The Heart's Stronghold

by Amanda Barratt

  Did Boone realize how many lives were at stake here? How much depended on his actions? Of course he did. Boone knew these people, had dwelt with them and respected them. If anyone could see them through, ’twould be he.

  “I have here a letter from Governor Hamilton.” Blackfish held out a folded sheet of paper, the rich stationery creased and wrinkled.

  Boone reached out and took it. The Indian forces stood around in a circle, arms folded, eyes buttonholed by the painted designs on their faces.

  Silas leaned over Boone’s shoulder and quickly scanned the letter’s contents. In so many words, it reiterated Boone’s promise to surrender Boonesborough without a battle, and stated Governor Hamilton’s guarantee of safe passage for all who surrendered and came willingly to Detroit. The British would compensate for lost property and allow those at the fort who held American military rank to receive the equivalent rank in the British forces. But if the settlers did not surrender, they would have the Shawnee to deal with, and whatever happened to them was out of the governor’s hands.

  A slow burn twisted through Silas. How could they make such a decision? Death by Shawnee hands or surrender to the British?

  With admirable calm, Boone handed the letter back to Blackfish. Bedecked in the finery befitting his rank—silver earrings, red ochre painted over the top half of his face, a ruffled shirt of snowy white, and a braided belt of red and black—the tall, muscled chief made a fearsome sight, sitting straight and cross-legged on the colorful blanket.

  “And this”—Blackfish held up a belt of multicolored wampum—“is my letter to Boonesborough.” He passed the belt into Boone’s hands. It was finely worked, containing three trails of beads. “The red represents the warpath.” Blackfish pointed to the strand of red. “The white is the path of peace we take together, back to Detroit. And the black”—Blackfish pointed again—“represents the death you will all die if you do not surrender.”

  Silas stared at the belt. The three paths they must choose from. In color as stark as it was vivid, lay their options.

  “You decide.” Blackfish jabbed a finger toward the belt. “You decide which path to take.”

  Boone nodded. He even smiled slightly. “I will surely do that,” he answered in fluent Shawnee. “But my decision will take time. I must needs consult with others at the fort. I’ve only recently returned. While I’ve been away, others have assumed my command.”

  Blackfish offered a nod. “Do that. But while you talk, my people are hungry.”

  Boone gestured to the cattle and corn in the nearby fields. “Take what you need. I only ask that you treat what we have as you would treat what is yours and not waste it.”

  Blackfish expressed his thanks. Looking around at the group of Indians and British soldiers, Silas wasn’t so sure any of them had gratitude on their minds. Blood lust, yes. Victory, yes. But gratitude? Not likely.

  Boone stood. As they had upon their arrival, Boone and Blackfish shook hands. The chief motioned to a young Shawnee brave, who strode inside the arbor, returning with a bundle wrapped in deer hide. He handed the bundle to Blackfish, who passed it solemnly to Boone. Silas swatted away a pesky fly as Boone took the bundle.

  “Cured buffalo tongues. A delicacy for your women,” said Blackfish.

  “Many thanks,” Boone answered.

  The chief turned to Silas, offering his hand. Silas shook it, his fingers enveloped in a grip of steel. His hand ached after Blackfish drew away.

  In silence, steps measured and slow, they returned to the fort. Silas sensed the gazes of those in the fort and those in the peach orchard on them, eyeing their journey. The former willing them safe passage. The latter? What thoughts ran through their minds, Silas could not be certain.

  Once the gates were barred behind them, Boone faced the swarm of settlers. He passed the bundle of meat to Jemima.

  “Take these to my cabin, Daughter. Chief Blackfish was kind enough to offer us a gift of buffalo tongue.”

  “Chuck it in the fire, girl!” shouted Richard Callaway. “It’s likely poisoned.”

  Chin jutted, Jemima shot him a look as fiery as her hair and strode toward her father’s cabin.

  “Men, we’ll gather in the blockhouse and discuss Blackfish’s proposal.” Backdropped by the high log walls, Boone spoke in a clear, loud voice, steady in tone and manner despite the fact that not all eyes looked to him favorably. “Meeting will commence in half an hour. We’ll determine our course of action and take it from there.”

  Beside him, Silas faced the crowd of settlers. Young and old, male and female, strong and feeble. Good man and wastrel alike. People who had wagered much to travel to this great frontier, seeking freedom and riches, a parcel of land to call their own, a new beginning. The future rested in their hands.

  And God’s. Silas sent a silent prayer heavenward that somehow the fort and its inhabitants might be saved.

  Rosina stood on the fringes of the group alongside some older women, listening to Boone. Her forehead furrowed in a look more pondering than fearful.

  Everything in him wanted to race to her side. If the worst happened, and the men were killed and the women taken captive, he’d not want regrets for her to remember. He’d want her to know how much he still loved her—no matter what had happened between her and Jeremiah. What import was that now?

  After the meeting, he’d tell her. Voice the words he’d kept inside his heart. He’d offer them, and himself, to be her own as long as they both had breath in their lungs.

  Aye, now was no time to wait for tomorrow.

  ’Twas today or never.

  Chapter 8

  The storm was coming. Rosina could sense it. It remained to be seen when the first clap of thunder would strike, the maiden streak of lightning slash the sky.

  But it approached. Of that there could be no doubt.

  The men had been closeted inside the main blockhouse for over an hour. Rosina kept to Jemima’s cabin, watching over Chloe and some of the other children, mindful of the Shawnee only a short distance outside the fort.

  She sat in the rocker by the hearth and distractedly read aloud from a storybook while the children listened, clustered on the cabin floor with rapt expressions on their grimy faces. The dim interior of the cabin was stifling with so many bodies cramped within, the odor of sweat permeating the air.

  If she couldn’t do something different soon, she was going to go crazy.

  Blessedly, Peggy arrived. The new bride’s cheeks were spots of color against her pale face. Her eyes shone with barely tamped-down terror. Rosina put her to work showing the children how to make a puppet out of an old sock and slipped from the cabin as soon as they were occupied.

  A strange kind of stillness hovered over the fort. Most of the men were at the blockhouse meeting, and nary a cabin door was left ajar to let out some of the cloying heat. Moving as quickly as the bulk of her child would allow, Rosina crossed toward the blockhouse. Her breath came in short bursts, strands of hair escaping her hastily woven braid.

  As she neared, the door swung open, and the men emerged single file. She stepped back into the midafternoon shadows and tried to read their expressions as they exited. She noted Flanders Callaway, who ducked out the door and clapped his hat atop his head with the expression of one out to vanquish the world.

  Minutes passed. Men left and crossed the fort. Still, Rosina waited. Finally, Silas strode from the blockhouse. She stepped forward in his path. He looked up. Their eyes met. She tried to read his.

  Weariness. Worry. Fear. But overshadowing them all, another emotion. One she wished did not live in his fathomless eyes.

  He approached her. With steadfast bravery, he’d accompanied Boone out of the fort this morning. She’d been close enough to hear the murmurs from those standing by, sentences like “There’s the last we’ll see of them” and “Fools, the both of them.”

  “I was just about to go in search of you.” A softness that seemed at odds with the harsh reality around them threaded
his voice.

  “Why?” She wove her fingers together behind her back.

  “Can we … might we speak privately?”

  She drew in a breath. The air held the tang of smoke from the cooking fires of those beyond the fort. Supper for those within Boonesborough would likely be naught more than a square of cold corn cake. “I … I suppose so.”

  “Thank you.” Placing a hand against the small of her back, he started in the direction of his cabin. His touch was not heavy or possessive. More guide than command, the gesture that of a gentleman.

  “What happened?” She looked up at him as they walked, his moccasined strides matching hers, the sun high and beating mercilessly.

  “Many think Boone is a traitor and that he wishes to surrender fort and settlers without a fight.” Bitterness tinged Silas’s words. “ ’Twas not a peaceable meeting.”

  They passed several of the men on the way to their cabins. All wore grim expressions.

  “What do you think?”

  “Boone’s aim was to try for a delay. A semblance of peace while we await reinforcements. He tried to talk sense into the men, to explain to them the size of the army we’re up against, but it was no good. Boone asked for those who favored surrender to turn out or speak up. Then Callaway vowed he’d kill the first man who agreed to surrender.”

  Surrender. The word crept down her spine, chilling her. “Did you say anything?”

  Silas rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I said we should try and stall for a few more days, but that I’d be prepared to fight if it came down to it. Squire declared he would fight to the death, as did others. There were some pretty speeches.” He chuckled, a dry sound. “In the end, when the vote was taken, it was unanimous. Stand our ground and fight. All Boone could get them to promise was to arrange another parlay with Blackfish in an attempt to stall.” They’d reached Silas’s cabin. He placed a hand on the door, turning back to her.

  “Come inside,” he said quietly.

  She did so, following him in, eyes adjusting to the dimness. The fort gossips hopefully had more pressing matters on their minds than observing a widow and an unmarried man going off alone together. She stood in the center of the cabin, hands knotted at her waist, while Silas lit a stub of a candle, the scent of tallow permeating the air.

  Why did he seek her out? For that matter, why did he want anything to do with her at all? By all appearances, she’d forsaken him. Could his goodness truly extend to giving grace for something such as that?

  He moved to the mantel and stood, head bent, one hand resting on the wood. She bit her lip. What battle was he fighting? The struggle with Blackfish? Or did something else tear at him?

  He looked up. In a single stride, he crossed the distance between them, gathering her hands in his. His scent overwhelmed her. The candle sputtered. A heaviness filled the air between them.

  “I know not who will come out victorious in the struggle that lies ahead. Boone is the finest of commanders, but we’re outnumbered five to one, if not more.” His gaze delved into hers. A strand of hair fell across his forehead as he bent his head toward her. “If … if the worst happens, I don’t want regrets between us. I don’t know why you married Jeremiah when you did. I reckon it’s not my place to ask you. But you’re here now. Marry me, Rosina. I love you. I believe at times I’ve half gone off my head for love of you. Please. Let us promise ourselves to each other. If the worst comes, at least we’ll have that promise.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She turned away from him, unable to look him in the face. Nay, he didn’t know why she’d become the bride of Jeremiah Whiting. He couldn’t know. How would he view her if he did?

  She’d allowed herself to treasure thoughts of him in the secret places of her mind, but it could not go beyond that. If she told him the truth, and they survived whatever lay ahead, he’d want nothing to do with her. She was ruined. Forced into marriage because she was no longer chaste. Unworthy to be the wife of a man of honor like Silas Longridge. She was sullied, a piece of linen no longer white. He wouldn’t want her. And she wasn’t sure if she could live with herself after hearing from his lips that he did not.

  She turned back, trembling from head to foot. He regarded her, pain lancing his expression, as if he knew her answer before she spoke it.

  “I cannot promise myself to you.” Tears sped down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

  “Why not?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Do you not care for me?”

  “I …” The anguish in his gaze made her long to give him something. Perhaps this week would see the destruction of Boonesborough and its inhabitants, and the memory of any words they spoke would vanish along with their earthly selves. In that case, could she not offer him a ray of hope? Just a little one? “I do care for you. But … ’tis too soon. After Jeremiah.”

  “You loved him then?” His tone was a hoarse whisper of disbelief.

  She let silence be her answer.

  He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, chest falling in a weighty sigh. Like a man stricken. Felled by the blow of her words.

  Guilt wracked her insides.

  “I beg you. Let us not talk of this now,” she hastened. “Not when everything is so uncertain. I want to help. Tell me what I can do.” She brushed a hand against his forearm. Strength emanated from him, in each muscle and sinew. Strength … and a wound that she had caused.

  “Do?” His brow furrowed.

  For now, the defense of Boonesborough was all that mattered. Best to leave the luxury of woes of the heart until that had passed. The decision emboldened her. “I can aim true. Jemima says that women must don men’s garb and man the loopholes. To give the appearance of more men at the fort than what there truly are.” Her words tumbled over each other.

  He shook his head. “In your condition, you’d best keep to the cabins.”

  She lifted her chin. “If the fort is taken, my condition will matter little to our captors. Let me help. I promise you’ll find me a good shot.”

  He seemed about to refuse, then something in his expression broke, and he gave a grudging nod. “If it comes to an exchange of fire, aye, you can join the rest. But only if you promise to take the place I give you and do exactly as you’re told.”

  Rosina nodded. “I will.”

  He swallowed, face lined and, right now, aged beyond his years. She forced aside the longing to take him into her arms and hold him close. “For now, let’s pray to God it doesn’t come to that. For all our sakes.”

  Monday evening passed in a haze as sticky as the September heat. Silas and Captain Boone parlayed with Blackfish once more. Rosina had waited in the cabin, relegated to caring for some of the littlest children, to hear the results. Jemima returned and told her that Blackfish requested an answer to Hamilton’s letter, but Boone and Silas managed to buy more time for negotiations among the fort inhabitants and gain permission for the women to go outside the fort to collect water without fear of reprisal. In return, the Indians could continue to help themselves to cattle and crops for food. A tidy arrangement.

  But the Shawnee and British were running out of patience. They’d come to take Boonesborough, not wait around at the settlers’ convenience. Jemima said her pa told her Blackfish’s gaze had taken on a cold, calculating gleam. This would be the final delay.

  Rosina slept little that Monday night, curled beside Chloe on the cornhusk mattress, the little girl’s even breaths a reassuring cadence. Jemima and Flanders didn’t come to bed until after midnight. Rosina reckoned they were with Boone, helping to prepare the fort’s defenses. She’d offered to help in any way, but over and over Jemima cautioned her to stay inside and watch over the children. Thus, she did, most of Tuesday morning. But the inactivity of the task chafed, despite its needfulness, and she escaped the cabin midmorning. Outside the cabin door, a breeze soothed her flushed cheeks, and she rested one hand against her middle as she took in the sights around her.

  ’Twas a fortification making r
eady for battle. Men stood at intervals below and along the walls, eyeing the Indians’ encampment. Several young men, Flanders Callaway included, bent their backs to the task of digging a well near the center of the fort. Sweat streamed down their dirty faces. Truly though, water would be of the utmost importance, as the well already within the fort gave little water.

  A few women strode purposefully toward the smithy carrying armfuls of metal bowls and utensils to be melted into bullets. Rosina spied two lithe-looking young men carrying rifles. One of them pushed back his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a familiar sunburned face.

  Why, ’twas Betsy Callaway, dressed as a boy. And her sister, Fanny. Both of the girls had been good friends of hers and Jemima’s, and had been captured along with Jemima in the summer of 1776 and rescued by Boone and a party of other men. Rosina would’ve been among them by the creek that day had her father not insisted she remain inside that Sabbath afternoon and mend his waistcoat.

  Now the girls marched back and forth in front of the gates, likely to make their invaders believe there were a greater number of men within the stockade. Doubtless, Jemima was somewhere in the fort doing the same or some other important task for preparation.

  Rosina pressed her lips together. And here she’d been relegated to tending the children, a task that could be performed by the older women too feeble to be of active help.

  Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d find Jemima or Silas and demand to be given a task.

  Shouting sounded in the distance. Rosina stiffened. A scattering of others headed toward the fort gates as the call came again. She followed them, skirt trailing in the kicked-up dust. Heat baked her head, and she stood pressed up next to an elderly man. His eyes were squints in his liver-spotted face, and he reeked of unwashed skin and garments. As they all likely did.

  “Boone!” Rosina recognized the voice of the dark-skinned man who’d borne the white flag of truce. It rang across the pickets, landing on all ears. Doubtless he stood within fifty yards of the fort entrance. “Chief Blackfish and his warriors wish to see your women.”