The Blue Cloak

by Shannon McNear

  The snippet of a scripture floated through her thoughts, There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.

  Even the Bible attested that it was a strange and mysterious thing, not to be explained.

  But Sally’s blithe and tender heart had been shattered. And what did she, Rachel, know about Benjamin Langford, besides the word of Hugh White? What if he too turned out—God forbid—to be a terrible man?

  Or even if not terrible, less than what Rachel needed in a husband?

  What if someday Ben decided Rachel really was beneath him, despite his protestations to the contrary?

  ’Twould be better for her to harden her heart now, or at least pull back far enough to exercise extreme caution, before her own heart wound up as Sally’s.

  If only she didn’t feel half shattered already at the mere prospect of never being kissed again by Benjamin Langford, or held in those strong arms.

  Later in May, 1799

  Sally lost track of the days as they continued paddling down the Green River, through flats and hollows full of canebrakes and more wild, forested hills, the stream ever widening until they reached what the other women and folk along the way proclaimed the mighty Ohio.

  Sally had never seen anything like it, so wide and deep—and muddy.

  Betsey and Susan were at the paddles, and with their usual skill navigated the current, evading large limbs and in one case a whole tree with apparent ease.

  They were headed for a place over on the Illinois side called Cave-in-the-Rock. None of them had ever seen it, but Susan insisted they’d know it, and by word of Old Man Roberts, that was where they’d rendezvous with Big and Little.

  Sally’s gut grew tighter and more sour by the day.

  Most of a day on the Ohio, and they rounded a bend to see it come into view: a lovely arched opening in the rock face overlooking the river, with a sandy strip before it and a couple of small watercraft pulled up on the shore. The women angled the canoe toward the bank.

  “Halloo the cave!” Betsey called.

  A figure appeared, mostly concealed in the shadows beyond the opening.

  They ran the canoe aground, and Susan hopped out, swooping little Lovey into her arms with a hissed command to stay put, then she walked up the sandy strand toward the cave. Sally’s heart was pounding, but after a quiet exchange, the man emerged—not Big or Little, either one—and came back to the canoe with Susan. “This is Captain Mason,” she said. “He’s in charge, hereabouts.”

  A little younger than Old Man Roberts, leaner and rather handsome, the man nodded, searching their faces, assessing. “Your men aren’t here, but you are all welcome to stay for as long as you need. We don’t harm women here.”

  Grateful to be ashore, Sally let herself be handed out of the canoe, and taking up Eady and one of her bundles, followed with the other women up to the cave.

  The interior was cool and spacious, with a sandy floor and high, arching ceiling that opened farther near the back than even the wide entrance hinted at. Several people were already in residence in various corners of the cave, but Captain Mason led them farther and pointed to an area. “You may set up camp here, if you wish.” His gaze was still questioning, but kind.

  Only a day or two passed before Susan and Betsey decided to go paddling back up the Ohio to wait for Big and Little. Sally felt all too content to stay put, despite being among strangers.

  These at least were folk who would not question where they’d come from—and she felt oddly safe among them, despite their fearsome reputation, which she knew already, as river pirates.

  Rachel hugged Anne, lingering in the comfort of her sister-in-law’s embrace while Dan stood by holding little Jesse, big enough now to bounce up and down in his daddy’s arms.

  “You’re welcome back any time, you know,” Anne murmured.

  “I’ll be back,” Rachel said, past a lump in her throat that would not ease. “I just need to see Daddy and Mama.”

  Anne gave her a last squeeze. “I understand.” She let go and stepped back, her smile tremulous. The two of them had truly become dear to each other in the past months.

  Next Dan engulfed her in his arms and kissed her on the head. “Stay out of trouble, little sis.”

  She smiled though her eyes were stinging. “I’ll try.”

  Up she went into the saddle on Dandelion, astraddle as she always did with her full skirts bunched about her knees and ankles, an old pair of Dan’s trousers underneath for comfort and added modesty.

  Anne stepped forward. “Are you sure you don’t have a message for me to give Ben if he shows up?”

  Rachel forced a thin smile and shook her head.

  Her plump sister-in-law laid a hand on her knee. “Rachel …”

  She blinked and glanced away then met Anne’s eyes again. Blue, though a different shade from Ben’s.

  “It hasn’t been long enough this time for his lack of writing you to signify,” Anne pressed.

  Rachel sighed. “Just tell him I went home.”

  A nod and a dimple, and she stepped back. Rachel lifted the reins on the fine gelding.

  Another reminder of Ben.

  God … keep him safe, regardless of what happens.

  “Ready?” Jed Wheeler called, and shook out his own reins.

  His oldest son, Isaac, a little taller and more filled out than when she’d made the journey up with them a year ago, nodded crisply and flashed a businesslike smile from his seat next to Jed, but Rachel could see the open envy in the lad’s eyes at her mount. Dan had insisted she take the horse, saying that Ben had told him just before leaving that he intended it as a gift to Rachel whether or not he returned from hunting the Harpes. If it was a weakness of heart that she could not refuse this one thing, then so be it.

  Hot, tired, mud-spattered, they gathered once again at an inn, somewhere in the more western section of Kentucky. Captain Ballenger looked very hangdog as he shook his head and explained the situation. “We ain’t doing any good here, boys. Those blasted Harpes are just too slick, and there are too many conflicting rumors. Besides, Colonel Young has his troop from Mercer County already working on sweeping all the outlaws out of this corner of Kentucky and across the Ohio, like they did up by Frankfort. I can’t put off going home and seeing to my farm any longer.”

  A rumble followed his words, some agreeing that they too needed to tend their homes, while others voiced the willingness to go on.

  Ben knew a little of what it must have cost Ballenger and others like Trabue to bow out of the pursuit. Unlike the older man, however, he had no firm obligations to send him home before this was resolved.

  Nothing but the memory of Rachel, soft and sweet in his arms, which seared every time she came to mind.

  “And you, Langford?”

  “I’d like to join Colonel Young and the others, if possible,” he said.

  And so it was that Ben found himself riding with as fiery a band of men as he’d ever encountered on the proper side of the law.

  They rode fast and hard, for sure, half of them appearing as if they were part Indian and had spent the better part of a decade in the wild—and perhaps they had—and others more like Ben, with some eastern ways and dress about them, but looking more acclimated to the wilderness than he.

  Colonel Young led them with a single-minded focus, determined to flush not just the Harpes out of hiding but drive any other criminals from the state as well. But it soon became apparent to Ben that Ballenger was right—rumors of the Harpes and their doings abounded—and the handful of fresh murders since their escape almost two months ago were more than enough to fuel whispers of three times that many.

  Who knew at this point what was truth and what was not? It made Ben’s head ache just to contemplate it.

  He wasn’t the only one with the thought on his mind. More and more of the men
grumbled, though Young made a grand production out of pursuing the Harpes and others. And with all the commotion they made doing so, there was less and less chance all the time that Ben would be able to even catch sight of Sally, let alone do anything useful toward apprehending those worthless men.

  Justice for Thomas and his promise to Rachel, both left utterly undone.

  God, why am I even here? Is there yet any good I can do in all this?

  Deep in his gut was a nagging hollowness that told him he dared not let up, dared not rest.

  Among the men just out for fire and glory were good ones, however. Ben learned names and faces and places of residence. One such distinguished himself from many others, even among those who seemed more part of the wilderness than not, a tall and lean fellow by the name of Bledsoe, with long dark hair braided back, an intentness to his expression, and eyes so pale they were nearly gray, eerily piercing one moment and laughing the next. He shared many the jest with a tall blond youth who Ben learned was Bledsoe’s brother-in-law.

  Bledsoe, as Ben also learned, was also one of myriad Thomases.

  Again the memory of that particular topic of discussion flitted through his head, reminding him of Rachel.

  Bledsoe had been a scout and post rider, but for the past few years tended a piece of land up by Elizabethtown, not far from his wife’s family. They’d a pair of young children with another due sometime the coming winter.

  When asked his thoughts about their chances of actually apprehending the Harpes, Bledsoe looked graver than ever and finally shook his head. “I understand the need for more men, but—with this mob? Nay. If it’s so that they spent time with the Cherokee, then they’ll be too canny to be caught. They’ll go to ground, or fly out of reach until they think it’s safe.”

  “That’s been much my mind of it as well.”

  “But,” Bledsoe added, “I allow we should probably let Young have a crack at it first.”

  Ben scrubbed at his bearded chin with his fingertips, grimacing when a rough fingernail caught on skin and hair. He should trim that tonight before falling into his bedroll, exhausted. Time was when he kept both hands and face immaculately groomed … no longer, out here. “My concern is that the Harpes will, as you say, lie low and then come back, worse than ever.”

  “Mine too,” Bledsoe said. His gaze, cool and assessing, met Ben’s. “You lost a cousin to them last winter, didn’t you? It’d be an honor to ride with you again, if the worst does happen and there’s need for us all to keep on the hunt.”

  “It’d be an honor for me as well,” Ben said, and meant it.

  It was balm indeed, Rachel found, to be caught up in a bear hug from her father, and even to endure her mother’s clinging and kisses. “We’ve so worried about you!” Mama exclaimed, and embraced her for the third time since Rachel had dismounted.

  She endured the fussing and petting, and the inevitable questions and speculative looks about Dandelion and how she’d acquired him. All the shock and horror of the past months had taken its toll on her, and there was a definite peace to being home again.

  She didn’t even mind the chattering of her younger siblings, for once. The noise reminded her that each was still here, alive and breathing.

  Once everyone had settled from her homecoming, the first thing she did was get right back on Dandelion—younger brother accompanying of course, and a pistol snugly in her own pocket—and ride to see Sally’s family.

  Reverend Rice received her with a sort of stiff formality at first, but then Sally’s mama broke down weeping on Rachel’s neck before she could get hardly a word out. At last, the woman regained control, and they ushered her inside and sat her down for a cup of tea.

  Grief rimmed their faces, made them appear years older since she’d last seen them. “How are you faring these days?” she asked, just to start out.

  “We are well enough,” Reverend Rice said, but woodenly, and Missus Rice dabbed at her eyes.

  “Please,” she said, “how did Sally look, when last you saw her?”

  Rachel thought hard. ‘Twould be more unhelpful to be completely honest about the destitute state Sally had found herself in, but they needed something from her. “She has the sweetest little baby girl. Red curls. And Sally named her Eady.”

  “Oh-h,” Missus Rice half squealed, and brought her handkerchief up to cover her face. Her husband likewise bowed his head, shoulders shaking.

  If Rachel had harbored any lingering resentment toward Sally’s parents for their perceived indifference, it was fled clean away now. For all the stoic nature of his first letter, this had been well nigh on devastating to them both.

  “It is a hard situation, and desperate, to be sure,” Rachel said. “But I’m praying that God will yet deliver her.”

  Still overcome, neither parent could reply for several long moments.

  “Thank you,” Reverend Rice managed at last, “for helping her in all this. May we yet indeed have confidence in our Lord to bring her home. What we have heard—what has been written us—is unthinkable.” He flashed her a watery glance. “I hope you know we’d never have countenanced her marriage to Wiley—no matter what had transpired between them—had we the slightest inkling that this would all happen, after.”

  Rachel nodded.

  He gave a gusty sigh. “I confess I had many misgivings at the time, but there seemed to be no other impediment to their union.”

  “Hugh White and I both felt uneasy at different moments but could not say why, and I brushed the feelings aside, thinking it simply envy for a friend being wed before me.” Rachel laughed a little, brokenly. “If only we’d known …”

  “We can blame ourselves all we like,” Missus Rice murmured, her voice raspy, “but none of it will mend the situation.” She pressed the back of her hand under one closed eye. “Only God Himself can do that. And, as you say, He yet might do so.”

  “We will all keep praying,” Rachel said. “This is no ordinary misadventure of a husband. There is evil at work here, plain and simple.”

  They both stared at her, as if stricken anew, but then Reverend Rice slowly nodded. “Then we best can fight it by taking up the armor of God and submitting ourselves to His holy will.”

  “This is no jest, Micajah Harpe. You and yours cannot stay here. Pack your things and leave, this instant.”

  Captain Samuel Mason, infamous leader of the river pirates in residence at Cave-in-the-Rock, stood with hands planted on his hips, staring down the younger and more substantial Big, who still half-collapsed against Little in shared peals of laughter over their latest “prank.”

  Several paces down the rocky strand, others were busy removing the broken and bloodied forms of a horse and naked man, which Big and Little had sent together over the top of the cliff above.

  Sally, Susan, and Betsey stood clinging to their squirming, squeaking babes, and each other. Oh Lord, have mercy on us….

  Mason’s gaze swung between the huddled women and children, and the men, who had once again committed the unthinkably cruel, and then found humor in it.

  What kind of monster had she wed, two years past? It was a question she should give up even asking.

  “I am in earnest here,” Mason said, his voice dropping. “We’ll not have this sort of thing happening in our company.”

  Big drew himself up, sobering, and Little beside him. Neither was inconsequential, and Mason had at least six decades to his credit, though still hale and hearty.

  Susan was the one who moved first. “Come on,” she said, soft but clear. “We’ll pack.”

  Sally’s heart dropped to her feet. This was the first place she’d found any measure of safety after Susan had turned them from the Road, over south of Crab Orchard. Though subjected to the usual trials of marriage once more—if one could call it that, since Little still shared her liberally with Big—being among this band had proved more or less a calming influence on the two of them. At least until today.

  And now—to be thrust out because the
ir shenanigans had proved too much. It was only bound to get worse—again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ben stepped inside the cabin in Bledsoe’s wake and for a moment wasn’t sure whether to laugh at the chaos ensuing within, or retreat again to the porch. The house fairly overflowed with children, more than he knew Bledsoe and his wife had produced on their own.

  Kate Bledsoe was a pert little thing with a crown of dark gold, braided and wrapped about her head, and warm brown eyes a shade or two lighter than Rachel’s. Despite the brightness of her welcoming smile, the comparison still drew a pang.

  But, Lord willing, he’d see Rachel again in a few days.

  The two of them, Thomas and Kate Bledsoe, were openly affectionate with their greeting, although not uncomfortably so, and Ben found himself drawn in and introduced to the assortment of “young’uns” as Bledsoe called them. Most were younger sisters and a brother to Kate, with only two—as Ben already knew—their own offspring, one with light blond hair and equally light blue eyes, and the other with brown hair and eyes. Ben unexpectedly found it fascinating to study the differing combinations of the parents’ features and coloring.

  Kate sat them down at the table with coffee and a plate of some sort of sweet that Ben could swear she’d just finished baking—as if she knew they’d be there. Or perhaps it was just to feed the passel of young’uns she’d taken on for the day.

  “Mama’s not been well of late,” she told Bledsoe, with an apologetic half smile. “But I’m sure ‘Mima and Pa can take them all back come evening.” The full sun of her grin flashed for a moment. “You’re home sooner than we reckoned. Not that I’m complaining.”

  He caught her in a one-armed embrace as she bustled past him, and this time Ben did have to avert his eyes. It was too easy—and stirred too deep a longing—to imagine doing the same with Rachel someday.

  Please, Lord.

  The frustration welled in him anew at the fruitlessness of their chase these past few weeks, but he shoved it down and buried it under a bite of pie and slurp of coffee.