sent us home.”

  “Oh, how awful. I hope they were all away. Well, go ahead, Jason, ye can have one. Bet ye boys could use a good meal. Go wash up, and I’ll set ye some plates.”

  They grunted their male sounds and grabbed the towel on their way out to the well. She still thought of John as her little boy, but blond and stocky, he was more man than boy now. He’d been spending time at the home of a girl from church. He didn’t like to speak of it, most likely due to the teasing he’d get, but she was sure he was courting the lass.

  Thinking of the girl brought her back to the fire and the Gibson family. They were also friends from church. So terrible! They might have died in such a horrific way. How did the fire start? If no one was home, what could have sparked it? The last storm was two weeks ago.

  She shook her head and returned to work. Joseph would be along shortly, probably bringing guests. She needed to be ready.

  * * *

  After locating the judge, Joseph and the men double checked the ruins for anyone else. Only Judge Gibson was home when the fire took hold. Most likely he died in his sleep. Joseph prayed it was true.

  It took time to remove the body, as carefully as possible, and to make arrangements. Someone needed to locate the rest of the Gibson family and break the news. Someone needed to find housing for them on their return. And someone needed to find lodging for the Turner family while they decided if to rebuild. Joseph volunteered to take in the Turner sons. The Turners were good friends. They could take the whole family if his boys slept in the parlor on the floor. But before he made the offer, other neighbors stepped up. Helping lessened the pain.