by Sara Donati
“It will not be an easy life in the west but I think, if you decide you want to go with him, he will be a good husband.”
In a tone that bordered on anger Hannah said, “That’s what I think too.”
This hung for a long minute in the air, as bright and untouchable as the dragonflies that played over the lake. Then a voice called down from the forest, a long hiiii-eeeee! of greeting.
“Otter,” said Elizabeth. “And Strikes-the-Sky with him. I should go in now and see to supper if we have to be at the trading post by seven.”
Strikes-the-Sky had a cut over his left eye that he had pressed closed with a handful of yarrow leaves. Sitting on a stool, he let Hannah examine the damage, his gaze fixed firmly on nothing at all, his hands resting on his knees. His breathing was deep and steady.
“To let yourself get caught in the face by a branch,” she said grimly, pulling out the yarrow’s delicate leaves. “You must have been daydreaming.”
Strikes-the-Sky grunted and said nothing at all.
“You could have lost an eye.”
“And yet I did not. I can see very well, Walks-Ahead, and what I see is that you’re in a poor temper today. Trouble in the village?”
As she worked she told him about Eulalia Wilde, leaving nothing out. When she was finished he was quiet for a long time and then he said, “This evening I will burn some tobacco for her. To guide her to the shadowlands.”
What a relief it was not to hear false hopes and the promise of healing through prayer. Hannah wanted to thank him, but she did not trust her own voice. Instead she said, “You will need three stitches, maybe four. It will hurt.”
“You sound as if you like the idea,” said Strikes-the-Sky, grinning without moving his head to look at her.
“Of course I don’t like the idea. That would be—”
“Mean-spirited? Inappropriate? Wrong?”
She hushed him with an impatient look and got only a grin for her trouble.
Inappropriate. The word struck a nerve, because it made her nervous to stand so close to him bare-legged, in a damp doeskin overdress. For the most part he had seen her only in O’seronni dress. What arguments they had had about calico and brocade and silk; how he had enjoyed goading her, and how little she had been able to resist that goading.
Now she stood next to him, for the first time in Kahnyen’kehàka dress and he said nothing at all. Which of course was what she wanted.
She was close enough to feel the warm hush of his breathing on her damp skin as she worked. Hannah understood very well what the fist in her gut meant; she knew that her body was responding even if her heart and mind were not yet ready. She looked around for Strong-Words, or for her father, but there was no sign of anyone who might have rescued her from her own feelings.
They were alone on the porch, although the door to the cabin stood open and they could hear Elizabeth moving from table to hearth and back again, the sounds of a knife on a cutting board and water being poured. From the cornfield where the rest of the women and children were at work voices and song drifted to them. Hannah thought briefly of calling for Lily to assist by passing the instruments she would need.
Coward, she whispered to herself.
Hannah focused on the contents of her medicine box and chose the bottle she needed. She took a curved suture needle and fine strong thread from the instrument case.
“Tilt back your head all the way, and don’t move it until I tell you. I’m going to wash the wound out.”
One corner of his mouth drew down sharply when the infusion of blackberry and winterbloom ran into the wound, but otherwise Strikes-the-Sky did exactly as she told him without complaint or question.
“There,” she said as she tied the last stitch, and as if she had said now, he raised his hands and rested them on her hips. It was the first time he had touched her since the night by the side of the lake; it was the first time any man had touched her this way, and it made her catch her breath.
“Walks-Ahead,” he said softly. “I have something important to tell you.”
She was shaking; she knew he could feel it. Strikes-the-Sky drew her down to sit on the stool next to his own. His hands were back on his knees, and Hannah found that she could not look away from them.
He said, “Today we met a friend of yours deep in the forest. He cannot show himself, but he sends you a message.”
Hannah blinked in surprise. “A friend of mine?”
“Almanzo Freeman.”
“Manny?” Hannah repeated, her voice going hoarse and unfamiliar. “Manny is hiding in the forest? But why?”
Strikes-the-Sky said, “Here is the message. Tonight all of the blacks in the village, free or slave, will be in the trading post to be vaccinated. You must make sure that all of your people are there too. All of them. You must vaccinate the blacks first, and then keep them all there until you hear two gunshots, one after the other. Do whatever you have to do to make sure that none of the blacks and none of your people leave before they hear the shots. Anyone who is not in the trading post at the time the shots are fired might be accused of what is going to happen.”
He recited this message in an easy tone, but his eyes never left hers.
“Do you understand, Walks-Ahead?”
“Yes. I understand. Is there any way to stop what is coming?”
“No,” said Strikes-the-Sky. “And if there were I wouldn’t tell you.”
Hannah was quiet while she cleaned her suture needle and put her medicine box back in order. One part of her wanted to be angry with Strikes-the-Sky, but another part, the bigger part, was thankful for his watchful silence and for his help.
If Manny was nearby he knew about Selah and about Reuben both, and he would want the one thing that he would never be granted. Manny wanted justice, but he would have to settle for revenge. It was the kind of reasoning that would have shocked Elizabeth not so very long ago.
But not now; not after Selah.
Hannah looked up from her instrument case and found Strikes-the-Sky watching her. She said, “I will do what I can.” And then: “You will be at the trading post this evening, I take it.”
He tilted his head at her. “Yes. I’ll be there to walk you home when you’re done.”
“I can walk myself home, thank you.” She sounded prim and prissy to her own ears, but he did not laugh at her outright, as she expected him to.
“Not anymore,” he said. “Tonight you must not walk alone, not anywhere.”
“I need to talk to Manny,” said Hannah. “You tell him that, tell him that I have to speak to him.”
Strikes-the-Sky nodded and turned away, but not before Hannah saw the flicker of doubt that moved across his face.
Chapter 38
Neither Otter nor Strikes-the-Sky came to supper and so it fell to Hannah to tell the tale, something that she didn’t much enjoy, as far as Nathaniel could see.
When she was done there was a small silence and then Lily spoke up, putting words to what everybody was thinking but didn’t want to say.
“But how in the bejeezus—”
“Lily.”
“Sorry, Mama—but how are you supposed to get everybody to the trading post in the first place, sister? Did anybody tell you that?”
“I expect that question’s already been taken care of,” said Nathaniel mildly. “Manny wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. Not with the stakes so high.”
Lily sat back suddenly, understanding crossing her face and worry following close behind. “Do you think—Strong-Words might be helping?”
“Maybe,” Hannah said, too lightly. “It would make some sense.”
Elizabeth tapped the table with one finger, looking from her husband to her father-in-law with narrowed eyes. “Why do I have the sense that this whole affair comes as no surprise to the two of you?”
Hawkeye grunted softly. “Manny’s been in these parts three, four days at least, judging by his tracks. We figured when he was ready he’d show himself
.”
“Why is he hiding?” asked Lily, looking from face to face. “Why doesn’t he just come home?”
“There’s a price on his head,” said Hannah. “That’s why.”
“He is alone?”
It was the question Nathaniel had dreaded, and it came from Elizabeth. He looked her in the eye and lied.
“As far as I saw,” he said.
Lily said, “I hate it when people won’t say straight-out what’s on their minds. Da, what’s going on?”
Elizabeth shot Nathaniel an irritated look. “Yes, I have to agree. For our own safety we need to know exactly what it is you’re planning.”
Nathaniel pushed his empty plate away from him and leaned back in his chair. His wife and daughters were angry and scared, but there was no easy way to calm their fears—or his own.
He said, “Well, Boots, the plain truth is, I’m not planning anything at all except seeing that we all keep safe. So I want you to listen close. Once we leave for the trading post none of you is to move farther than three steps from me or Hawkeye. There’s trouble afoot, but if you stick close you’ll stay clear of it. Now before you take another chunk out of me, Elizabeth, I’ll say this much: I don’t know what it is that Manny’s got planned, and I ain’t about to sit here and guess either.” He paused, and when Elizabeth had nothing to say, he cleared his throat and went on.
“We’ll go down to the village like we said and we’ll let Hannah here take the virus from these pretty blisters on our arms, and when she’s done with the vaccinating, why, we’ll come on home again. That’s the plan, for the moment, or the best I can do, anyway.”
Elizabeth looked only vaguely mollified, but she nodded anyway.
Nathaniel pushed back from the table. “I’ll go have a word with Many-Doves and Pines-Rustling now. Be ready to leave in ten minutes.”
Hannah’s first worry was that nobody would show up to be vaccinated, but even before they came in view of the trading post the sound of voices put those fears to rest. The place was crowded, but whether that was good news or bad wasn’t clear; some folks didn’t seem to want to meet her eye, while others called out greetings in voices too loud and hearty. She threaded her way through the crowd, nodding at some and speaking a few words to others. There was a fine humming tension in the air, like swarming bees in the distance, but it wasn’t until she was in the middle of the room that she saw the reason.
All of the blacks from the village stood there, slave or free, as Strikes-the-Sky had promised. All except Curiosity and Galileo. How strange it was to miss someone so fiercely and still to be glad they were safely somewhere else.
There was no talking or laughing among the blacks; their expressions ranged from fright to numb watchfulness. Cookie nodded at Hannah briskly, and the others followed her example.
Richard Todd was here already too, although there was no sign of Kitty or Ethan. He had his back to her as he made notations in the record book he had laid down on the top of a barrel of salt pork. The instruments they would need had been spread out neatly on a tray—by Bump, Hannah saw now—who was busy lining up ivory vaccinators. He paused to swing his head toward her and smile.
Richard straightened finally, grunted a greeting in Hannah’s direction, and wiped his ink-stained fingers on a piece of linen he had draped over his shoulder.
“Time to get started!” he called out, loud enough to be heard on the porch and in the tavern too. “Those of you with eight-day blisters, step forward and roll up your sleeves. Those of you waiting to be vaccinated, you step back now until we need you. You too, Cookie, all of you. Just wait over there, it’ll be a few minutes before we can start.”
With the room so crowded it took a few minutes until the eight-day people could make their way to Richard: seven of Hannah’s family from Lake in the Clouds, Jane McGarrity, Solange Hench, and Nicholas Wilde. Nicholas was pale and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes, but Hannah was surprised to see him here at all.
He caught her glance and said, “Mrs. Cunningham is sitting with my sister. I’d be thankful if you could take care of me first so I can get back to her, Miss Bonner.” His tone as gentle and polite as ever; there was nothing of accusation in his tone or expression, but sorrow had already dug in deep. Richard didn’t believe in giving families false hope, and he had told Nicholas Wilde straight-out how poor his sister’s chances were.
Hannah did as he asked, listening as she worked to Richard as he answered a question Jed McGarrity had asked about the vaccinators. For once Hannah was thankful for Richard’s gruff, efficient manner that made short work of gathering the virus from one person after another. Most of all she was thankful not to be alone just now in a room full of doubtful and worried people.
She was focused on catching the clear liquid from the blister on her father’s right arm when Richard faced the room again.
“We’re just about ready here. Roll up your sleeves, both arms, as high as they’ll go, and line up. Cookie, we’ll start with your folks so you can get back to work.”
An irritable voice rose from the back of the room.
“Dr. Todd! Are you planning on vaccinating them niggers without the widow’s permission? And why in the hell ain’t her man Dye here? Something ain’t right.”
Standing just beside her, Hannah’s father put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Steady now,” he said softly. “Let Richard take care of it.”
“That you talking, Tim Courtney?” Richard snapped.
A tall man as thin and knobby as old rope pushed forward from the crowd. “It is. And I ask again what right these slaves have to be here unless their rightful owner has sent them. Which don’t seem likely, you’ll have to agree.”
“You here to be vaccinated, Courtney?”
The long face tightened. “May chance I am, may chance I ain’t. What’s that got to do with those slaves standing there?”
“I’ll tell you. Anybody wanting to be vaccinated is welcome here. Anybody. If you’re not planning on rolling up your sleeves, then you just shut your gob and get out. If you think it’s your duty to go talk to the widow, why you do that.
“If you are here to get vaccinated, why then shut up anyway and mind your own business or I’ll throw you out of here myself.”
There was an uneasy murmuring in the room as people watched Tim Courtney for his reaction. He might take up the challenge just for the joy of it—he was a known brawler—but on the other hand he wasn’t full drunk yet, and common sense might still prevail. Richard Todd had fifty pounds on him, and as mean as Courtney might be, the doctor in a fighting mood was worse, and everybody knew it.
Levi cleared his throat nervously. “Dr. Todd?”
“Yes?” Richard turned, still scowling.
He spoke with his gaze riveted on the floor. “It was Mr. Dye told us to come down and get vaccinated. Said he didn’t want to lose valuable slaves to no pox and we was all to get scratched this evening. If Mr. Courtney wants to ask, Mr. Dye will tell him. Last we saw the overseer he was going into his quarters at the mill, like he do every evening after supper.”
There was a moment’s silence. Richard turned back to Courtney. “Does that satisfy you, or are you going up to the mill to ask?”
Courtney hesitated for three beats of Hannah’s heart, and then he threw up a hand in surrender and shouldered his way to the back of the crowd.
“Let’s get a move on, then,” Richard said. “There must be forty people here.”
Hannah turned in surprise. She hadn’t bothered to count, but there were that many people here and maybe more, a third of them children. All of them rolling up their sleeves, all of them waiting to be vaccinated.
Just behind her Elizabeth said, “You see, you won them over.”
And her father: “They’re here because they trust you, daughter. Best get started.”
Hannah gestured to Cookie, and picked up a lancet.
The first lesson Jemima Southern Kuick learned that evening while most of Paradi
se was filing into the trading post was a simple but bitter one: no matter how carefully a person might plan and scheme, something was bound to get in the way, or as her mother had been fond of saying: man proposes and God disposes.
She had come so far and managed so much and still here she sat on her mother-in-law’s confounded Turkey carpet, bound hand and foot. It was only her anger that kept fear from getting the upper hand; that, and her pride. Mother Kuick might snivel and howl, but she would not.
To Jemima’s right was her husband, pale, his hair disheveled and a cut over his cheekbone bleeding freely; to her left her mother-in-law rocked and moaned and sang snatches of bible verse. Just beyond her were Becca and Georgia, both of them as still and cold as stone.
And in front of them, sitting in the widow’s own rocker with a primed musket in one hand and a tomahawk in the other, was a tar-black man Jemima had never seen before. He was young, tall, broad of shoulder, well armed, and dressed from his moccasined feet to the crown of his shaved scalp like a Mohawk on the warpath. Streaks of red gleamed under each eye.
“Speak to him in French,” the widow hissed at her son. “Try French. Offer him anything he wants.” She sent a skittery sidelong glance in Jemima’s direction, and licked her lips. “Tell him you’ll show him the strongbox.” This last came out in a hoarse whisper, and Jemima knew exactly why: every penny that belonged to the Kuicks was in that strongbox, hidden someplace that even Jemima had never been able to find.
“Mother,” Isaiah said with a calm weariness. “I tried French. I tried English and German. If he speaks any of those languages he will not speak them to me.”
The black eyes watched them without a hint of interest in the conversation, and still Jemima wasn’t convinced that he didn’t understand every word.
The widow said, “Then you must try to rush him, Isaiah. The Lord will guide your hand.”