With This Peace

by Karen Campbell Prough

  She peered in the wagon.

  Hannah whimpered and crawled out from under the netting. Her round cheeks gleamed pink.

  “Mama?”

  “Come, get down.” She set the child on the leaf-covered ground. “Stay here. I might needs put you back in the wagon.”

  Hannah’s feet shuffled the leaves. She stared with awed blue eyes at the threatening sky, visible through the waving oak branches. And she gasped when winds caused loose canvas to suck in and billow out.

  Ella went to an extra barrel lashed to the high-sided supply wagon and removed the top. It was empty. She wanted to collect all the precious liquid she could, even if the barrel collected debris from the oak trees. The other two barrels, tied on the big wagon, remained half full or more, but she lifted their algae-coated lids.

  Thunder clapped and rumbled, sounding like a wagonload of logs set loose and rolling on a steep mountainside. But there was no mountain, only level, wooded land with wind-whipped trees. Loosened branches and gray air plants fell to the leaf litter on the ground, and shifting winds banished the heat.

  Hannah dug her dirty toes in the sand. The cooler air twisted her faded blue shift around her slight body. Only when dirt blew sideways with the next gust did she shut her eyes.

  Ella pulled the tucked hem of her skirt from the snug waistband and it dropped modestly into place around her boot-encased ankles. The material wafted in the wind like a stained gray sail.

  Thunder crashed. A horse neighed.

  A frightened wail announced Amos was awake.

  “Stop screamin’!” She pulled the three-year-old out of the wagon and into her arms. “Don’t it feel nice?” She held a hand high and wiggled her fingers. “Smell the rain?”

  Amos scrunched his tear-reddened face and screamed louder with each peal of thunder. “Papa!” His grubby fingers clutched Ella’s shoulders, and he kicked his bare feet into her thighs.

  “Hush, Amos! Don’t kick me.” She wrapped an arm across the backs of his legs.

  He buried his face in her blouse, smothering the cries.

  Cold rain hit them. Ragged lightning lit the charcoal-colored sky. Thunder shook the ground. Ella whirled toward the wagon and pushed Amos over the rear boards, despite his shrill screams.

  “Stay, Amos. Move back.”

  Hannah came running. Her eyes said she no longer cared for the gusty wind. Small limbs, leaves, and branches pelted them.

  The noise grew deafening as a sheet of rain approached. Ella lifted her daughter to the wagon’s interior and climbed up. She gazed in the direction Jim had gone.

  Her lips formed another prayer.

  A blast of wind drove needles of rain into the wagon. It stung her face as she tightened the gatherings and dropped the inner curtain. But the blowing rainwater found gaps and soaked their belongings piled and crated on the floor. While claps of thunder and flashes made her wince, Ella snatched the narrow mattress off the floor.

  “Mama, it’s comin’ in!” Hannah, her blue eyes riveted on the stream of cold water flowing along the planks, backed away from the front of the wagon.

  Ella stumbled in the semi-darkness and tried to tighten the fastenings, but soon gave up. She placed the children on the mattresses and climbed up with them. She tugged the mosquito netting closed and huddled over their bodies. The rain drummed on the sagging canvas. Moisture found its way through the oiled weave and dripped inside. The heavy scent of wet material, damp dirt, rotting leaves, and unwashed bodies filled the shadowed wagon.

  Fiery streaks of lightning revealed ominous shadows outlined on the wagon’s covering. The wind sucked the canvas in and out, causing it to resemble a breathing animal, ready to devour them.

  “Sing, Mama.” Hannah patted Ella’s face. “Make us a song. Sing!”

  Amos’s babyish shoulders shook. “Mama?”

  “It’s all right.” She pushed sweaty strands of hair out of his face.

  He jerked at the next snap of lightning and buried his face in her lap.

  The storm exploded.

  The canvas did nothing to block the noise and white light.

  Her son dug his fingers into her skirt. “Light lan’ern!”

  “I cain‘t.” She couldn’t risk a flame while the wind tore at the canvas over their heads. “Shut your eyes! I’ll sing.”

  She bent close so her voice might be heard with the wind popping the canvas. Deeper in the woods, a tree crashed to the ground and caused the wagon to vibrate.

  “I’ll sing to ya—sing to ya, when the gales roll. I’ll sing to ya—sing to ya, when the wolves howl. Don’t fear, for ya know God is near. I’ll sing to ya—sing to ya, all the night long.” She hugged their shaking bodies and whispered a prayer with her made-up song. “Lord—give us your shelter!”

  By the end of a third song, the most dangerous part of the weather had passed. The wagon stopped swaying, but the pounding rain continued. The children huddled across her lap, arms intertwined and faces hidden.

  It seemed like hours before the rain slackened.

  The night held an unusual chill.

  Weary, Ella shifted the relaxed weight of the children. She left them under the netting, easing the ache in her arm muscles. Steady breathing told her they slept, so she felt her way to the back of the wagon.

  She lifted the damp curtain and loosened the gathered bindings. Tree-filtered moonlight crept in. The clouds slipped away to reveal thousands of winking stars. Fresh air filled the wagon, bringing the earthy scent of wet leaves and moss.

  Ella could see the forms of her babies. A twinge of shame made her pause. Because of the storm, the children hadn’t eaten. She pushed loose hair out of her face as her hands reached for the gun.

  She lifted her long skirt, put one foot over the end of the wagon, and caught a toehold with her boot. She held on and swung the other leg over the edge. The soggy ground deadened any noise she made jumping down.

  “Now what, Lord?” She lifted the gun out of the wagon. Her boots sank into the cushioned layer of muddy leaves. A shiver ran up her back.

  Danger lurked, although there were no sounds … other than the drip of leftover raindrops and the trilling ark, ark, ark of hidden tree frogs. Their calls mimicked quacking ducks, but reminded her to put covers on the water barrels before the tiny frogs got in.

  After tightening the rear opening against bloodthirsty mosquitoes, she placed her back to the wagon and watched the moonlit clearing. She supported the hefty gun in her arms.

  What’d the gunshot mean? Jim might be lost, but I dare not fire a shot to guide him. Lord, your word says you shelter your people. Protect us.

  Burnt pines—skeletal snags—dotted the clearing. New-growth palmettos fanned out where a hot fire had stripped the ground of thick growth. During the daylight hours, she saw where pine seedlings had pushed through patches of sand between the green palmettos.

  She moved to the edge of the trees. A low ridge ran the center of the clearing. The moon was bright enough for her to pick a path through the blackened fire rubble, and she traversed the large field by circling charred fallen logs where short gallberry bushes grew amongst the debris. The scent of rain-washed rosemary and damp dirt drifted in the air, but she wrinkled her nose at the scent of the wild rosemary.

  Her soggy skirt snagged charred brambles. She feared hidden eyes observed and calculated her vulnerability.

  At the other side of the clearing, she slipped into the shadows. Drip, drip, drip seemed to be the constant sound. The cicadas sent out an occasional trill.

  She couldn’t call Jim’s name because of what might be prowling in the night. The children were vulnerable to a predator getting into the wagon. And she didn’t want to signal her presence to an Indian.

  A small group of deer left the woods to the right and entered the field. They moved with vigilance, testing the night wind and turning their narrow heads to study the surroundings. She could see their white-centered ears twitch and move in the moonlight.

  One youn
g doe dropped her head and nibbled at foliage. A late-summer fawn kicked his heels and pranced, silly and carefree. But the adult deer studied the clearing, cautiously lifting their thin legs to step over the wet plants.

  With the snapping of underbrush, the feeding doe faced the disturbance and stamped the wet dirt. Then she gave a whistled snort.

  The startled fawn head-butted into the doe’s side, clung close, and shifted its slender hooves. But when the adults turned and bolted, the fawn joined them. With tails held high, flashing silver-white in the moon’s glow, the deer ran into the distant woods. Holding the gun in front of her chest, she moved away from the trees.

  A wolf sent out a plaintive, echoing cry, and a tingle ran up Ella’s spine, even though the two-note ascending call came from far away. Six bats fluttered and switched in zigzag patterns through the night sky.

  It was much too dangerous to leave the children and go search for Jim. Pressing her trembling lips together, Ella turned back to the wagons. The lower half of her wet skirt dragged against her legs with each heavy step … much like the beating of her heart.

  In the narrow space on the wagon’s floor, she stretched out. It was where, the night before, she had lain with Jim, one hand on his naked chest. His heartbeat had been under her fingertips. If he hadn’t insisted on removing the chest and wooden box from the wagon—so he could sleep with her—she wouldn’t have been able to lie close to his body. But if he had slept outside, ignoring their mutual desire for intimacy, the cows wouldn’t have escaped. He would be safe.

  “Jim, where are you? What do I do?”

  He was her protector, the father of her children, and her first love. Fear threatened to throw her into a panic.

  Silence filled the forest, and the moon’s light threw eerie shadows on the canvas. Pressing her face to the thin mattress, she muffled her sobs.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, September 25, 1847

  Daylight filtered through the canvas and Ella sat upright. The children still curled in slumber, bodies touching under the netting.

  “Lord, I don’t recall the parts of the Bible talkin’ of mercy, but I know they’re there. But I’m wonderin’ where Jim is and how I can protect the babies.”

  She opened the end of the wagon. A cooler morning greeted her. Pale shades of blue stained the horizon. The livestock showed their hunger by straining at their tethers and reaching for available leaves, fallen moss, and grass.

  Hannah sat up and pushed aside tangled hair. “The rain’s gone?”

  Ella smiled over her shoulder. “Yes, it’s mornin’.”

  “Mama? You been cryin’?” She had an adult’s means of studying a situation.

  “I’m worried. Papa hasn’t come back.” She had to be honest—about some things.

  Amos rolled over, slid off the mattress, and wiggled into Ella’s lap. His pale eyebrows drew together in a taut frown, shadowing his innocent blue eyes.

  Ella touched his face. “You have some bites.”

  “It—ches.” Amos rubbed a mosquito bite on his cheek and leaned against her shoulder. “Papa gettin’ cows?”

  “Yes.” She ran her fingers through his tousled hair and fought tears. His light-colored curls clung to her fingers like bits of sunlight. The sharp scent of urine rose from the child’s damp clothing.

  Her heart ached. I must protect him!

  “I need to use the bushes,” Hannah whispered.

  “Come here. Let me get down first. Today we’re goin’ to be very quiet.”

  She placed the gun within reach, slipped to the ground, and studied the woods and clearing. Even with Jim’s absence affecting their circumstances, she had to act normal and keep a clear head.

  “I slept in my shift,” the girl said, standing near the rear of the wagon. She wrinkled her nose and considered the dirty material, while pressing at it with her little hands. “It’s messy.”

  “An’ I slept in my skirt.” Ella tried to smile up at Hannah, who would turn six within the week.

  “I want to eat.”

  “Me too.”

  Leftover raindrops splattered the wagon, and a crow cawed from a dead pine. The chickens, in the nesting box, added their own hungry clucking to the mixture of sounds. The smell of wet grass and composting vegetation filled the air.

  “Shh.” Ella lifted the children down. “Hannah, don’t stray into the brush.” She stopped Amos from running off like he always tried to do. “Amos, baby, you’re wet. You must learn to be a big boy. Granma’s chamber pot is on the wagon floor. You’re past three years.”

  Aching with weariness, she bent and disentangled her son’s chubby, insect-bitten legs from the wet cloth and knitted soaker. With a squeal of pure delight, Amos escaped, slipping from her outstretched fingers. He ran naked into the growing sunlight. Unmindful of any menace lurking nearby, he laughed at her attempt to intercept him and jumped up and down. It was a cool September morning, but he still didn’t care if his skin was exposed.

  “Amos, quiet!”

  “Mama!” Hannah’s disapproval showed on her oval face. She squatted in the bushes, her rumpled shift gathered around her little waist. “He shouldn’t do that. He needs his britches. Papa don’t like it when Amos goes without. Uncle Duncan calls it ‘start-nekked.’”

  “Start-nekked?” Ella smiled. Well, I guess it is how we all started out. “Hannah, don’t repeat all Duncan says. I think Amos’s got more Injun in him than not.” Her energetic son enjoyed his unusual freedom.

  “It’s bad of ’im.” Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears and tried to act grown up.

  “At least ways, it’s not freezin’ cold here or he’d git gooseflesh. Amos, git away from the pa’mettos.”

  In a different setting she would’ve laughed at his wild antics, but her nerves flared.

  Her eyes swept the surroundings.

  What’s hidin’ out there? Lord, I cain’t spend time tremblin’ with fright. My son, in his willfulness, needs correction. But he’s just a boy. He don’t know what can creep ’round behind a bush, but … I know.

  Amos giggled, stamped his bare feet in the loose sand, and jumped in a circle. He resembled a tiny savage. His sun-streaked hair stuck out all over his head—much like curly porcupine quills.

  She envied her son’s lack of propriety. The begrimed gray skirt she wore—for the fifth day—hung in creased folds. Her high boots chapped the sides of her calves. She longed to go barefooted and feel the unusual white sand between her toes.

  I’m goin’ to do it one day. I’m goin’ to sink my toes in Florida sand.

  “I wish Papa was here.” Shiny tears filled Hannah’s eyes. She stood to her feet and stumbled out of the bushes. “Oops! I tripped.” The top of her right foot showed a new scratch behind the toes. It welled up in tiny beads of scarlet.

  “I wish the same.” Ella knew better than to mention the blood and helped her daughter pull her underpinnings into place.

  The girl lowered her shift and held her hair away from her face. She locked her light-blue eyes with Ella’s. “Kin God hear prayers in Flori—da?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kin we go home? I miss Granma McKnapp.”

  “I know you do. But she’s in Heaven. Remember? Honey, there’s lots of people—things I miss.”

  “What thin’s?” The girl’s fingers dug at a bite on her neck.

  Ella couldn’t answer. Tears burned her eyelids. I miss safety, peace, our log home, family, an’ cold mount’in streams—an’ your father.

  “Mama?”

  “I miss havin’ a straight path home,” she muttered.

  “You got a map?”

  “Yes. Uncle Duncan’s.” Which makes no sense, an’ he’s been gone for weeks. “An’ I have the settler’s map in my sewing box.” She smoothed Hannah’s rumpled hair. “Watch Amos for me whilst I tend to the oxen. Don’t wander. Hear me? Not even one step.”

  Her uncertainty doubled as she drew water out of the supply wagon’s barrel. A few inches of wa
ter remained. The heavy-limbed trees over the wagon had prevented the barrel from collecting rain.

  That left only the small barrels on the main wagon. There were plenty of lakes, but getting to them presented problems.

  Jim needed to return soon.

  The sun edged over the treetops. The last remnants of clouds drifted to the east. She untied the damp canvas at both ends of the wagon so the wet floor and items would dry. The warm sunlight crept between tree branches and formed bright patches in the gloomy interior.

  “Children, stay by the wagon. I must tidy it.”

  She fought tears. Something was horribly wrong. She couldn’t deny it any longer.

  “Jim, I sent you searchin.’” She gulped back sobs. “I’m so scared!” She wiped her face in the bend of her elbow.

  Nervous rumors from homesteaders filled her mind. Most stories told of the Seminoles—new stories still surfacing. Some of the white men acted as if they wanted trouble to start so they could randomly shoot and kill the Indians. And Florida wasn’t as free of attacks as Duncan led them to believe.

  Duncan.

  Ella folded the rumpled bedding. “You left us to fight our way through these flat woods, wet prairies, seeps, and swamps! Duncan, I could hate you,” she whimpered, tears flowing freely. “You got Jim’s attention with your stories of Florida. You pulled him away from our mountains.”

  But she couldn’t blame Duncan.

  Jim, of his own volition, accepted his brother’s talk of plentiful game, beautiful lakes, and unclaimed land.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to shut out the horrible reality facing her. What if Jim doesn’t return?

  Jim’s mother had been against the move Duncan talked of, and she protested the uprooting of her sons. She said the McKnapps belonged to the mountains of Georgia, but her death nudged Jim into agreeing with Duncan and letting the past slip away. Samuel joined them at the last minute, considering it a mission trip—to build a school and teach the children in Florida settlements.

  Hundreds of miles now separated them from the remaining family. Ella was glad her mother-in-law hadn’t lived to see her oldest son forsake the homestead. The woman refused to budge, saying she’d rather wither away and die in the clay-chinked home her husband built. She wanted to be buried on a green, windswept knoll, where the roots of a hickory tree would eventually encircle her pine coffin and cuddle her bones. And with her passing, she was spared the sight of her three oldest sons leaving behind all they knew.