Night Fires in the Distance

by Sarah Goodwin

Will noticed us first. “Jamison’s off to town, getting himself a wife.”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Hattie Bakewell, you met her at church, Christmastime.”

  I remembered the whore, wearing a dress of soiled lace and pink ruffles.

  “Snow’s clearing, ground’s not so wet now, figured it was time to get the thing done. She doesn’t have much, no point taking the wagon out for a valise of frocks and shoes.”

  As if he could pull his wagon with the one horse. As it was he’d be pushing it to bring Hattie back along with her one valise. I eyed the horse’s legs and wondered what Jamison would do if one of those went down in a hole. He’d be done for, with nothing to pull his plough. How desperate was he to get himself a white woman to be his wife and have his babies? My guess was he’d had a rough time of it from the gossip mongers and was looking to trade up to a more acceptable woman before it came time to deal with the store holders again.

  “Where’s Martha?” I asked, realising that if he was off to get himself a wife, he must be looking to get rid of her. “Did she leave already?”

  “Leave?” Jamison shared a look with Will, as if I was simple minded, “I’ve got a turnip crop to put in same as you, gonna need hands for that. No, Martha’s not leaving. I’m gonna build up a little line shack for her by the barn. When the baby comes she’ll be less of a use, but it doesn’t look like that’ll be ‘til after harvest time. Towards the end anyway.”

  “She’s pregnant?”

  Jamison shrugged, “Neaps men, we’re all virile as they come. ‘Course it’s not going to be a problem, there’s schools run by good folks who take those type of bastards and give ‘em work on farms and such.”

  William nodded, easing his hands from where the reins had bitten into them. “Know any that take white girls?”

  “Got any you don’t need?” he cast his eyes to Rachel and I fought the urge to drag him from his horse and push his face into the mud. He could marry his whore and I wouldn’t bat an eye, but if he looked at my daughter like she was some sweet meat again I’d skin him and salt him.

  I looked up and found William’s eyes on me, he was prodding me, waiting to see if I’d rise to the bait. I didn’t.

  “Sorry we can’t come, but stop by for a drink or two on your way back,” William said, “you and Hattie’ll be welcome.”

  Jamison grinned, his red mouth splitting his tangled beard. “It’ll be a welcome rest. I’ll be seeing you in a day or so then.”

  He turned his horse and set off for town. I watched him go, wondering if Miss Bakewell knew what she was letting herself in for. Whoring, from what little I knew of it, seemed a terrible occupation, but it came with its comforts, like scent and leisure and plush clothes. How would she get along with washing, ironing, sewing, planting, cooking, cleaning and whelping by day, while still whoring herself at night?

  “Get back to it then,” William said sharply, “got a whole field to plant up, or there’ll be no supper for you.”

  You’d think that doing the cooking would give me the right to decide who ate and who didn’t. It wasn’t the first time I’d wanted to kill him with a hoe, or an axe, but the sudden image of his neck under my foot made me feel sick. I forced myself to turn around and walk back to where we’d been before Jamison rode up.

  “Did he leave Martha on her own?” Thomas wondered aloud, flinging out a handful of seed. “She’d be best taking what she can get and leaving before the fucker comes home.”

  “Thomas!” I cuffed his head, lightly, looked up to see if Will was watching, but for once he wasn’t.

  “Don’t you use such language, and in front of your sister! Shame on you.”

  Rachel elbowed her brother, the three of us carried on our sowing, walking in a line, throwing the seed and treading down the earth.

  What had become of Martha? Thomas was right, Jamison had to know that Martha wouldn’t stay put to be little more than a slave. What had he done to keep her from fleeing?

  I remembered what he’d said to Will as the children and I came upon them. ‘In the barn’. I knew then that he must have locked her up to keep her from stealing from him and running away. Not that there was anything to steal if he was riding his only horse, carrying his only gun. What was he worried she’d take? The very glass from his windows?

  What was worse, there was nothing I could do. There was no way William would let me out alone and he wasn’t going to come with me to set Martha free. What’s more I could think of nowhere safer for her. There would be no place for her in town, or with Will and me. The only other choice was a reservation, or further west, alone.

  I wished for the hundredth time that I had Cecelia to talk to, she’d listen and find a way to help. She’d gotten herself out of Ohio well enough. I couldn’t talk to her though, might not have been able to speak if she was in front of me. What we’d done was something I couldn’t look straight at. It was too much. It hardly mattered though, it wasn’t as though Will would ever let me out of his sight again anyway.

  How could I help Martha when I couldn’t even help myself?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Laura

  Jamison was gone the rest of that day and didn’t return the next. I tended my garden and watched the horizon. When would he return and how much food and water had he left for poor Martha, shut up like a cow in the barn?

  My worry for her lessened my fear for myself. William was distracted with work, so I was no longer as fearful of being struck or taken back to the barn and forced. The worst thing was not being able to see her, to lay my troubles out for her and find a place in her arms. I ached for her kind voice, for the touch of her hand on my cheek. I felt often that I was going crazy, lit inside with the need for her kiss, her touch, my chest aching just to hear her voice.

  Rachel, poking seeds into the plots I’d already dug, reached over and pushed Beth’s dirty hands down towards the drills I’d raked.

  “Like this, stupid.”

  “Rachel, watch how you speak to your sister.”

  She pushed her braid over her shoulder and squinted up at me, against the rays of the spring sun. “Is Mr Neaps not back?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “But where’s Martha?”

  “Hush,” I looked about, but William was nowhere to be seen, he and Thomas had taken the oxen out of the barn to graze on some of the new grass. “That’s Mr Neaps’ business and we shan’t meddle in it.”

  Wishing that I could just take a shovel and go break Martha out, I put Beth on my lap and showed her how to poke the seeds into the ground. From the soddie came Nora’s thin cry.

  Stepping quickly through the garden, I reached the soddie just as Nora was giving herself over to wailing like an animal in a trap.

  “Hush now,” I picked her up, checked her napkin and found it dry. “Hungry, sweet pea?” Her red, scrunched up face gave no answer, but I sat myself down and held her with one arm while I undid the front of my dress. I was out of salve for my teat and had been making do with cooking grease. Of course Cecelia had known better than any man why I needed it. She must have used the same thing when nursing her poor baby son. I couldn’t imagine the fear she’d felt, knowing what that man had done.

  Once Nora had taken enough milk I put her to my shoulder and patted her back. She really was getting big, her little legs kicking and her arms clutching at me as I put her back in her cradle box. She picked up the ragdoll I’d made for her Christmas stocking, the head of it already wet with drool and started to gum it again, smiling up at me. I smiled down at her.

  Lying awake that night, Cecelia and her husband entered my thoughts again. Although he had many, many faults, Will had made the little wood boxes for the children I lost, held my hand as we stood by their tiny hillocks in the ground. I didn’t believe he was capable of doing away with a new-born. Whatever kind of man Cecelia’s husband was, I shuddered to think what he might have done to her had she stayed with him.

  How lonely was s
he, shut up in her soddie, facing the awful thing her husband had done? I wanted to comfort her, to make her smile again and forget her fear for a moment.

  I wondered if she was lying as I was, wishing she was with me. My heart beat heavily in my chest. I thought of the soft, pointed breasts I’d seen under her night shirt, of her lip, lips that should have told me the truth the moment they touched mine, for no man’s lips had the right to be that soft.

  Seized by unnatural thoughts, by lust, I forced my eyes open and looked up to the dark sod ceiling. I asked the Lord for a great many things during the day, though mostly it was a word I threw into my begging without thinking He was actually listening. It had been a long time since I’d expected God to help with anything, but it was a habit I had and would never unlearn. I asked Him then, trying to believe, to protect me and my children from William and to protect my family from my own weakness. Finally, not daring to take too long over it, I asked that he keep Cecelia from her husband.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cecelia

  Not knowing what he was doing to her was torture. Over and over I berated myself for not having the courage to pull the trigger of my rifle when I had the chance. The rage I felt towards him was strong, but not entirely new. I’d buried my anger against Charles, but now that I remembered what he’d done I felt it again, stronger than before.

  My anger fed on my fear; fear of Charles, fear for Laura but also of her. The loneliness of winter gave me endless hours in which to think about our kiss, for I couldn’t bring myself to talk to Franklyn as doing so only reminded me of how much I’d changed and how appalled he’d be at me. Wrong as it was, I had grown to wish for another kiss, and another. At first I’d blamed my total isolation for my lust, my desire to just be near her, to hear her voice. Gradually I’d realised that it had nothing to do with my situation and everything to do with her. Just her.

  From afar, as a distant, doll-like figure, I saw Laura around the soddie, always with William, even if she was only throwing out the contents of their pot, or drawing water. My glimpses of her were brief, but enough to power my frustration, rage and guilt. I was sick with the knowledge that she was trapped with that man. Her and her poor children.

  I wanted to take the rifle and go to the soddie, free them from William and his constant watchfulness, but my courage failed me as soon as the smooth stock of the gun touched my hands. I wasn’t a killer. I didn’t even know if she wanted me. That kiss, with her knowing who and what I was, it could have been an aberration, one she was now deeply regretting.

  The weather turned warmer and the snow began to recede, revealing brown grass half rotted, with a haze of green pushing through. I saw more of Laura and two of her children, dark haired Rachel and Thomas, a tiny version of his father, as they worked part of their land.

  My mind flew over and over again to the kiss we had shared in my soddie. She’d known who I was then and it hadn’t stopped her. It hadn’t stopped me. What did it mean? What did it make us? I’d never heard of such a thing as ladies kissing each other, not even amongst the lower classes. It had felt like something new and free, something that we two had created between us. I had never thought having someone’s mouth against mine could make me feel so good, so happy.

  What if she didn’t feel that way? I could waste away the whole planting season and starve come winter, wanting and waiting for a woman who I couldn’t speak to, or even see up close. I’d gambled recklessly when I’d left Charles for the world beyond his door and I was not about to find myself spending another winter hungry and alone. For better or worse, I had to plant.

  The ploughing was hard work, but driving the mustangs and forcing rows into the stubborn soil helped me to exhaust myself, to the point where the knot in my stomach no longer kept me awake, though fear was still an ever present weight on me.

  When I was woken after midnight on one particularly frigid night by a scratching, I thought it was Charles trying to get in, or perhaps the wolves, back to kill me. Missy was sitting by the door, cocking her head at the sound, and it was then that I heard it for what it was; a frightened hand scratching the wood, while through the door came a woman’s voice, murmuring to the dog.

  I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my rifle and opened the door a chink.

  “It’s me, Martha.”

  I stepped back and let her in, putting the rifle against the wall as I closed the door.

  She didn’t light the lamp on the table, but put a candle on a saucer right on the floor and lit it.

  “So he doesn’t see the light.” As she stood up I saw how ragged she looked; her dark hair was wild and tangled with small bits of hay, her calico dress was creased and the hem ripped so it hung limply to her ankles. Her feet were bare.

  “What’s happened? Did Jamison…?”

  “Jamison brought his new wife home. Hattie, a whore from town.”

  Her long brown fingers circled her wrists lightly, and I saw that they were bloody and scabbed from being bound, with what? Rope? Chains? What had he done to her?

  “Did he force you to go, now, at night?”

  She shook her head.

  “He wants me for a field hand, but she, she wants me gone, before this -” She put her hand on her stomach. “- Before it grows any more.” She looked up and showed me a slice of white smile like a bone, “She said she didn’t like me looking at her, ‘that brown bitch’s all eyes, she’ll kill us both in our sleep if you let her roam around at night’. So he kept me tied in the barn last night while she was squealing on the tick that I made, that I stuffed and beat clean. Well, that’s her job now.”

  “You’re pregnant?”

  She nodded. “And I’m running. You said you’d help me.”

  “Where are you going to go?”

  She waved a hand as though she was batting away a gnat. “I need some food, something warm, whatever you can spare. I have to leave now.”

  “But you don’t have anywhere to go, you said-”

  “You don’t know me,” she said, sharply, “you don’t know how I lived before Jamison. Or what it’s like on one of our reservations and you don’t have to. You said you’d help me, so help me, or I’ll go with nothing.”

  I hadn’t forgotten that she was an Indian, that she was, at heart, a savage. But I knew the feeling she had painted over her face; it was the same one that had made me run from Charles and that hadn’t let me stop running until I reached the Deene’s farm.

  “Give me a moment to get some things together,” I turned from her and went to the supply chest by the stove. There was a gunny sack bundled around the sheet of canvas I’d made my tent with.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  “He’s a no good lout,” I said, “you’re right to run, it’s only…God, he should run. You should take my gun and shoot him right in the head.”

  She laughed, a surprised, cold little laugh, like a buzzard cry. “They’d hang me.”

  “They should hang him.”

  I stuffed a bar of soap, a candle and a jar of preserve into the sack with the canvas. I had no spare shoes, but there was my wool scarf and the hat I’d worn on my arrival. I had four cents hidden under the chest in a fold of cloth, and I took them out and put them on the table in front of her.

  “If he comes here, you can shoot him,” she said.

  “If he comes here, he’ll shoot me first.”

  She looked away. “He won’t know I came here, or that you helped me…neither will Deene.”

  I put the sack on the table. “I’m afraid of him. Of both of them. Do you think I should run?”

  “You’ll stay,” she said. “You’ll stay for her.”

  I felt all my worries come flying from the shadows. “I think he’s hurting her.”

  “He is. Jamison was talking about her. He stopped off with his new bride and came home telling stories about how William wasn’t a ‘hen pecked son-of-a-bitch’ anymore. He said she had bruises, that she was scared every time he raised his hand to ta
ke a drink.”

  To have it confirmed to me was worse than imagining what he was doing to her.

  Martha opened the sack and looked through the contents.

  “I have an axe handle you can take too,” I took it from the small bundle I’d carved over the winter. “You should be able to get a head for it in town.”

  She opened out the fold of cloth and touched the coins. “I can’t take money.”

  “I’ll be alright without it.”

  She sighed. “They’ll never believe it’s mine, they might put me in jail while they work out who I took it from.”

  I hadn’t considered that. At least I’d had the luxury of trust while I’d been travelling as a woman.

  Martha looked away, picked up the sack and the axe handle. “I should go, I have to find somewhere out of sight before day comes and Jamison goes out looking.”

  “He’ll look for you by the creek, in the ravine.”

  “He won’t find me.” She tied the sack to her belt with a loop of twine, tucked the handle into it at the small of her back. I went to my small pile of linen and handed her a thin blanket made of dark wool, Martha put it around her shoulders. She wrapped the scarf around her face and put the battered hat on her head.

  “You won’t see me again,” she said.

  I believed her. Her flight would make mine look like the clumsy stampede of a hundred cattle. She was as practical as I’d been foolish. No one would see her go and no one would remember her as she passed through town after town. I knew that by the time her baby came, she would be in another state, with other people, with a different name.

  “I wish I could be like you,” I said, “as strong as you are, and free.”

  Her steady hands fastened the blanket across her chest, like a cloak. “There’s no freedom, not anymore. I’m going where he chases me, where men like him will always chase us. And when there’s nowhere left to go…well, by then I might not be alive to see what happens.”

  I wanted to say something about the towns growing and prospering on what had once been empty prairie. It wasn’t Indians who built those things, who’d made the country rich and strong as it was. But I held my tongue, because I knew that to her it was all different, that to her it meant losing her home. I wanted us to part as peacefully as we could, under the circumstances.