With This Peace

by Karen Campbell Prough

  “No tracks?”

  “I found tracks everywhere. The scrub cattle make it so I cain’t see my own cow’s hooves.” She pressed her lips together, holding back tears. She hated Florida, with its heat and unprecedented dangers. “We’ve already lost one cow, now this—”

  “They might wander in.” He flipped the reins over the wagon seat and set the brake. “Hannah’s whining for you, and I told her to wait. We’re breaking camp. I have the other wagon ready. I put your mother’s trunk in it. And I fed your chickens.”

  She flinched at his callous tone. Since Duncan and Samuel’s departure, he had grown irritable. Fear traveled with them each day, along with hunger and wild animals. They were lost. Duncan’s map made no sense. Dim trails faded in and out of existence, and the ribbons of material she tied to trees might never be seen.

  “I’ll clothe the children.” She turned away, twisting her hair into a sloppy bun.

  A part of her wanted to demand he search for the cows, but she held her tongue and surrendered to common sense. It was in God’s hands.

  “Mama.” Their daughter stood in the wagon, rubbing her eyes. “Amos kicked me last night.” Her hair fell past her slender shoulders in a tangled clump of honey-tipped curls. Her thin shift bore dingy wrinkles.

  “He didn’t mean to. Don’t fret. The heat an’ bugs make us all restless. Let me lift you down.”

  She looks like a pitiful waif. She’s thinner since bein’ sick.

  “Why’d you bang the bucket?”

  Ella hesitated, not sure how much to say. “Our two cows walked off. I tried to call ’em back.”

  “Will wolves get ’em?” The girl’s wise round eyes showed concern. “Milly’s my cow.”

  “I know, I know.” She ran her fingers through the child’s messy hair. “I’m sure they’ll come back.”

  “Don’t get her hopes up.” Jim walked up behind them, reached into the wagon, and grabbed his hat. “Best to figure the worst and be relieved at blessin’s. We can’t spend all day looking. Fix something to eat.”

  “We’re leavin’? They—they’ve got to be close. Right? An’ why leave? We don’t know where we’re goin’. We’re lost. So isn’t it stupid to just wander?” She blurted out her thoughts, even though they might anger him.

  “Ella Dessa …” He pressed the limp hat over his sweaty hair. “They probably joined those scrub cows we came across yesterday or will be forced to. There’s a hefty bull in the group. He had a crazed look in his eye.”

  “They wouldn’t want to be with him. They’re due to calve ...”

  “Mama, we’re lost?”

  “Oh, honey, we soon won’t be.” She quit questioning Jim, patted the girl’s shoulder, and led her off to the undergrowth beside the wagon. “Let’s take care of our mornin’ needs.”

  “But I want my cow.” Her bottom lip trembled, and she burst into sobs.

  “Ella Dessa, she’s got to stop crying!”

  “Shh … shh. Hannah, be quiet.” She understood her husband’s concern. Sounds carried with the wind, especially the loud, uncontrolled sobbing of a child.

  “My cow!”

  She pulled the child against her and muffled the sobs. “Stop. Be a big girl.”

  Jim gazed at his daughter, gave a frustrated sigh, and motioned with his gun.

  “Take this.” He relinquished his pride and joy, his new musket, into her capable hands. “I’ll get the old gun. Shoot anything four-legged or two-legged coming close. Don’t ask questions—shoot. I’ll bury the remains. Understand? And if the cows come back, fire one shot.”

  His terse words made her nerves jangle.

  “Jim, don’t go!” She laid her free hand on his shoulder, desperately wanting to know he wasn’t angry with her. “We’ll manage without the cows. Please?”

  He leaned in and placed a firm kiss on her lips. “Get that look out of your beautiful blue eyes. I still adore you.” He pulled her body snug against his side. “Thanks for last night,” he murmured. His new beard tickled her neck. “It’s been so long. But with my brothers gone … can we repeat the fun tonight? Hmm?”

  “Jim! Shh …” She glanced at the curious upturned face of their little daughter, tears still glinting in her eyes.

  Jim’s left arm tightened. “Hmm, you’re the only woman for me.” His stormy gray eyes softened as his gaze traveled over her face. “I’m so honored to have your love.” His lips claimed hers with a lingering kiss. “I’ll ask that question ag’in … tonight.”

  Their daughter wiggled between the two of them and gazed up at him. “I love you, Papa.”

  Ella smothered a laugh against his shoulder.

  He grinned. “I know you do. I love you more! Now mind Mama, and help keep Amos out of trouble.” He tousled Hannah’s hair, grabbed his battered musket from the wagon, and left the two of them standing in the morning sunlight.

  With her daughter’s warm hand tucked in hers and the gun under her right arm, Ella watched Jim track the soft-edged prints across the old burn, a snag-dotted clearing. She prayed any movement he saw would be wandering cows, not imminent danger.

  Hours later, Jim cradled the musket to his chest. Under his boots, the crackle of dead palmetto spikes produced the only sound. He repositioned the heavy gun. It had been tough pushing through the last fifteen feet of waist-high scrub and sword palmetto, but he wanted to get on the other side of the thick foliage—closer to water. He spotted cypress trees towering above the scrub. They indicated a swamp.

  Won’t find the cows. He licked his dry lips. Indians or panthers have them by now.

  Red scratches crisscrossed his forearms. Sharp branches and wild briars dug into his exposed flesh, causing it to itch and sting. Perspiration slid down his back and chest, soaking into the waistband of his pants.

  No hint of a breeze stirred the vegetation, and he could smell his unwashed body. He brushed at a fat tick crawling on his forearm.

  “Got to find a way out of this Florida scrub.”

  He had to retrace his steps to the flat, burnt-off clearing and his family. Hannah’s tear-streaked face flashed through his mind. But he also kept hearing disbelief in Ella’s voice when he said they’d leave without the cows. He should’ve explained his strongest fears—why he didn’t want to waste time hunting cows. She’d have understood his reasoning, but his stubborn pride stood in the way. His worry was they wouldn’t find a safe haven.

  He feared the warnings of increased Seminole activity. Every settler they happened upon told their own version of what the latest rumors meant. The stories weren’t good.

  “And I went off to hunt cows,” he muttered. “I left my family alone. Anything could happen.” He squinted at the distant horizon. Was there a darkening in the sky? “Stupid cows. I got to get myself out of this brush and go back.”

  A voice inside his head reprimanded him and told him to accept partial blame for the cows’ escape. Jim knew he had been overconfident and downright lazy about staking them. Their two horses had been tied to trees. But not my wife’s cows.

  “I got to tell her it was my fault.” He’d made an immense mistake of misjudging the possibility of cows jerking loose. Florida dirt was not solid like old mountain clay mix and black dirt. At first, he had plenty of signs to follow, but the cows’ tracks soon mixed with that of wild cattle.

  It was now after midday. Thunder rumbled in the west. A storm darkened the sky, and in front of him was a swamp.

  As he tried to get his bearings, Jim spotted a huge woodpecker, with white on its wings and tail feathers. It flew over his head and landed on the skeletal trunk of a dead cypress. The bird tapped at the tree with a pronounced white beak. Bam—bam!

  Jim smiled. “That’s right, ivory bill, don’t let the ole lady catch you slacking.”

  Unconcerned, the large bird flew deeper into the swamp and left Jim wishing he could spread wings and fly over the undergrowth. Hooves and the feet of wild animals had chopped the soggy ground, making tracking impossible.


  He had gone in circles.

  Tossing caution away, he plunged into the last bit of oak scrub. He turned left and pushed with his chest and legs, struggling against gallberry, prickly green briar, and old-growth palmettos blocking the way. Frustration all but caused him to cuss.

  There wasn’t much of a warning—only a brief, sharp rattle.

  Before he processed the vibrating noise, he was struck below the right knee.

  Rattlesnake!

  He let out an involuntary holler of horror and took jerky steps backwards. And then he went off balance, stumbling. Frantic, he tried to see through the snarled underbrush and pointed palmetto fans.

  I’m fallin’ on it!

  He fell backwards and yelled more in fear than pain. He landed in a crumpled heap, branches, twigs, and leaves poking him in the face. Through the undergrowth, he spotted the patterned, dark-eyed reptile watching him from beneath the fanned leaf of a palmetto. It raised its triangular head within the coil of its bulk.

  It drew back and curled.

  The undulating movement gave a warning. The coiled length writhed, exposing the rattle, while the snake readied itself to strike a second time. Its fat body blended with the filtered sunlight, dead leaves, and debris. Then it uncoiled and glided sideways, its length rippling. The insistent rattle of its tail stopped.

  It slithered for cover.

  Rage caused him to lunge for the gun. It had dropped through the branches to the ground beside him, and he battled the vines to bring its length to his shoulder. He fought to ignore the fierce burning sensation and pain in his leg. He held the gun level and peered around the limbs and leaves. He aimed quickly and fired.

  The rattlesnake blew into reddish-raw pieces, but its demise didn’t stop the venom seeping into his pain-tightened leg muscles.

  With groans of desperation, he pushed branches out of his face and laid aside his weapon. He slipped his skinning knife from the leather sheath. His hands shook. He sliced and cut at the fabric of his pants leg. The sharp blade parted the material and exposed his leg and leather boot.

  The snake had struck at an angle, above the top of his boot. He could see puncture marks, and on the flushed skin surrounding the wound, watery blood seeped downward.

  “Ah, no!” With quivering hands, he wiped his face and tried to focus. “Got to see … got to do it.”

  Pain hit.

  Wielding the knife, he scored lopsided cross marks, close to the leather of the boot, before it dawned on him—he couldn’t reach the bite with his mouth. He couldn’t suck the poison out of the reddening flesh!

  “No, no!”

  He sheathed his knife and pulled a soiled cotton bandana out of his pocket. Desperation drove him. He wrapped the cloth around his leg, right under the knee.

  “Keep alert, Jim. Think straight.” He knotted it, grabbed a stout stick, and used it to twist the cloth tighter. Drops of perspiration poured off his face and dripped to his shirt.

  “God,” he pleaded, “my family will be left alone. They won’t survive.” He groaned and wiped his face with shaking hands.

  He tried to steady his breathing and the hammering of his heart. “Stay calm—stay calm.”

  Using his gun, barrel down, as an expedient crutch, he struggled to his feet. A hot, searing pain crept through the inner thigh muscles. He grew nauseated from the tightening spasms.

  His free hand pushed at the encumbering brambles. The pounding in his head almost drowned out the gray squirrels scolding from the treetops. A startled white-tailed deer bounded away. At any other time, he might’ve chanced a shot—with the hope of taking meat back to camp. But now, he stumbled across the unforgiving landscape.

  He stopped sweating.

  A strange chill climbed his body, yet his leg burned. He moaned, leaned sideways, and gripped the gun’s stock. “I can’t die here, my body never found. Ella’s got to know. God, don’t leave her wonderin’.”

  Chapter 5

  The booming blast of the old musket shattered the tranquility. Ella held her breath and listened to the resounding echo.

  “Jim?” She whispered. Dark clouds on the horizon intensified her anxiety. “It had to be him.”

  She shaded her eyes and studied the rolling, burnt-off land behind the wagon. There was no movement. Although it was September, the unrelenting sunshine seemed intolerable unless you kept to the deeper shade. Earlier, she fed the children their midday meal while they sat on a blanket under the spreading limbs of massive oaks.

  The oxen stood unyoked and secured to trees with ropes, along with the two skinny horses. She pulled and cut grass to feed them, because she was reluctant to untie them long enough to move them to another spot.

  Her booted feet sank in white sand. Her skirt brushed the high clumps of broomsedge and dead branches of a pine tree which snagged and pulled at the skirt’s ragged hem. She walked into the sunlight, and a covey of quail spooked, ducked low, and scurried into the thick grasses.

  The children napped in the open wagon. Their faces gleamed with tiny beads of moisture. She didn’t know how they could sleep in the muggy heat, but their little bodies sprawled in complete relaxation under the netting.

  Gray-black clouds, punctuated by flashes of jagged lightning, rose and boiled into view.

  The oxen reacted as if they knew the storm would be bad. They kicked and dug the ground, throwing clods of dirt into the air. Restless, they tossed their horned heads. She ran her hand along the back of the nearest one.

  “Steady,” she murmured as one of the horses whinnied and bumped into the supply wagon. She knew they remembered walnut-sized hail battering them the week before.

  Ella was positive it was Jim’s old weapon she heard. She recognized the deep-throated echo. What had he shot? Moreover, why was he still gone?

  Jim, where are you?

  She moved to the left side of the larger wagon and tapped her fingertips on the top curve of the wheel. Trickles of sweat soaked into the stained material of her blouse.

  A sprinkling of warm raindrops often occurred in the middle of an afternoon—a few gray clouds—with the sun in full view. Rain might wash over the land in a matter of minutes, leaving the trees dripping, frogs croaking, and ground steaming in the sunlight.

  The children loved the brief showers.

  They ran out into them, squealing with glee, and playing in the tepid rain. It took very little time for their clothes to dry. But by evening or the next day, the rain could contain menacing strikes of yellow-white lightning or rolling waves of rain beating on the wagon and cattle.

  And this was one of those alarming storms.

  “Oh, Lord, help me.” Ella stared at the vulnerable wagon.

  Their temporary home had once been a discarded lumber wagon. Jim and his brothers purchased it a year ago and fashioned it into something more usable, with oversized wheels at the back and smaller ones in the front. Boards formed the sturdy raised sides and ends. The makeshift wagon’s bent struts created a support for a canvas top.

  But with the fast-paced storm approaching, the wagon seemed flimsy, not a safe haven. Her dry lips formed a fervent prayer. The supply wagon didn’t offer a better shelter. It held gardening tools, extra dried foods, an ox bow, spokes, wagon wheels, iron hooks, and Jim’s mother’s pine table.

  With the next rumble, Ella gathered the front of her cumbersome skirt and reached underneath her single-layered petticoat for the skirt’s hem at the back. She pulled the hemmed edge between her legs, from back to front and upward, and tucked it into the stomach band of the skirt.

  The way she fixed the skirt exposed her lower legs in high-topped boots and formed what looked like a bulky pair of men’s pants, but there was no one to think her shameful. Ella had learned months before that she could move more freely without the hampering skirt dragging about her legs.

  She climbed to the wagon bench and reached for the heavy sun-dried covering on the right side of the wagon. She had loosened the tie-downs earlier and pushed the mate
rial high, bundling it on top of the curved struts, forming a roof over the wagon. The left side was raised only a couple feet, but it created a slight breeze for the sleeping children.

  Ella glanced over her shoulder. Thunderheads overflowed the sky. A cooler breeze caused the canvas to flap. She needed to get the top into place before the rain drenched their belongings.

  She tugged at the stiff material.

  “Come on,” she pleaded. The canvas dropped. “Thank you, Lord.” She wiped her face on a rolled sleeve and jumped to the ground.

  By pulling on the tie-down ropes, she tightened them around iron hooks along the wagon’s sides. She made sure it felt snug, so a gust of wind didn’t lift the cloth.

  She ran to the other side. Her movements caused the chickens to cackle in alarm.

  “Shush!” She opened the box strapped to the wagon’s side and reached for a brown egg. “Thanks, ladies.” She placed the egg in a grass-filled basket behind the wagon’s seat.

  She then scooped out the filthy nesting material with her hand and tossed it to the ground. Clean, dried grass finished the chore, while the chickens protested her intrusion.

  Keeping the chickens alive had proven quite an undertaking. The major trick was preventing raccoons from shoving their slender hands into the box at night or ripping the box apart. And watering the chickens could only be done when the wagon stopped. A pottery bowl now held dirty water and there remained no time to change it.

  “Ugh.” She quickly rinsed her hands and dried them on her skirt.

  I never feel clean no more. I hate this heat.

  Ella watched the ugly clouds boil overhead. The last thing to do was shut the ends of the wagon.

  “Lord, please protect me an’ the babies,” she whispered. “An’ give Jim shelter.”

  The early fall storm held danger.

  She heard Hannah calling and patted the taunt canvas. “I’m here, comin’ to the back.”

  “Mama?”

  Ella unbuttoned the high narrow collar on the once-white blouse she wore and let it gape open. The material was sweat-dampened. Sections of her hair slipped loose from their bone pins and hung about her face, sticking to her neck.