Somerset

by Leila Meacham

  My husband. How strange to think of Silas Toliver that way since, of course, he will probably never be mine to claim as such. His heart belongs to Lettie, perhaps forever. He must miss her sorely. How can she not occupy his thoughts during the empty hours at the head of the wagon train? But even if it were not for Lettie, Tippy describes my countenance when Silas and I do meet “about as welcoming as a hot skillet on a bare bottom” and suggests that I smile at him occasionally.

  He wouldn’t notice, I say to her.

  Try it, she says, and then I know that with her uncanny perception she’s aware of my growing feelings for him.

  APRIL 1, 1836

  For the company of Silas, I would prefer my Conestoga to be at the head of the wagon train, but no, he has decreed it rumble along smack dab in the middle of the line. I could voice my dissent, but then Silas would ask my reason, and I’d be at a loss how to answer him. His basis for my wagon’s place in line is simple: It is safer. The lead driver has responsibilities that Jasper has had no experience to handle. The lead driver must navigate problems in the terrain, set an even pace, and be ever alert to the wagon leader’s signals to stop, slow down, speed up, or change course. It is not uncommon to come across a snake or animal in the path that can startle the teams, and without a cool head handling the reins, a runaway wagon or possible stampede are sure to result. Also, the lead driver is the first target of an Indian arrow.

  Jeremy’s Conestoga at the head of the Warwick line is driven by a slave named Billy who is one of the most famous teamsters in South Carolina.

  Do I dare write of my feelings in my journal? What if Silas should read it? Then he would know that I resent hardly having a glimpse of him until nightfall unless he reins back to check on Joshua sharing my wagon seat on those days he does not permit him to ride beside Billy.

  When Silas does appear, I still can’t keep my chagrin from showing. Mercy, if it were not for his son, I do believe my husband would never show his face to ask after his wife. What is happening to me? Every time I see Silas so confident and authoritative in the saddle, so calm and judicious in meeting the concerns of others that flare up daily, I feel this dreadful gush of warmth and pride that angers and bewilders me. How can I be victim to such wifely emotions when I share no bond with the man who causes them?

  I wish I had a confidante who possessed the knowledge and experience to help me understand these untoward sensations that leave me weak and feeling helpless. Sometimes I am so filled with them I believe I will explode like an over packed pig’s bladder.

  Tippy told me I am in love and all my woman’s juices are flowing. The stars told her so.

  Ask them what I’m to do about it, I told her.

  Be nice to Mister Silas and see what happens was her reply.

  I told her that I had said terrible things to him at Willowshire, and he’s bound to remember.

  Tippy replied that men take no mind to what women say, not when their juices are flowing.

  I lamented that my appearance was not liable to make him forget or to start his juices flowing.

  You might be surprised, she said, and grinned.

  Indeed I would be.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  By the time they reached Georgia, Jessica had exchanged her corset for one petticoat and her fashionable day gowns with their down-filled sleeves and full conical skirts for simpler cotton dresses. She had now joined the sparrows if not their nest. The importance of preserving the “empire silhouette,” so flattering to her figure, her only asset, seemed ridiculous when attempting to walk beside a mud-slinging wagon in pouring rain to lighten the load or to maintain a seat while driving on a washboard road or navigating forests, rivers, and swamps. The large brim of a calico bonnet she’d purchased from a general store in a small town before leaving South Carolina sheltered her freckled face, and Silas had surprised her with a sturdy pair of women’s work boots he’d seen in a store window. “I hope they are not too big, he’d said. “You have such dainty feet.”

  Jessica had been overcome by the compliment. The boots were the ugliest looking footgear she’d ever seen, and indeed too big, but thick stockings would fill them up, and they were so much more practical and comfortable than her lightweight kid leather slippers.

  “Thank you,” she’d said shyly.

  He seemed pleased that he had pleased her. “You’re welcome.”

  “Of course I will pay you for them,” she said.

  His face showed an instant’s disappointment, then hardened. “They were meant as a gift from my own pocket, but if you prefer, you may consider them purchased by your father, who has already paid for them.” His tone had been clipped, and he’d stalked away before he could see her bite her lip in self-reproach.

  Why, Jessica had wondered, did she persist in slamming doors in the man’s face he seemed to want to open to her? Was she afraid he might see the truth of her feelings for him, whatever that truth was? The day would come when he would no longer bother, and she could not blame him. Indeed, as she noted in her diary a week later, the exchange marked his last attempt to win her friendship, but by then, his days were too busy and fraught with anxiety to try. Their last encounter had happened on the eve of the dreadful news that reached them the next day.

  APRIL 7, 1836

  Oh me, oh my, it is rumored that the Creek Nation may go to war against the whites for the fraudulent theft of their land, and we’ve been told we must be on constant alert for attack as we pass through Georgia and Alabama. What did the greedy whites expect when they swarmed onto Creek hunting fields and farms, forcing them out of their own homes and stealing their land rights? Appeal to our government to stop the thievery has been futile. The United States government has broken every treaty it signed with the Creek Nation that guaranteed them protection from encroachment on their territory, and now the Indians have had enough.

  I am concerned over the mumblings (mainly from the slave owners, of course) that have risen against Tomahawk Lacy, Jeremy’s faithful Creek scout, who has been charged to reconnoiter the trail for danger and safer routes. Tomahawk’s out-rider skills have been invaluable to the success of the train so far, and now the ingrates question if his reports can be trusted when he returns from a scouting mission. They fear he is torn between his loyalty to Jeremy and his allegiance to his own people. I like Tomahawk so much. He closes his eyes when he talks to you, as if concentrating on every word for its perfect accuracy. It should be an annoying feature of his expression, but it is not. Somehow his habit makes you believe everything he says.

  The grumblers did not address their concerns directly to Silas and Jeremy. They muttered them within my hearing distance with the intention that I relay them to Silas, which I did, and he in turn would inform Jeremy. I have observed that the men in the train, including the hotheads, give Silas and Jeremy a wide berth. My husband and Jeremy have proved themselves extraordinary wagon masters, and they have made it clear that those not satisfied with their leadership are welcome to pull out and seek their own way to Texas.

  So far none has.

  The almost certain possibility of an Indian attack necessitated halting the wagon train for a day so that everyone—men, women, and children—could learn and practice defense and protection procedures. The wagon leaders and Tomahawk addressed the large congregation with information on what to expect if attacked and gave instructions and demonstrations on techniques to stay alive and preserve their property and livestock. For practice sessions, the members of the wagon train were to be divided in groups of eight with each member of the family assigned specific duties to assist others in their section.

  “United we stand. Divided we fall,” Jeremy quoted. “In an Indian attack, it’s not every man for himself. It’s every man watching out for the back of his neighbor.”

  Led by the most seasoned among them, the audience was then dispersed to rehearse what it had learned. Tippy, Jasper, Joshua, Jeremiah, and Maddie were sent to be with Tomahawk’s party. Jessica, sta
nding beside her wagon, waited to be assigned to hers. She had begun to get impatient when Silas finally broke away from his supervisory duties. Her heart leaped when she saw the tall, slim figure stride toward her, a reaction she concealed by setting her face in stone.

  “I was beginning to think I’d been forgotten, Mr. Toliver,” she said, her tone crisp. “To what group am I to be dispatched?”

  “Mine, Miss Wyndham.” Silas held out a long-barreled gun. “Do you know how to shoot this?”

  She gazed at it, nonplussed. “I…can shoot a pistol. I was taught before I left South Carolina.”

  “But how about a flintlock rifle?”

  “I’ve never held one in my hands.”

  “Then get down on the ground and lie on your stomach, right here by your wagon’s wheel.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “I’m going to teach you how to shoot it.”

  “Oh. I thought my task would be to keep the guns loaded.”

  “That, too, Miss Wyndham, but every woman needs to know how to aim, load, and fire a weapon in an Indian attack. Keep your pistol beside you, but it is useless unless your adversary is within close range. We won’t waste ammunition today, but you can practice aiming and firing, and I’ll show you how to load the gun. Now, please. Get down on the ground.”

  Jessica obeyed and lost her breath when Silas lay beside her and reached across her to adjust the gun to her shoulder. She willed herself to ignore the press of his body and the closeness of his head as he patiently and softly warned her of the gun’s report and fed instructions into her ear.

  “Steady the gun in a spoke and aim for the belly of the horse. When the horse goes down, the Indian will, too. You may not have time to reload. When the Indian comes within closer range, that’s when you use your pistol.”

  Jessica listened, appalled. Shoot a human being, an innocent horse?

  “That’s it. Good. Now try again,” Silas said, close beside her, when she aimed and fired at a pretend target.

  When finally he was satisfied, Silas showed her how to insert a paper cartridge filled with gunpowder and a lead ball into the gun barrel. They sat knee to knee, their close heads bent over the gun. Jessica was acutely aware of his nearness and hoped that, in his man’s way, he did not sense her “juices” flowing.

  “All right,” he said, too soon, and clambered to his feet. “That’s enough for today.” He reached down to give her a hand up, and she noticed his gaze sweep over her hair, flaring unfettered over her shoulders. She was without her bonnet since the day was warm and overcast.

  “I suggest, in case we’re attacked, that you cover your hair completely,” he said. “Red-haired white women are prized among Indian warriors and chiefs—not that they’re treated as such.”

  Horrified, Jessica clasped her head. “Do you think I…should have it cut?” she asked sorrowfully.

  He seemed as regretful. “What a pity that would be. No, let’s see how events unfold before taking such a drastic measure. I’m leaving the gun with you. Practice your aim and assembling cartridges, but keep the gun barrel empty. We’ll need every bit of ammunition should worse come to worst. Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, let us so hope,” Jessica said. “Thank you for your instruction, Mr. Toliver. I realize it is to your advantage that I stay safe, but I…appreciate the lesson for my own sake.”

  “Instruction in keeping safe is to the advantage of all of us, Miss Wyndham,” Silas said and strode off, his parting shot the last he had to say to her of any substance in the long, anxious weeks following. She sensed his watchful eye upon her as they passed through Georgia and Alabama into Louisiana without mishap from the Creeks, who had indeed declared war against the whites, but he kept his distance, and Jessica could only guess at his relief when he dumped her in New Orleans in two weeks’ time.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Silas set aside his account book. He’d hardly had a moment to tally the receipts of the trip since it began. He liked to do his figuring in the privacy of his Conestoga when all was quiet for the night, but he’d no sooner settle down to his ledger than someone requiring his services would knock at the canvas curtain of his wagon. He poured a small measure of brandy into a glass and sat back to savor it with a sense of satisfaction. So far the costs of the trip had fallen below his budget and without the sacrifice of needed supplies and materials. They were out of Creek territory, but he did not regret the expense of extra ammunition and hobbles to keep animals restrained and safe from theft in case of an Indian attack. There would be plenty of opportunities to be glad of their purchase later on in Texas. The savings in his account, composed of the money for the burned Conestogas, had been due to careful spending. Carson Wyndham did not need to know of the surplus or of any other monies saved from future deposits. If Silas had to adjust his receipts to correspond with the expenditures his father-in-law’s payments were meant to cover, he would. Silas did not regard the adjustment as deceit. His thrift would benefit Carson because his son-in-law intended to pay back every cent the man had agreed to pay him to take his daughter off his hands.

  Silas did not know how he would do it, but he would start by selling his Conestoga in New Orleans and share Jeremy’s into Texas, and already he had mentally devised ways he could saw a little off his expenses here, a little there, and store away the savings while using Carson’s funds to get Somerset started. The manor house could wait until he could pay for its construction from his own pocket, but he would not sacrifice his land and its development for the sake of Jessica, his pride, or any other cause, such as his mother’s warning he’d never completely shaken off. If you go through with this marriage for the reason you’ve contracted it, there will be a curse on your land in Texas.

  Poppycock. There was no such thing as a curse, but if there were, he could lift it by setting Jessica free. He would set aside part of his cotton profits to add to his growing bundle, even purchase fewer slaves and land than he intended until the day (he hoped in five years) he wrote a banknote to his loathsome “benefactor” to cover all Silas had sold his soul for—including his daughter. Jessica would have her freedom. She would still be young. She could move up North and live with her aunt, indulge her abolitionist leanings to her heart’s content, and her father would have nothing to say about it. It was the least Silas could do for her.

  Of course all his plans depended on his arriving in Texas safely and getting started.

  Once set free, Jessica might even consider marrying Jeremy. It was clear he admired her greatly. “Never a whimper, whine, or a complaint have I heard from her, Silas,” he’d said recently.

  “You would be more likely to hear it than I, Jeremy,” Silas had commented.

  “Only because you do not avail yourself of the opportunity to be around her. Jessica has eyes only for you, Silas. If you’d but set yours on her now and then, you’d see for yourself.”

  “I would, but I fear she’d spit in them,” Silas had retorted wryly. Eyes for him? Jeremy was losing his keen acumen for reading others if he thought that cold little abolitionist felt anything but loathing for him.

  “She’s writing a diary, you know,” Jeremy said. “Women confess all to their diaries. Why don’t you take a peek in it and enlighten yourself?”

  “Because I’m afraid of what I would read.”

  “Read the journal, Silas.”

  But for all Jessica’s cool indifference, Silas came to admire her. His wife wanted to pull her weight in the wagon train and found ways to do so. At night she entertained the children by reading to them from his son’s store of books. At first, only Joshua cuddled up next to her by the fire, then gradually other children joined their circle. Naturally, Jessica would give him a heart-stopping moment when she waved the slaves’ children to gather around as well. There were, of course, grumblings.

  “You need to tell your wife the readings are for the white children only,” one woman, a planter’s wife, snapped to Silas.

  “I h
ave a better idea. Why don’t you tell her.”

  None dared to approach the young, self-possessed, imperious figure in the glow of the campfire, and the mixed gatherings continued.

  The sight of Jessica writing in her journal, or diary, on her wagon seat led to hat-in-hand requests from the unlearned to compose letters for them to mail back home, and there were days and sometimes nights when Silas would see her, a humble petitioner by her side, bent over her writing tablet to commit the dictated words to paper. To comfort a sick child, she shared the hard candy and popping corn, nuts, and dried fruits her mother had insisted go with her, and once Silas had overheard Jessica say to Tippy, “Don’t let’s eat the sweets in this bag. Let’s save them for the children.”

  Spring arrived when the train entered Creek territory, and, to relieve the tension around the campfire, Jessica had Tippy show the young girls how to weave amazing coronets of flowers from the purple wisteria and redbud trees and white dogwood that abounded in the woods. Also, selflessly, showing not the least reluctance, his wife offered the soft material of her fine dresses for bandages when injuries befell members of the wagon train. The inevitable day came when Silas told her she would have to leave one of her wardrobe trunks by the side of the road.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It is mostly empty.”

  His wife seemed to meet every danger, deprivation, and discomfort with courage and resolve, reminding Silas of Lettie, but it was her way with his son that earned his greatest appreciation. Joshua thought of her as his special playmate, and Silas could not help noticing the possessive pride with which he paraded around the campground, his hand in hers, as if to tell the other children they all counted, but none as much as he. Jessica eased his homesickness and yearnings for Lettie, soothed his fears, and diverted him from danger, but never with the authority of a stepmother. Her approach was that of a friend. When Silas warned her against imposing her anti-slavery views on his son, she’d said, “I can promise no words from me on the subject, Mr. Toliver, but I can’t speak for my example.”