Daughter of the Sword

by Jeanne Williams

  “You men have always found excuses to slaughter each other. I suppose it doesn’t matter whether you do it quickly or at leisure.”

  “’Borah!” cried Thos. “How can you say that when you’re learning to use a Bowie knife?”

  “What?” choked Rolf. He looked at her in astonished delight. “Not the Bowie?”

  Dane said nothing, but the startled expression in his gray eyes goaded Deborah far more than Rolf’s mischievous glee.

  “You don’t understand our circumstances,” she said austerely.

  “I think we do,” countered Dane. “Every brigand in Leavenworth had one or two Bowies and several pistols, as did most passengers on the steamboat. But I’ll confess I hadn’t suspected women, even in Kansas, felt it necessary to go armed.”

  “We don’t,” snapped Deborah. “But I could have wished this afternoon, sir, that I’d had the Bowie!” Thos stared at her and she recovered hastily. “But it’s well I didn’t, since you came in time to haul your hounds off the coyote and me. It would’ve been a pity to hurt the dogs for obeying their master.”

  Rolf threw back his head and laughed. “You wouldn’t have scrupled to carve on me?”

  “No.”

  “Be warned, brother,” said Dane in that intolerably superior way that made Deborah’s hackles rise. “These Western women aren’t at all what you’re used to. You’d best stick to hunting buffalo.”

  “That’s a comely woman at the blacksmith’s,” said Rolf. “Is she Indian?”

  “Shawnee,” said Deborah. “My dearest friend.”

  “I’d like to paint her,” Dane mused. “That was an intriguing group: the smith, Indian boy and girl, and that huge black man. Is he a slave?”

  “Johnny bought and freed him.” Deborah was reluctant to discuss her friends with these overbearing strangers.

  “Do you think they’d let me do some studies of them? They could go about their work and I’d just sketch what struck me.”

  “You’d have to ask Johnny—Mr. Chaudoin, and then see if the others were willing.” Deborah gnawed her lip, hating to say still another thing that would add to his conviction that she was an indelicate, unfeminine savage—though why should she care?

  She didn’t give a fig for Rolf’s opinion. Why should Dane’s matter? It did, but as to why, she was too bewildered and resentful to sort out just now. She only knew that for everyone’s sake, she must make Sara’s position clear. “Sara Field and her brother are like adopted children to Johnny. It’s thought by some whites that all Indian girls are ready game because Indian ideas about marriage and … and all that are different from ours. Sara thinks lots of white ways are crazy, but she was educated at Shawnee Mission. The man who wants her will have to get married in church.”

  “Or that formidable smith or giant blackamoor will get him if you don’t first slice him up with your Bowie?” Rolf grinned. He cocked his head at Dane. “Can you imagine Pater’s face if either of us came back with an Indian wife? Gad, it’s almost worth doing for that alone!”

  Thos sounded breathless. “Miss Sara has an understanding!”

  “Oh, is that the way of it?” whistled Rolf. At Dane’s scowl and Thos’s rather wild look, he added good-humoredly, “I’m sure I wish them happy, the Indian maid and her favored swain. But I still think it would be a rare jest, Dane, if our American trophies included a daughter-in-law for Sir Harry.”

  Dane said nothing, though his face was set. Deborah concluded that Rolf enjoyed baiting his older brother and that it sorely tried Dane to hold his tongue, though argument would merely push Rolf into more reckless assertions and, no doubt, actions.

  It was also humiliating to hear them discuss an American bride in the way they’d have spoken of a Hottentot. Deborah took solace in the thought that if the pair did stay for supper, which she heartily hoped they wouldn’t, since she wanted nothing more to do with either of them, Mother and Father would demonstrate, even to these prejudiced Englishmen, that Americans could be cultured and gracious even though they worked hard to scrape together a living and lived in a crude cabin.

  How, at that moment, she wished ferociously that they were still living in the soddy! That would give these sons of obviously rich Sir Harry something to write home about! Especially if a spider or baby field mouse dropped into their plates!

  That happy thought improved Deborah’s spirits, but as they approached the cabin and sod outbuildings, she looked at them as strangers would, as she had when freshly come from New England, the bark-covered logs of the cabin dabbed with mud, while from the sod and grass roof, wildflowers and weeds grew as thickly as on the ground. The cabin was much easier to keep clean and much lighter than the soddy had been, with four windows instead of two, but snow did blow in through the cracks during the heaviest storms.

  The soddy had been warmer in winter, cooler in summer, but so dark, and, worst of all, in spite of the cheesecloth fastened to the rafter poles, bits of root and grass and plenty of bugs and spiders dropped regularly from the layer of brush, the layer of prairie grass, and the final covering of more sod.

  And when it rained!

  Deborah grimaced. If rain was from the north, that side of the roof soon began to leak and the bed and pallets had to be moved to the south; when south rains came, they were moved north.

  And for days after the sun was bright and the outside air was fresh and sunny, the roof dripped sullenly into every bucket, kettle, and pan that could be spared.

  After one torrential storm followed by a steady all-day drizzle, the rafters had sunk deep into the walls and the roof sagged till it seemed certain to cave in. Father and Thos had gone to the river and cut several stout posts with which to prop up the overburdened rafter-poles.

  Fortunately, it hadn’t rained again for a month, so they escaped real disaster, but Mother had given thanks with special fervor when they’d moved out of the soddy, which, rafters propped up by more posts, served now as a stable.

  Chickens clucked, making for the coop where they’d be shut up safe for the night, Venus was over by the stable, standing companionably by Belshazzar, who whinnied and ambled forward to meet his pasture mate, who gave an answering and heartfelt response.

  Rolf ordered the hounds away from the chickens, enforcing his commands by slashes of the whip, which sent the dogs huddling off behind the house.

  Mother and Father, thank goodness, were already home, and the familiar smell of frying jackrabbit and cornbread drifted out.

  “I’m afraid we’re late,” said Deborah, “and we’ll have to hurry with our chores, so you’ll excuse us for making rather hasty introductions.”

  Dane frowned. “We’ll ride on to Lawrence. Stopping at this hour is presumptuous.”

  “You may go to Lawrence,” drawled Rolf, “but I’m invited to supper, and I’m staying.”

  “But of course you’ll both stay!” called Father from the door. “You must be the English brothers everyone in town’s talking about! Let’s take care of your horses, and then you must meet Mrs. Whitlaw and share our table.” He came forward, putting out his hand as the Hunters dismounted. “I’m Josiah Whitlaw.”

  The brothers introduced themselves and Deborah was glad to see the respect and swiftly hidden surprise in their expressions. Father was in shirtsleeves, his dark trousers were worn shiny, and his fingers were permanently stained from setting type, but he was carefully shaved and his diction was as cultivated as that of his guests.

  Leaving them to him with vast relief, Deborah handed her mother Sara’s gift of light bread, quickly explained her ruined sleeves, and carried skim milk and cornbread to the subdued hounds, fetching them a pan of water before she fed the chickens and collected five eggs from the hay nests in the coop.

  Usually Thos milked Venus, but he’d been rubbing down and watering the horses, lingering over the sleek blood bay and handsome gray as he gave them some corn. He was patting Nebuchadnezzar a trifle guiltily as Deborah passed him with the pail.

  “I’ll
milk,” she told him. “You still have to bring in wood and water.”

  “Thanks, ’Borah.” Thos gave her a searching look. “I have to clean those rabbits, too. Young Mr. Hunter gave them to us. Cross your heart?”

  It was an old code between them, asking for and promising complete truth, which Deborah at that moment wasn’t sure she cared for. “Don’t wheedle, Thos! You’d best tend to your chores.”

  The setting sun reddened his hair as he blocked her way. “Don’t you get skitterish, my girl! Did either of those fellows say or do anything they shouldn’t?”

  “It’s a fine time to worry about that, isn’t it, now you’ve asked them home and Father’s met them?”

  Thos flushed. “Quit beating around the bush, or I’ll wait for them on the road to Lawrence and see what they have to say about it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  “No. For yours.”

  She couldn’t lie to him; he’d have known it immediately through that extreme sensitivity they’d always had to each other. But neither could she let him fight either of the older, bigger men.

  “I was terribly angry at Rolf Hunter for chasing the coyote, and when he tried to look after my scratches, I … well, we got into sort of a muddle, which his brother interrupted.”

  Thos’s brows knit. “Did he insult you?”

  “Good gracious! Some women might have thought it flattering!” Deborah forced a laugh, giving him a shake. “It’s over, nothing’s wrong, and though I’d rather not have that conceited pair in our house, they’ll be a change for Father and Mother. You, too, from all the questions you were asking.”

  “I don’t see how an officer could give up his commission and start painting posies,” shrugged Thos, but, his protective brotherly conscience relieved, he hurried off. He was clearly fascinated by the Englishmen. He’d always loved heroes. Given half a chance, he’d make one of that grim Dane Hunter.

  Vexed at the thought, Deborah stripped the last of Venus’s milk into the frothing bucket, carried it to the well-house, and poured it into crocks so the cream would settle on the top for skimming. She washed out the pail and set it upside down on the bench, counted the eggs in another crock, saw there were fourteen, enough for Mother to trade at the store.

  The cream crock held almost enough for churning butter. Father could trade the new butter because there was still a pound or so left from the last churning. It was only during the past month that they’d felt rich enough to use butter instead of making do with pork drippings and sorghum. There’d be butter on the table tonight, butter and Sara’s fresh loaf, as well as cornbread.

  Deborah took a deep breath. There was nothing else to do, no other chores, nothing to check on. She had to go in.

  And face the strangers.

  iii

  Rolf and Dane rose from the round table as she entered. Rolf presented his chair to her so insistently that she let him seat her while he took the other side of Thos’s bench.

  It hadn’t been possible to bring all their furniture from New Hampshire, and what there was, though comfortingly familiar, looked incongruous. The polished legs of Mother’s rosewood pianoforte stood on the rough plank floor with the oval-framed portrait of her mother above it and a cut-glass bowl of wild roses on the top beside the thick leather-bound Bible handed down through gennerations of Father’s family.

  Father’s big roll-top desk was in the print shop, but beneath one window stood a shelf of treasured books with his globe and atlas on top. Over by the fireplace, which was used for cooking, stood the rocker in which Mother had rocked the twins through teething, night frights, and colics, or while she sang or told stories.

  A tall china cupboard held delicate porcelain that had been one of Great-Grandmother’s wedding gifts, but the stoneware for everyday use sat on homemade shelves. The heirloom silver was used every day. Wear made it more beautiful, Leticia said, and it couldn’t break.

  There were napkins on the table, too, and tonight Deborah was glad of that, though she hated to iron and loathed wash day above all things. The crude plank table near the fireplace was used for preparing meals, but the dining table was from the east, polished cherrywood with four matching chairs.

  In the cabin’s other room was the feather-mattressed four-poster where the twins had been born, a bureau, the sewing machine, and a large chest that held bedding and out-of-season clothes. In a curtained-off corner, Deborah slept on a wooden frame criss-crossed with rawhide and covered with a corn-shuck mattress.

  Thos had the same kind of bed in the lean-to attached to the south side of the house, though in summer he pitched his mattress in the open. Deborah would have liked to join him and drift off to sleep watching the stars, but her mother flatly refused. One more mark against the odious state of being a female!

  Father said the blessing and then passed a platter of rabbit to Dane.

  It’s hot that I mind being a woman, Deborah thought, taking a generous helping of the dandelion greens she had gathered and washed before going to Johnny’s. I just hate being told I can’t do this or that and having to wear these cumbersome skirts! Rolf gave her a side glance and she increased her grievances.

  It’s wretched, too, that some men are strong enough to treat you any way they please. And I think it’s awful that the first man’s kiss I ever had tasted of my own blood! I’m going to ask Johnny to let me carry my knife. He will if I tell him someone gave me a fright. And if I have my Bowie … well, then we’ll see how enterprising Rolf Hunter is!

  At this thought, she smiled so benignly at Rolf that he looked first amazed, then elated. She smiled with equal sweetness into Dane’s disapproving eyes and added rabbit, gravy, and a slice of Sara’s bread to her plate.

  Josiah, bless him, was bragging about Lawrence and how there had been churches and schools almost from the start, in marked contrast to most frontier towns, where a saloon was considered the first necessity.

  “The Congregationalists organized Plymouth Church in October of 1854,” he said. “We met in a hay tent till it burned down, and then any place we could find till we finally built our good stone church last year. It’s a sweet sound on Sunday morning, the church bells in the valley.”

  “Lawrence does seem a much more substantial and progressive town than most on the frontier,” Dane said.

  “We have the best buildings in the Territory, the finest hotel, newspapers, and a literary society besides schools and churches.” Josiah’s dark eyes twinkled and he closed his hand briefly but warmly over his wife’s. “Mrs. Whitlaw thinks I’m wearying you. Of course, compared to England, Kansas is a raw, rough place. But we’ve cast our lot with it, sirs, come here with other like-minded folk to see that Kansas enters the Union as a free state. We hope for this prairie land and we love it.”

  Rolf was looking bored, but Dane remarked that the people of Lawrence seemed a very different sort from those of Leavenworth.

  Mother sniffed, Thos grinned, and Father took a long drink of water. “Leavenworth’s full of land speculators, the hangers-on around a military post, and a good many Missourians who keep a foot on both sides of the border, though it’s not as bad as it was.”

  “When we said we were coming to Lawrence,” Rolf chuckled, “the mildest thing our landlord said was that it was a nest of doggoned, viperish, Free-State nigger-loving abolitionists.”

  “Well, Lawrence is the Free-State citadel,” shrugged Josiah. “We’ve been under siege twice. In 1855 Sheriff Jones, who was actually a citizen of Missouri, arrested a number of Free-Staters and set fire to the Free-State Hotel after his cannon didn’t demolish it. His men wrecked my press and scattered the type before doing the same thing to The Herald of Freedom. But the hotel’s rebuilt—the brickyard made 168,000 bricks for it—the presses are running, and our little town prospers.”

  Dane spoke thoughtfully. “As an editor, Mr. Whitlaw, you must be a special target for pro-slavers. Wouldn’t you and your family be safer in town?”

  “In New Hamps
hire the print shop made a comfortable living, but it’s another tune here, sir! We must raise as much food as possible. I hope, in time, to have a dairy and devote myself to that and farming when the struggle for the Territory is over, spending only a few days a week at the shop.”

  Deborah refilled cups with “coffee” made from parched wheat and molasses cooked together till they were almost burned, then cleared away the plates while Leticia took the lid off the cast-iron Dutch oven and cut slices of apple corncake, asking Deborah to bring in a pitcher of cream to pour over it.

  When she returned from the well-house, Dane was saying, “I don’t perfectly understand, sir, how western land’s acquired by settlers. To travelers from a part of the, world where all the land’s been claimed for centuries, your vast wilderness is mind-boggling!”

  Josiah explained the Preemption Act of 1841. Any head of a family, single man over twenty-one, or widow could claim one hundred sixty acres of public land so long as they’d swear they weren’t settling on the land in order to sell it, hadn’t agreed to turn it over to someone else, didn’t own three hundred twenty acres elsewhere, and had never preempted before. Having filed and sworn, the settler could buy the land at the appraised price, which was generally $1.25 an acre.

  “Then the land’s surveyed first and there are government offices to handle claims?”

  “Very often not.” Josiah shrugged. “As soon as land’s opened, settlers pour in and claim parcels. Land offices don’t open till a territory’s surveyed. I filed my claim with the office of the United States Surveyor General a year and a half before the Lecompton land office opened two years ago. Then the early claims were put in the regular books.”

  “The Indians must not look on settlers with much favor,” Dane commented dryly. “Don’t they consider this prairie theirs?”

  Leticia cast her husband a significant glance. Settling on former Indian land had been her sole objection to coming west, and the issue had been fervently debated at the Whitlaw table.