by Laura Frantz
One foot on the porch and she paused. Dare she go in? Replace her treasured memories with tarnished ones? Swiping at a spiderweb, she stood in the yawning doorway, breathing in dust and disuse.
Little remained inside but a bat in a high eave. Slowly, Tessa walked the edges of the dwelling, at last kneeling in one shadowed corner. Marysee’s rag doll? Or Annika’s? Her fingers closed around it, and she struggled to stay stoic. Leaning her rifle against a log wall, she caressed the worn fabric and faded embroidered face.
Lord, help Keturah. Bring her back to her family.
’Twas a prayer she had prayed for so long it seemed rote as arithmetic. Keturah’s family was not here but somewhere overmountain. Inexplicably they’d left the settlement not long after their daughter’s disappearance. To protect their other children, Ma always said.
Without thought, she reached for one of the few remaining things in the cabin. A cobwebbed broom. The floor was littered with last autumn’s leaves swept in by the wind. She swept them out again, though some crumbled to dust, and then she closed the door behind her, her gun in hand, the doll in her pocket.
Three days into the journey, Clay traded the river valley for a ridge, glad for the shade and invisibility. Moccasin tracks—a party of six all told—along a rushing creek the day before had led to a cold camp last night and today’s wary heights.
Jude had gone ahead on foot, his horse tethered at the end of the column. Few could outfox Jude. With Miss Braam behind him, Maddie came last. She preferred walking to riding and did so now, acting as rear guard. Tireless, keen-sighted, she seemed twin to Jude.
Clay took advantage of the near privacy to speak to Keturah Braam. In English. On foot beside her mare, he never let his gaze settle as he kept watch, pitching his voice purposefully low.
“We’re halfway to the Buckhannon River, where I believe you once lived.” He spoke slowly, giving her time to adjust to the fact he would not resort to Lenape. “Might behoove you to talk the white talk. Father . . . Mother.”
Though he didn’t look at her, he sensed she understood some of what he said, her lovely face at first clouded with confusion and then clearing.
“Kahèsëna Hàki?” Her voice was pleasing, even delicate, with that whistling lilt peculiar to the Lenape.
“Mata.” Nay. He continued slowly. “Not our mother earth.”
“Kahèsëna Xàskwim?”
A smile pulled at him. Was she . . . teasing? “Mata,” he said again. “Not our mother corn.”
Her gaze held his unflinchingly when he said, “Anati.” Dear mother. There was no mistaking it, the tender word still sweet, though he’d not tasted it for years.
She gave a cursory nod, erasing any playfulness of before. And then, as if wanting to please him, she said slowly and unmistakably in English, “Mo-ther.”
He repeated it if only to reinforce it. Would she even recognize her birth mother with so many years and experiences between them?
His thoughts veered to Colonel Bouquet’s wrenching release of Indian captives years before. One circumstance rode roughshod over all the rest. Taken as a little child, one young woman looked forlornly at the strange white faces waiting to claim lost kin. No hint of recognition stirred on either side. Someone finally suggested the mother sing a hymn. The poignant words were easily recalled.
Alone, yet not alone, am I,
Though in this solitude so drear;
I feel my Savior always nigh,
He comes the weary hours to cheer.
I am with Him, and He with me,
Even here alone I cannot be.
Before the song had ended, the tearful captive had flung herself into her aging mother’s arms. The words and image had clung to him ever since.
Let it be the same for Keturah Braam.
7
Tessa set the tattered rag doll on the cabin mantel, then thrust it back into her pocket. ’Twas only a matter of time till her keen-eyed brothers spied its presence. Jasper, likely. Though he wouldn’t place the doll, he’d want to know the story behind it. Ma would get misty-eyed as she always did on the rare occasions the Braams were mentioned. Mayhap she’d best secret the doll away in her curtained corner. Yet as she took a step in that direction, a voice she’d not heard for more than two months cut across the clearing. Jasper’s bottomless laugh filled Tessa to the brim. Home from overmountain?
Tessa nearly tripped in her haste to the cabin’s open door. She drank her oldest brother in as he stood there. Mercy, how lean. And bewhiskered. The string of packhorses behind him bespoke weariness and distance, saddlebags stuffed with necessities in exchange for ginseng and furs.
Ma was just ahead of her, already running to meet him with the gait of a girl. Spry she was at midcentury, her silvered braid spilling down her back. Skirts in hand, Tessa dashed after her, the dust of the yard soft beneath her feet.
Jasper caught them both up in a bearish, trail-worn embrace. It squeezed the breath right out of Tessa.
“A few weeks overmountain and I find you taller and even prettier,” he teased, winking.
“I quit growing a long time ago, you furry rascal,” she shot back.
He spat a stream of tobacco juice into a clump of weeds, making her wrinkle her nose in distaste. Trail tobacco was a reward for so arduous a journey. She’d tried it once, but it made her fluttery-stomached.
“Nary a speck of trouble,” he replied to Ma’s question. “Though the price of a pretty petticoat now trumps a brass kettle.”
Tessa smiled. He’d remembered? But first the unpacking and inspecting and storing. Anticipation made her steps light.
By suppertime, all was in order, the seven of them lining the trestle table. Jasper always brought something for them all.
For Ma, a Holland handkerchief and a hard cone of loaf sugar wrapped in purple paper. For her brothers, some hand tool or implement sufficed. Enjoying her expectation, Jasper made her wait till everything else had been distributed. Her parcel was store wrapped and tied with twine. She sat it upon her aproned lap as every eye settled on her.
Zadock cut the string with a swipe of his new knife. Her eager fingers did the rest. Even Ma sighed with pleasure when Tessa held up a tiny vial. Toilette water? She’d heard of such among fancy folk. Uncorking it, she shut her eyes and breathed in a distillation of rose and lavender and something she couldn’t name amid her brothers’ chuckling. Though impractical, it made her heart sing and the rough-hewn log walls fade away.
She smiled her thanks, setting the tiny bottle on the table for all to see or pass around. But her brothers merely regarded it dismissively as if too manly to touch such. Next came something silvery. Shaped like an acorn, it fit in the palm of her hand, the initials of TS engraved on the shiny top. She looked at Jasper in question.
“Pocket grater,” he said. “Open it.”
She twisted it apart, finding a curious brown nut within.
“Nutmeg,” he told her, swiping Lemuel’s refilled tankard of cider.
To her astonishment, he grated a dusting of the russet brown atop the drink and bade her taste it. She did, brows arching. The fine spice elevated simple cider to the sublime.
“Brother spoils you,” Ross teased. “You won’t be worth a hoot and a holler ’fore long.”
The cider was passed round. A small bag of nutmegs was next, enough that she would not hoard the one. Dropping the grater into her pocket alongside the rag doll, she turned her attention to the final gift. Candlelight gave the creamy linen a special sheen. Finely sewn and flounced, the petticoat was a snowy marvel, more art than garment.
“Nary a cinder speck to be found,” Jasper remarked, reminding her of her hole-ridden garments from where the hearth fire threw sparks.
Leaning nearer, she kissed his bristled cheek. “All this took a passel of furs, I reckon.”
He shrugged broad shoulders, his mind clearly on another matter. “Heavily laden as I was, I took care to come the untrammeled way.” He lit his pipe, the fragrant smoke
hinting of Tidewater tobacco from eastern Virginia. “Came upon a party of two men and two women near the north fork of Drowning Creek. They knew what they were about, leaving little trail. Though I tried, I could never catch up to them. The white woman in particular drew my notice. The white man I believe to be Colonel Tygart. I heard the black man in their party call him by name.”
“Tygart’s wed then?” Zadock looked surprised. “Bringing his bride to the wilderness?”
Tessa digested this, dismay hollowing out her middle. But why? Because she’d heard he was handsome. In his prime. Many a settlement maiden would be sorely disappointed. Ruth, foremost.
“If you’re here, then they’re there,” Cyrus surmised. The Swan homestead was south of Fort Tygart just a league.
“Reckon they’re causing a stir at the garrison then.” Lemuel lit his own pipe from his new tobacco pouch. “Makes me wish I was forting up for once.”
“Not me,” Ma said, pushing away from the table to clear the last of the supper dishes. “Good enough to see you safely home again, the door barred.”
Tessa set her disappointment over Tygart aside. In this circle of candlelight and kinship, Jasper’s return was gift enough.
The men continued talking in low tones as she took her new belongings to her corner. The flounced petticoat soon hung from a peg, the toilette water on the shelf. Already she wished for something more to dust with nutmeg. Gingerbread or warm milk or applesauce.
With all the fuss, sleep was long in coming. What had Jasper said about happening upon that party of four?
The white woman in particular drew my notice.
It wasn’t like him to say such a thing about a woman who might be another man’s wife. Yet no one questioned him about it. Something else begged considering. Jasper was unsettled by the woman, enough to mention her.
Why?
Leave it to Maddie to convince Keturah Braam to change garments before they entered Fort Tygart’s gates. Clay admired the way Maddie managed it. Slow and gentle-like, making much of the beadwork and fringe before wrapping the Lenape doeskin and trade cloth into a tidy little bundle hidden away in a saddlebag.
Thankfully, Maddie was skilled with a needle, fingers flying nimbly to remake her best dress into a garment the white woman would wear, without any sign of haste or secondhandedness.
Clay rued that the indigo cloth made Keturah’s eyes even bluer, the cut of the dress far more form-fitting than her looser Lenape garments. Biting his tongue till it nearly bled, he kept himself from reversing Maddie’s choice to cushion Keturah’s return to the white world.
No doubt shedding the Lenape clothing had cost Keturah something, yet she had consented. Still, her sunny braid hung unaltered to her hips, the center part of her hair painted Lenape red.
Once Fort Tygart’s gates swung open wide in welcome, a barrage of questions was sure to pepper them like buckshot. He, Maddie, and Jude would be all but invisible when the women-hungry men spied their comely captive.
His gaze swept across the heavily forested valley that led to the rocky bluff forming the foundation of the distant garrison. Compared to the sprawling Fort Pitt, Fort Tygart was in miniature. Yet four sturdy blockhouses stood at its far-flung corners, a few hats showing above the white oak pickets impaling the sky.
A welcoming volley of shots ushered them in. They’d been seen and now recognized by some who’d served under him prior. Those few men were firmly behind him. Others—strangers—would need proof of his authority. Mustering a militia and assigning spies to scout the woods would be the least of his challenges.
Though their horses went at a slow walk, they raised the dust. Aggravated by a south wind, it partially obscured the gates as they groaned open. Several men lifted two fingers to the battered brims of their hats as he rode past. Others gawked openly at Keturah Braam. She kept her eyes down, dismounting after he did but from the right side of her horse, Indian fashion. This surely did not go unnoticed either.
To Maddie he said quietly, “Take Miss Braam to the nearest empty cabin.”
Maddie nodded, gaze already roving the enclosure where twenty-odd cabins hugged the fort’s inner walls.
“Colonel Tygart, sir.” A burly, balding man extended a firm hand. “Glad you’ve arrived unimpeded.” His homespun clothes belied his cultured voice and vocabulary. “I’m Joseph Cutright, storekeeper.”
After shaking a good many hands, Clay made a short speech about the impressive appearance of the garrison and his priority of mustering the militia in hopes to spread the word that more hands were needed. Answering questions about the latest news from the east and Fort Pitt took time. Able to sum up a man quickly, Clay made quiet note of those who looked to be leaders before he took possession of the blockhouse.
After the sparseness of the trail, the edifice assumed a rosy glow. Smelling of green wood and chinking, its cavernous hearth bore a small cook fire, a kettle over the coals. An assortment of empty pots dressed the fieldstones. At the room’s center a trestle table and six rare Windsor chairs garnered his attention, but it was the hefty desk with its smooth walnut top and the nooks and crannies along the wide back wall that bespoke the commandant’s domain most of all. Upstairs were his sleeping quarters, gained by a wide set of roughly hewn steps.
“There’s a granny woman in the next cabin who’ll cook for you,” said Cutright. “Unless you brought your wife along . . .”
“Nay.” Clay ended any speculation. “The white woman is a returned captive. The black woman is free and wife of the free man who rode in with me.”
“Captive?” Cutright ran a hand over his bearded jaw.
“Aye. From along the Buckhannon River south of here. What little we know, that is. Goes by the name of Keturah Braam, mayhap.”
No recognition kindled. “I’ve been here but six years. Truth is, there’s so much raiding and killing and stealing up and down the border that all the victims ball into a nameless jumble.”
“Anybody hereabouts with a history?”
A decisive nod. “That would be the old crone, Hester Swan, who’ll keep you fed. Say the word and I’ll summon her.”
“Once I’m settled, aye.” Clay hung his shot pouch and powder horn from a wall peg. Releasing his rifle felt strange after a sennight’s grip. His stomach rumbled so loudly that Cutright laughed.
“Once you’ve eaten, you mean.” He moved to the open door. “I’ll try to stem any business with you till tomorrow. Today’s spent.”
With an appreciative nod, Clay examined a map of sorts laid out on the desktop.
“I took the liberty of drawing the fort for you and naming all the occupants cabin by cabin down to the privy pit and such,” Cutright said. “If the cabins aren’t marked they’re empty, though they fill quick enough when folks fort up.”
“Well done.” The inked map was precise and detailed. “Surveyor as well as storekeeper?”
Cutright chuckled. “Years ago, I ran the line with Colonel Washington.”
“Your skills are appreciated.” Clay aimed to memorize the map by morning.
“I’ll fetch the cook.” Cutright shut the door, ushering in a blessed, spacious calm.
Slivers of light shone through half a dozen loopholes. Clay climbed the steps to the loft slowly as if testing their strength. Upstairs was a window open to the fort’s common. A dragonfly winged in iridescent flight around the wide, curtainless frame. Taking a stool, he sat down and surveyed his new realm like a lord might his kingdom. The lofty, albeit foolish, thought made him smile.
Frontier forts were, by necessity, meant for little but survival. But as the sun pulled west and dappled the dusty common with flattering gold light, the blockhouse door below opened and closed repeatedly and soon sent him downstairs again.
At the hearth a tiny, tidy woman poked at a sizzling skillet. On the table was a pewter plate piled high with corncakes. He cleared his throat to announce his presence and she straightened, turning around to face him. He worked to hide a smile as she
cocked her head this way and that, sparrow-like, piercing gaze boring into him.
“So, you’re Tygart, I suppose.” Around her wrinkled neck was a monocle strung on a badly frayed ribbon. She placed it over one faded blue eye, squinting to hold it in place, and peered up at him in obvious disapproval. “Well . . . not handsome exactly. More striking looking.” An onerous sigh. “The unmarried women are bound to be sorely disappointed. But there’s no denying you’re an excellent woodsman from the look of you, built like a young bull. No savage’ll lay a hand to your scalp.”
The honest appraisal both amused and stung. Ever since he was knee high, he’d been a tad thin-skinned about his appearance. Salt Boy, the Lenape had oft taunted him on account of his white skin. A deep-seated Scripture jumped to mind as it always did, sown by his ma long ago.
For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
“I hope I’m as kind about your cooking,” he said with a wink. “Mistress . . .”
“Swan.” She cackled, and the monocle fell to dangle upon her bodice as she turned back to the fire. “Hester Swan.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down, the lure of a meal too much. Silently he watched as she produced a pewter plate and piled on thick slabs of ham, with crisply fried potatoes and onions atop it. The butter in the small crock made his mouth water even before she’d smeared it generously on the corncakes.
He took out his knife, for he saw no other utensil, but she withdrew a two-tined fork from her pocket and passed it to him. Fully armed, he commenced eating the most mouth-watering meal he’d had since leaving Fort Pitt.
“You’re not a praying man then,” she queried, her wrinkled face pensive.
