“Come here.”
Ella set the boy on the porch. She assured herself their situation was less frightening—that there was hope. Jim would follow her ribbons and find her—if they stayed in one spot.
“Mama, we’re hun’ry.” Hannah patted Amos on the stomach. “His belly’s growlin’.”
“So is mine.” She worried about the danger of lighting a fire and having smoke waft upward, but the hope in her children’s eyes made her chance it. “There’s meat left in the kettle. It’ll spoil soon. We’ll start a small fire.”
To the left of the cabin, she cleared the sandy ground and scooped out a bowl-like depression with her hands. She had to make sure the fire couldn’t spark the grass, or abundant pine needles, and travel to the cabin.
In no time, a steady fire burned in the shallow pit. With the tripod set and the kettle over the fire, the leftover meat soon simmered.
Amos crouched on his heels, his dirty hands clasped on his bent knees. “We sleep here?”
Ella smiled. “Yes. Come with me. Let’s go see what’s inside the fence.” She took his hand and left Hannah to watch the fire.
While poking through the abandoned garden area, they were able to collect three potatoes buried in the sun-warmed ground. As if they represented miniature pieces of rare treasure, she carried them back to the fire. The potatoes probably grew as volunteers from old potatoes left in a past garden. She rinsed them and tossed them, skin and all, into the iron kettle. They would add subtle flavor to the mixture.
With a straw broom retrieved from the wagon, she stood on the ladder and pushed all the debris from the cramped loft to the lower floor. Her energized determination returned, and the scent of the simmering meat calmed her fears.
When the loft met her satisfaction, she destroyed all the mud daubers’ nests she could reach, before examining the fireplace. There were no weak areas in the firebox. But blackened spots in front of the firebox indicated cooking fires had crept out and scorched the rugged floor. Ella feared the chance of a fire getting out of control and wished for her mountain cabin. The two bedrooms had been connected by a dogtrot, affording more protection from fire.
She swept the ashes into a pile.
A hollow log out in the yard bore evidence of use as an ash hopper, so she dumped the ashes into the blackened center to save for making soap.
Hannah ran to her. “Is the meat hot?”
“Yes, let’s eat before I finish cleanin’.” But it wasn’t until the children filled their stomachs and went back to playing that Ella ate the leftovers in the bottom of the kettle. The little boy and girl didn’t notice tears dripping to her blouse front as she went back to cleaning. Her emotions hovered on despair, but she fought for control.
She added burnable items to the outside fire. In one corner of the cabin, she discovered a rat’s nest containing four babies. Without hesitating, she rolled the nest and the hairless, squirming, pink-and-gray bodies in an old shirt and took them to the nearby woods. She placed them under a slash pine. The children would’ve begged to keep them as pets. Guilt camped on her shoulder, but she knew she couldn’t leave the rodents in the cabin to multiply and get into the precious food supplies, nor could she kill them herself.
Ella left her cleaning long enough to picket the oxen and cow in a spot closer to the barn. She used a wooden dipper to scoop most of the bad water out of the carved trough, and by making trips to the barrel on the wagon, she managed to dump a couple inches of clean water in it.
“Where’d these people git water?” Puzzled, she gazed about her. “Surely they didn’t go to the river every time they needed it.”
The playful calf created a nuisance, while she made sure the ropes stretched to the water and did not allow the animals to become tangled together. “Get back, you silly goose,” she said, shoving the calf toward his mother. “Go bother mama.”
It was late afternoon when Ella stopped to sit on the edge of the porch. A brief shower fell from a cloud-sprinkled sky, and the children ran and squealed in the cool rain and continuous sunshine. Rain dampened the sandy ground and dripped off the roof edge—creating indentions in the sand around the perimeter. A fresh scent filled the cooled air, even while the noon fire sizzled and smoked.
Ella held her hand out to the rain running off the roof. “I wish we could’ve stayed by the peaceful river.”
“What, Mama?” Hannah pulled Amos toward the porch.
“Nothin,’ baby.”
Amos’s eyelids drooped, and he sought her lap. Hannah whined and complained about a sandspur stuck in her right foot. “It’s hurtin’!”
“I cain’t see it. It must be gone.” Ella rubbed at her temples.
The girl dug at her foot with a fingernail. “Is Papa lookin’ for us?”
“I’m sure he is.” Ella’s fingers trailed through Amos’s damp hair, pushing it off his forehead. “I bet Papa saw our supply wagon.”
“Mama?” Hannah whimpered. “It hurts. The picker’s still in it.”
“Hannah, you need a nap. Hold your foot up here ag’in. Hmm … it’s a tiny sticker.” Even with her broken fingernails, she managed to pull the offending barb. “There. Now it’s nap time.”
Amos seemed to be asleep.
Hannah rubbed her eyes. “I don’t want a nap. I’m thirsty.”
“Well, like I showed you earlier, pull the plug on the barrel. Git a quick drink. Make sure you put the plug back.”
Amos bounced up, sleepiness forgotten. “Me?” He pointed at his naked chest and raised his sandy-brown eyebrows.
“Yes. Hannah? Help Brother git a drink.”
Ella stretched her tired muscles. After glancing over her shoulder at the children laughing and holding their faces to the stream of water coming from the barrel, she yelled, “Stop! Put the plug back. Do it—now.”
She snatched up the broom and swept the floor again. Her last job was to rinse it with a tiny amount of water and let the water drain to the ground underneath. When it was dry, she would arrange their simple belongings.
Satisfied, she stood by the door and surveyed the square interior of the log cabin. The rustic table was positioned to the right of the fireplace and the two benches set on either side of it.
The bed frame was to her right under the loft. She had worked on the hemp ropes—which would support a feather mattress—restringing them and putting in new rope where needed. Ella was pleased with the tension in the crisscrossed ropes. It would be a grateful change from the wagon’s floorboards.
In the loft, Hannah and Amos had a safe place to sleep, even though she worried about her son. Back in the mountains, he had slept close by.
A shuffling sound made her turn.
Hannah appeared in the doorway. Her light-colored hair stuck to her head. Shiny trickles of water ran down her face. Her bottom lip stuck out. Her blue eyes flickered in Ella’s direction and then toward her muddy feet. Water dripped from the hem of her brown cotton dress, making splattered spots on the log floor.
Amos stuck his wet head in at the door. His blue eyes were huge. He pointed an accusing finger at his sister.
“What is it?” Ella said. “You’re soaked.”
“Did somethin’ bad,” she whined.
Amos ducked out of sight.
“Bad? Hannah … you didn’t!” She shoved past her child’s taut body.
Chapter 14
Amos followed her. “Not do it.” He glared in denial.
Ella hurried to the barrel. A single drip came from the hole where the plug should’ve been. All the water had seeped into the greedy sand. With her weary shoulders sagging, she whirled to face them.
Hannah sniffled. “It went away!”
Amos vehemently shook his head. Water sprayed from his wet curls. He pointed at Hannah, and she let out a guilty wail.
“No!” Fear punched Ella in the midsection. “We needed that water. You knew better. Where’s the plug?” Hannah held out her wet hand.
Ella snatched it from the girl
’s cool fingers and shoved the plug in place, but the water was gone … every wet drop.
One full barrel remained on the other side of the wagon. It was all they had to drink, wash with, and water the animals. On the porch sat a bucket of clear water she had drawn to finalize her cleaning—which now she wouldn’t use. They could only pray for a heavy rain. Danger or no danger, she’d be forced to make an immediate trip to the river.
How can I do that?
She groaned at the sight of muddied sand under her boots and all the pressures of the day hit her.
I’m too tired to harness the oxen an’ make the return trip.
She fought her temper. Little footprints told the story. The children played under the tiny waterfall until it stopped, reminding them of her command. She placed her hands on the curve of her hips and studied their guilty faces.
A moment passed before she sighed in defeat. “Well, you’re gonna take a nap.”
“No.” Hannah scrunched her face into a frown. She tried to wring the water from her thin dress, her tiny hands twisting and squeezing moisture from the material.
“Don’t let me hear a whimper. Or—you’ll be breakin’ your own switch off a tree. I’ll put your mattress on the porch.”
Within fifteen minutes, they were asleep. The shade from the roof was wide enough to keep them out of the direct sunlight, and a cool breeze stirred their drying hair.
Oh, God, keep me calm. Help me do what I hav’ta.
Back in the wagon, she opened a wooden trunk to see what might be needed in the cabin. But instead, she slowly lifted two folded sheets. The fine-woven cotton sheets felt crisp in her hands and smelled of fresh mountain breezes. She crushed them against her face, closed her eyes, and moaned. They were the best she’d probably ever own—store-bought as a wedding present by Jim’s mother.
“No! Stop rememberin’!”
Abruptly, she placed them back in the trunk. Memories of Jim’s tender smile as he took her hand in the little mountain church edged into her mind. But she shied away from the recollection and firmly shut the trunk.
On the table, she placed her mother’s old, leather-bound Bible and a small tin basin. Nearby, she laid a camp hatchet and a ten-pound bag of corn meal. She spent a quiet hour unloading the essential items, her heart growing heavier with each item. Fearful of the future, she lacked a shoulder to lean on.
The children awoke from their naps and lifted her spirits with their happy chatter and innocent acceptance of their situation.
From outside the cabin came the fine twittering of small, greenish-yellow finches, jumping from branch to branch in the moss-laden oak. They were intent in their search of insects. Two of them flew near the open window and up to the weathered roof.
Hannah laughed. “They want to come in.”
“Mayhap, they will. Anythin’ could walk, fly, or crawl in here … if it so wished.” Ella brushed her hair out of her face and grimaced.
Somewhere in the field near the cabin, a male quail called.
Bob-white! Bob-white!
Amos’s eyes grew wide. He took note of the quail’s clear call. “Papa … gun?” he asked, apparently remembering the call of a quail in the mountains. It meant his papa would reach over, grab his gun, and go see if he could flush the covey.
“That’s good, you’re usin’ your ears. God gave ’em to us for a reason.”
Amos went to the doorway. He tipped his head sideways and listened. “Bob-white!” he yelled back to the quail. “Papa hear ’em,” he said, with unfailing confidence in his male parent. He gave his mama a broad smile, his even-spaced baby teeth a contrast to his tan skin.
Amos’s childish faith made Ella’s heart twist with growing dread. The boy didn’t understand the absence of his father. He didn’t comprehend the fact life was fragile.
But his innocent words made her fearful. They had one gun for protection—no husband to hunt for them or fight for them.
Panic made her dizzy.
She plopped down on a bench and rested her shaking hand on the closed Bible. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” she moaned. “Don’t let me count on a gun. I know you’ve protected us, an’ I’ll trust your word. You won’t leave us.”
Hannah leaned against her shoulder. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry, Hannah girl.” She wiped her face and forced a smile. “There—ain’t that better?”
The blue-eyed child nodded. “Yes. You sad?”
“Sad?” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sad your papa’s … lost, right now. He doesn’t know we found a river. And I miss our old home. But … we can grow to like this’n.” Her hands caressed the long hair tangled about Hannah’s face. “I think I need to go ’bout fixin’ some food for our evenin’ meal. Go play with Brother.”
A couple minutes later, Hannah ran back in. “Mama, where’s Amos? He’s gone.”
Chapter 15
“What do you mean?” Her legs went weak. “He’s on the porch. He’s listenin’ for quail.”
Hannah shook her head. “He’s not there.” Her doll dangled from her hand.
“Amos!” She dashed to the wagon and saw only their supplies. “Amos! Answer me.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Amos, come here!” Squatting down, she checked under the porch. Early evening shadows made it difficult to see.
Only the chattering and scolding of a nearby squirrel broke the silence.
“Mama, where’d he go?”
“Stay right there!” She snatched her skirt above her ankles and went for the gun. She didn’t know where to look. The little boy could’ve gone in any direction. While sobbing a prayer, Ella headed for the barn. “Amos?”
No Amos.
Then from far away—a faint wail of distress, “Ma … ma.”
She whirled in a full circle. “Where? Yell louder!”
“Mama!”
“Oh, thank you, God!”
Behind the barn, a section of undergrowth and brambles seemed higher and greener than the rest, and the cries came from the center of it. She lunged into the briers and feathery broomsedge and came to a halt. The ground crumbled and sloped away under her feet.
“Mama?” Amos’s voice came from the bottom of a depression or hole in the ground. He stood waist-deep in water, his tiny hands stretched toward her. Mosquitoes and insects filled the air.
“Stand still.” She dropped to her knees, feeling faint. Not three feet from her son, a dark-patterned snake arched its way along the rough limestone sides of the hole. “Don’t move. There’s a snake.”
Amos, little by little, lowered his arms and hands. His chin quivered, and his sky-blue eyes filled with tears. He glanced sideways at the snake. Whimpering, he shook, clasping his hands together in front of him. “No … no, no.” His bare chest shone slick with green duckweed, brown scum, and caked dirt.
“Baby—stay quiet.” She gripped the edge of the sinkhole, inched her fingers over the dirt, into the hole, and reached for her son. Her eyes never left the snake. “Raise your hand, Amos. Careful like. Lift it high.”
Mesmerized by the snake gliding through the rubble on the slope of the hole, Amos could only stare at it and not respond. Three mosquitoes bit at his neck and forehead.
“Amos. Look at me! Reach higher. Toes! Use your tiptoes!”
A second snake appeared.
Amos dove for her hand, grabbing it in both of his. As she lifted him free, his kicking feet climbed the exposed limestone.
“Oh, little one.” She clutched his wet body to hers, unmindful of the green plant life he left sticking to her clothes.
Amos returned the hug, but his tears stopped, and a note of curiosity lit his face. “A frog, Mama. I saw frog.”
“Amos, don’t you ever scare me like that ag’in!” She stood with him clasped in her trembling arms. “An’ don’t ever come near this hole.”
None the worse for his scary adventure, he wiggled to get loose. He ran toward the cabin, leaving his shaken mama. Her legs tremble
d as she watched him climb the steps.
“Lord, he’s so precious to me—thank you for keepin’ the snakes away.” She stared up at the clear sky. “I don’t see how you gave up your son for us.”
Her eyes dropped to the water in the hole.
Is it clean water?
A bucket could be lowered into it! She’d at least have water for the animals. With the thought bringing comfort, she wearily returned to the cabin.
The outside fire had died to powdery ashes. She knelt to arrange the limbs and the small logs she had gathered. It was too hot to try cooking inside. Her children wouldn’t have meat with their supper, but there were strips of dried beef jerky she could use. She tried not to think of the days ahead and the lack of food.
With the hem of her skirt, she wiped her forehead.
“Amos—Hannah?” She dropped her stained skirt and sighed. “Amos, git on the porch. Hannah, don’t let him off the porch.”
With shaky fingers, she rolled her sleeves higher and contemplated their list of supplies. With each passing day, there was less. The meat of the small hog had been a blessing, in more ways than one, but it was gone. The Indians and the slave had eaten the bulk of it. Her family needed more.
“If I go huntin’, what do I do with the children?”
The flour was still plentiful, but it wouldn’t last over a couple weeks. Only two bags of corn meal remained and some rice. The dried beef would be gone after their evening meal. She had seeds for planting, but it was past time for a garden. While fighting a new wave of anxiety, she added more wood to the outside fire and got her flame-darkened rock from the wagon. She pushed it into the glowing coals.
“I may hav’ta go fishin’.”
Ella retreated to the cabin’s shady porch, away from the heat of the fire, and cut the jerky into small pieces. The pieces went into a bowl, and she added a small amount of hot water. While the jerky softened and formed a rich liquid, she placed a black kettle on the table.
After measuring in two cups of water, she added uncooked kernels of rice, plus a measure of salt. She covered the kettle, carried it outside, and hung it over the fire. When the rice water came to a boil, she added the softened jerky and brown liquid.
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