Shiloh

by Lori Benton

  Judge Cooper’s map did not prepare me for what greeted us as we emerged from the wood surrounding the lake between our land and MacGregor’s. Timbered slopes roll up to the ridge that bounds the tract to the Northward, while the creek bounds it to South. Between these extremes lie Acres ready for pasturage or planting, well-drained for the most part, though in need of grubbing. More Acres lie beneath forest that might one day be planted, but I mean to manage these trees with care. The Chestnuts I shall let stand for mast, should we acquire Hogs. Some of the Maples we will tap for sugar. Others I will preserve for future projects (cabin furnishings to begin with). We have the creek, lake, and their feeder streams for Fishing, which I am assured is plentiful. While Beaver and most fur-bearing game are gone from the area, I am told Deer, Turkey, even Bear are still to be found. Expected soon is the arrival of the Geese that stop yearly on the lake in their Autumn migrations. Since our coming here, I have lain awake each night listening to the watery calls of Loons, unheard since my days in Canada. When first I caught that wild melody on the air, it filled me with a sentiment I could not name, until I described it to Malcolm, who pondered briefly and said, “Ye’ve come home, Mister Ian. Your ears ken it. So does your heart.” A place of belonging. I pray that it will in time prove just so.

  Yesterday I acquired the beginnings of a Cattle herd, got in trade from one Elias Waring, County Magistrate, former Colonel of Militia, a stooped old soldier who walks with the aid of a cane. Occupied in the main with the breeding of Horses, he was pleased to have two of our half-draft team in trade, Mares of foaling years. Another I traded to the blacksmith for a milch Cow and the promise of the Horses remaining to me reshod as need arises. We are left with Ruaidh and Cupid, last of the wagon team, which shall serve Ally for a saddle horse and, I hope, to pull a plow come Spring. Three of the Cattle I earmarked for Ally, the start of his own herd.

  “These be my cows?” he asked when I told him, as if he thought me not in earnest, but it is the least he deserves. His arms, too, aided William Cooper on that road in Pennsylvania, not to mention all he is owed for his years of servitude. I find myself keen to see what Ally will do with Cattle of his own. He may well surprise us.

  I shall close this Letter that, despite my efforts, falls short of conveying my contentment with this Place. Doubtless I will pepper you with more on the subject, but I desire to know how things are with you and Gabriel. I trust you received my Letter sent from Cooperstown and hope, as we agreed on Copp’s Hill, that you will write to your Most Obedient Servant—

  Ian Cameron

  Shiloh, New York

  28 September 1796

  To Ian Cameron

  Shiloh, New York

  Dear Ian—

  I got both your Letters. I am sorry for causing you pain the day you left. I knew before your first Letter come telling of it. I saw it in your eyes when Gabriel called you Da. I told him to bid you goodbye not thinking it would hurt. It hurt me too. Then you gave me that Arrowhead you carried since the day Gabriel was born under that old creek Willow and said my words back to me, spoke to you that day we parted long ago. “Keep it for me.” I would have burst into tears had you not taken your leave right quick. You asked to know what Gabriel does for the first time. He never has called another what he called you that day, and of course you have the Right to claim him. I would not deny my baby his Daddy. That pain will not be his.

  Mister Robert asked me to pen the News for my own practice at this Letter writing and bade me say we are “Thankful to Almighty God for your safe Arrival and Settlement in a Place so much to your Content.” His words, but I mean them too. Dùthchas—that is a Gaelic word your Daddy spelled out for me and says you might recall. It means a sense of belonging to a Place, also to the People that have lived there before you. It seems this is what you mean to create.

  I like the sound of your Farm and those MacGregors. They put me in mind of the Reynolds with their kindness. At least that Neil MacGregor puts me in mind of John. I have not yet heard enough of his Wife to know if she is another Cecily. Those eyes you say she has, two different colors! It must be strange to see. Catriona took interest in that Family and is penning a note to go along with this. I will let her say what she will about them.

  Mama and me sew most days until our fingers are sore, saving what we earn. Gabriel is cutting teeth and cranky with it. Now Summer is past with its sticky heat I am in better Spirits. I so admire Boston’s Autumn. Do the leaves turn colors where you are like they do here? It makes me want to drop everything and paint a picture. Some days I do.

  Your Brother has not called much since you left. We all wait to hear of Penny. Mister Robert thinks Ned should go to Deerfield and mend things if he can. Miss Margaret misses you and Mandy, Naomi—everybody. Many are the partings in this Life. Too many together bruise the heart.

  There is something I must ask and do not know how to come at it but straight on. What did you want to say to me on Copp’s Hill that you did not say? Could you write it? Seems like we can read each other’s Words this way and maybe make a better answer than we would have done that day when neither of us knew our minds or what we were meant to be feeling.

  That is all for now except to say I am happy you and everyone—give them my and Mama’s Love—will be warm in your cabin this Winter. And Ally has cows! What you wrote made me and Mama laugh like we were standing there when he said it. In your writing I can hear folk talking clear as Boston’s bells. I do not know how to make it seem a person is talking on the page, but I will write again regardless—

  Seona Cameron

  Beachum Lane, Boston

  28 September 1796

  To Ian Cameron

  Shiloh, New York

  Dear Brother—

  Thank you for gifting Seona and Lily with Juturna (and her dam) before you left. She is the sweetest Filly and Seona kindly lets me ride her to the Common whenever I wish.

  Da found a copy of Dr. MacGregor’s book and it is lovely, but your News of Shiloh raised many questions, foremost among them: how do the MacGregors come to have a Son and Daughter who are Mohawk Indians? Have you uncovered this Mystery? If not, do so for me as a particular Favor, then write and tell me all!

  Give Mandy many kisses from her Auntie. I miss her sweet face. And all of you. It is lonely since you left. Your Most Affectionate Sister—

  Catriona Cameron

  14

  SHILOH, NEW YORK

  16 October 1796

  To Seona Cameron

  Beachum Lane

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Dear Seona—

  I was delighted to receive your Letter dated 28 September (along with Catriona’s), but must hasten to assure that you need apologize for nothing, much less my conflicted sentiments at our parting. It is my most precious Memory of Gabriel, his calling me Da. I think of it with Joy, even if the distance still between us wrenches. Each time Mandy says a new word or masters some skill, I rejoice in my Daughter’s growth—and grieve over missing the same in my Son. How complicated a thing is Parenthood! While I celebrate each advancement Mandy makes, with it comes a pang at seeing her take another step away from me. Letting go, even in small measure, is bittersweet.

  In answer to your Query, the trees here did color up, as dazzling to the eye as those of Boston. Would that I could have painted a scene and posted it to you, but you would laugh at my efforts (recall that Lobster I attempted to sketch?). But do cease disparaging your writing. Have you any notion how improved is not only your Penmanship but your skill with Language? Please practice those skills, not only with News of my Family and Son, but also of yourself. Tell me what you think and feel. Even should it disappoint or wound me, I would know.

  Being mindful of Catriona’s interest in Matthew and Maggie MacGregor, I have some news to share on that front, related by Neil whilst he, Ally, and I spent several days splitting rails and putting up fencing to create a larger paddock for the Cows. Having lost both their white Father and Mohawk Mother, the p
air were adopted by Willa and Neil the year they married, 1784. How this came to be is a Tale of which I have as yet but the broadest strokes, but Catriona may be interested to know their Names in their Mother’s Tongue translate to Owl (Matthew) and Pine Bird (Maggie). Though shy in conversation with most outside her family, Maggie manages to stand before a cabin full of Children to teach. She has a fondness for Goats and makes a fine cheese from the produce of her herd. Matthew is a different sort, never shy to speak his mind, usually to be found with some Colt or Filly, gentling it to the saddle. The Lad can all but talk a Horse into doing his bidding.

  You asked what I refrained from saying that day on Copp’s Hill. As you expressed it, sometimes there is no way to come at a thing but straight on. Had I known the truth of your disappearance from Mountain Laurel after our handfasting, or that you carried my Child, I would not have married Judith. Yet she was my Wife. While in Boston, I knew I needed time to mourn her passing but found myself lost for words to express this to you. Why is it possible to tell you so with ink when, standing before you, I could not? Perhaps, as you say, we have time to consider before giving answer, though honesty compels I admit that here I am at the table I built yesterday, in our Cabin (roofed, daubed, doors and shutters hung) writing to you the very day I fetched your Letter home from Shiloh, where I took corn purchased in Cooperstown to be ground.

  Leaving Boston was painful, but you write that my leaving hurt you as well. In what way? The last thing I want is to cause you further Heartache, yet how could I have done otherwise, appearing unheralded, with Mandy a reminder of Judith, who I placed between us? There was never going to be an easy way through this, but I thought it best I remove to New York, to give us time to come to terms with things as they now are.

  Mandy has marked her second Year. She follows Naomi around the cabin-yard, liking best to feed the Chickens, each of which she has named. While I sit here scratching with my quill, Naomi has put her to bed (with a sleepy kiss for her Da). Ally has gone out to check the Stock, returned, and dropped into his bed. Malcolm has long since sought his, though I am not sure how well he sleeps with the pain his old bones give. Naomi bids me greet you all. She misses “that great sprawl of a Kitchen” at Beachum Lane. I shall have to build her one as grand, I see.

  My candle gutters. My own quilts call. Let the others read the parts of this Letter you feel at ease sharing, but keep the rest, those Matters of our Hearts, between yourself and your Obedient Servant—

  Ian Cameron

  Shiloh, New York

  Ian was late rising the morning after reading Seona’s letter, thanks to sitting up into the night, penning a reply. The evidence of insufficient sleep was reflected in the glass hung beside the cabin doorway, but as he scraped clean his stubbled cheeks, the stream of morning sunlight through the open door also revealed his undiminished satisfaction. With Ally and Malcolm both seeing to chores, Mandy out with Naomi gathering eggs for their breakfast skillet, he didn’t bother tamping down his grin.

  As he rinsed his razor in the basin, his gaze slid to his letter, left on the table. He had been too weary to melt the sealing wax last night. Good thing, he realized, as a cow’s lowing reached his ears. He had forgotten to share one of yesterday’s doings. Ally had acquired a fourth member of his herd, from Neil MacGregor, a newly weaned male calf he meant to raise up for a stud bull.

  Ally had broached the subject after hearing their neighbor talk of selling the calf. Approving the notion, Ian encouraged him to approach Neil, make an offer, and settle the details of the transaction. Having accepted Ally’s offer of labor in trade, Neil had brought the brindled calf with him yesterday when he came to help finish their fencing project. The calf seeming content with its lot, Ally had turned in for the night in the cabin, rather than sleeping out with the herd.

  Finished with his ablutions, Ian decided to snatch a moment and add the account to his letter, thinking Seona would appreciate hearing of Ally’s burgeoning entrepreneurial initiative. He had made the first careful trim of the quill with his penknife when the ruckus outside the cabin started up.

  The new calf’s bawling began it, joined by a cow’s deeper bellowing, with Ally shouting above the din.

  Ian abandoned knife and quill. Before he reached the door, there came a sound that all but froze him with dread: Mandy’s terrified cry.

  Outside the cabin he was met by pandemonium. One of their cows had broken free of the new paddock. Ally was lunging about, attempting to secure it. Or so Ian thought at first glance. A second disabused him of the presumption. It wasn’t one of their cows but the new calf’s brindled dam, loose from MacGregor’s pasture and rampaging about their yard, attempting to reunite with her offspring on the other side of the rail fence.

  More alarming was what Ian saw outside the henhouse, mere steps away from the frantic cow’s lethal hooves—Naomi bending to scoop Mandy off the ground.

  “Angels, save us!” she cried. Faster than Ian would have thought possible, she sprinted for the cabin, Mandy screaming in her arms. Ian’s brain screamed too—for him to get out there and halt the unfolding calamity. Fearing his girl trampled, his knees had gone weak.

  A grip on his arm startled him. He hadn’t noticed Malcolm’s approach. “Mandy’s no’ taken hurt. But Lord help us with these cows!”

  The old man’s laughter jarred Ian from his paralyzing fright, just as Naomi reached them and he saw she and Mandy were dusty and shaken but whole.

  “Mister Ian!” Ally bellowed from the yard. “Help! We got to catch this mama cow afore—!”

  Even as Ally shouted, the brindled cow rammed the fence. Poles splintered inward, where her calf danced about, inciting further demonstrations of maternal devotion. Ian sprinted into the scene, mind racing for a solution, but in the end neither he nor Ally proved nimble or daring enough to get between that plunging cow and her calf.

  “We gonna lose the fence and all them cows!” Ally shouted. “What we—whoa!”

  In a black-and-white blur, a soul both nimble and daring had arrived on the scene—Neil MacGregor’s collie, Scotchbonnet, though of her master there was nary a sign. Halting their ineffectual dodging about, they stood back as the collie waded in.

  Ian had seen such dogs at their work before, with sheep as well as cattle, and knew what they could accomplish with a creeping stalk, a steady gaze, and a force of will wholly out of proportion to their frames.

  Normally a slender creature, Scotch was heavy-bellied with a litter of pups soon to whelp. Her impending circumstance notwithstanding, in seconds she had the cow backed off the fence far enough for Ian and Ally to get between and set to right the cracked rails, preventing the calf and the rest of their agitated herd from spilling into the yard. Ally did his best to talk calm into bovine brains, while Scotch proceeded to force her errant charge back toward its proper abode, with Naomi, Mandy, and Malcolm watching from the cabin door-yard.

  It was then Neil MacGregor arrived, alerted to trouble upon riding in from a medical call. “Which took me from home in the wee hours,” he explained once the dust had settled, crouching to give his good dog’s ears a fondling. “I spotted Scotch here heading down the track and, surmising what must be afoot, rode after my canny wee lass.”

  Naomi slipped the dog a strip of venison, smoked days ago. Then Neil and Scotchbonnet took their brindled escapee home, Neil promising to secure her until maternal anxieties abated. “An rud a théid fad o’n t-sùil; théid e fad o’n chridhe,” he said in parting, at which Ian and Malcolm chuckled but Ally and Naomi gave puzzled looks.

  “Out o’ sight, out o’ mind,” Malcolm loosely translated.

  “Or heart,” Ian added, smile fading when thought of Gabriel tightened his chest. “Let’s shore up that fence, Ally.”

  As the smell of frying bacon wafted from the cabin, they set to replacing the damaged rails.

  Pausing for Ian to lift the final rail into place, Ally swiped off his hat to mop his sweating brow. “This’ll teach me to let a critter li
e out on its own, first night away from its mama.”

  “That’s sound thinking in general,” Ian replied. “But somehow I doubt it would have made a difference had ye let that calf lay its head in your lap the night through.”

  Pursing his lips in thought, Ally shoved a leaning post upright while Ian packed its base with earth.

  Ally stood back, blew a gusting breath, and with the first tone of rebuke Ian had ever heard him use, added, “You never warned me how taxing it be, Mister Ian, being my own master. Means I the one got to think of every little thing, don’t it?”

  “Aye, Ally, it often seems so,” Ian agreed, just managing not to laugh. “So what shall we do to prevent this happening again?” He fully expected a commitment to sleeping out with the calf from then on.

  Screwing up a frown, Ally gave the question a ponder; then his broad features brightened. “I’m gonna get me one of them collie pups, soon as it’s born. Their mama’s smarter than us two put together.”

  Ian did laugh then. He couldn’t help it. Nor had he the heart to tell Ally that collies weren’t born as canny-wise as Scotch but must be taught the business. Still, as they made their way back to the cabin for their breakfast, he slid the man a sidelong glance, deciding Ally was equal to the challenge—and that he had just been handed a far more entertaining postscriptum to share with Seona.

  After receiving a letter from John Reynold and another payment in gold, Ian had undertaken a hasty trip to Cooperstown before snow fell in earnest, making the roads impassable without a sleigh, a conveyance he had yet to construct. With William Cooper attending Congress in Philadelphia, he had dealt instead with Moss Kent, a young lawyer lodged with the family, who afterward invited him along the village street to a nearby tavern.