“Amen,” added all the younger ones, including little Rebecca’s, “may men.”
Mrs. Donaldson handed little George Washington Donaldson to Hannah, who put him to her shoulder for burping. Then she picked up my little Judah, wiped off the milk dribbling out of his slack mouth, and put him to her shoulder. She gently rubbed his back and said softly, “My husband went to the mill yesterday. He heard that there were soldiers out there, tryin’ to take it over, meanin’ to keep all of the flour and wheat that was in there still. I guess they’re serious about tryin’ to starve us out. Anyway, he was supposed to be back by last night, but he never came home. I didn’t want the girls to worry so, well, Hannah and I decided we should go ahead and come here for your special day. Maybe that would take their minds off the conflict and their da bein’ gone for so long. Do you think we did the right thing?”
“I’m sure that’s what Mac would have wanted you to do. Who knows, maybe Jody and Julian will be coming back with him this afternoon. That’s where they went, too: to see about a disturbance at the mill. If any two men can help, it would be those two,” I told her with exaggerated confidence. “Here, let’s see if we can fit all the babies into the playpen. Your boys aren’t rolling over yet, are they?”
Changing the subject seemed to help everyone. It was a Kodak moment without a camera: five babies in a homemade playpen. “America, the next generation,” I said with pride. ‘God willing,’ I beseeched silently.
Before the ladies could say anything about my remark, we heard a “Ho, the house,” from a man coming up in a wagon. It sounded like José and the new preacher had made it to the festivities. Now all we needed was the rest of the men.
I wanted to go outside to greet the new arrivals, but didn’t want to be rude and leave Mrs. Donaldson and Hannah with four little girls and all those babies. Then I thought, ‘good grief; they do it all day and night, every day and night, so why should today be any different?’ My three were asleep and contained. The girls were proper little duchesses from what I had seen. I didn’t think they’d do anything bad on purpose, but I didn’t want them pulling the playpen down off the sawhorses for a better look at the five sleeping babies either. I didn’t need to worry, though. The girls were well distracted playing with their gourmet cut vegetable hors d’oeuvres.
I went outside, eager to meet the preacher who was new in the area. I saw that Wallace had already made it to the wagon, and Sarah was on her way, wiping her hands on her apron. She was radiant, with only a smear of blood on the apron, so I guessed all the kids came out okay. I caught up with her on the way to the wagon and our guests.
“How many?” I asked.
“Three, of course; all healthy, and Sharona’s doing fine, too.” Sarah’s face suddenly fell and I followed her gaze.
There were four men standing next to the wagon parked under the big mulberry tree, their backs to us. I recognized José’s fine form right away. Ever the king of courtesy, his hands were already on the horse’s halter, ready to assist Wallace. There were two other men, though, not just one in the person of the new preacher who we were expecting. Sarah and I strolled up to the wagon.
The second man turned around. “Good day. I’m Jacob Lawrence the Third,” said the dark-skinned man as he extended his hand, “the new preacher.”
Everyone was stunned but me. “Hello, glad to meet you,” I said as I reached out and shook his hand. “You know, you might get a bit of resistance around here. There’s quite the Catholic influence at this house. But, since there isn’t a priest anywhere, and I’m the one getting married and not of the Catholic persuasion, I’m glad you could make it. Would you care to come in for refreshments?”
“Yes, yes,” added Sarah, “please do come in out of the sun. It’s unbearably hot today. But, then again, it seems like it is every day.” Sarah started to walk ahead of the new preacher to lead the way to the house, then stopped and turned around. “Master Simon?”
I turned to follow her stare. The sight of a good-looking man—most definitely of African descent—dressed as a white-collared preacher was enough to make anyone in this area stare. It had also been enough to take our attention away from the third man standing by the wagon.
“Simon?” I asked incredulously, wondering why and how I knew that that was his name.
Sarah realized that she had just stopped the new pastor from coming in out of the sun. She looked as bewildered as I felt at the introduction of this new—or was that old?—character of Master Simon into our sheltered life here in the backwoods of North Carolina. “Just a moment, please, Pastor Lawrence. I…I…”
I saw her dilemma. We were both curious about Simon—for different reasons, I’m sure—but wanted to be gracious to our new guest, too. However, we couldn’t just lead him into a very small house that was currently overcapacity with little girls, babies, and worried women. In this era, a black man—even a free black man—normally wouldn’t interact with white women and children, except as a servant. Sarah and I were both aware of this and stared at each other with the ‘what now?’ look on our faces.
I knew that slavery was a part of Colonial life, but it hadn’t impacted this area. The dirt farmers and tradesmen were too poor to own a slave. By the suffix of Pastor Lawrence’s name, I’d say his father or grandfather was a shrewd man who knew, or at least hoped, that being ‘the Third’ and being a man of the cloth would help protect his heir in this racist region and era. So far, so good.
Then I knew what to do. “Miranda!” I hollered. “Bring me the water and three cups, please.” Shouting across the yard was rude, but I knew that little girl was like my magic wand. She would do anything for me, whether it be serving water to our guests or digging privy holes in a rainstorm.
I walked over to our three recent arrivals. “Sorry for the shouting,” I said. I looked at Sarah. She looked like a landed fish; she was in some sort of mouth-opening-and-closing shock, and I was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed, too. “Our house is so small, and right now there are two ladies and nine children in there, five of them under five months old. We haven’t had a chance to set up the tables and refreshments yet. It’s…”
I didn’t get a chance to finish with my excuses. Wallace’s hand was on my shoulder, gently telling me with his touch that it was okay. “Sure is hot today, and here she comes,” he said as Miranda came up to him with the tray. I noticed that she had eyes for no one but the two of us, and that was a good thing.
“I put some of the Continental coins and other treats on the tray for you. Mum said we couldn’t eat them all ‘cause there was more company coming.”
Wallace took the tray from her and set it on the corner of the wagon. Just then, Miranda spotted the three men. She saw José first, and gave him a big grin that bordered on flirting. Then her eyes went to the other two men. She didn’t say a word, just stared at the man with cocoa-colored skin. I walked over to her and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Thank you for your help. You’d better go back to the house now, all right? I’ll be in later.”
I had thought about introducing her, but remembered that ‘children should be seen and not heard’ was the attitude of this time. I never subscribed to that theory, but today, I was glad of it.
The horses and wagon were in the shade, so that’s where we stayed to enjoy our little tea party. I served the cups of water then offered the plate of vegetables to our guests. Pastor Lawrence accepted a couple of curled carrot sticks from the plate, commenting on how elegantly I had prepared a simple root vegetable. José said ‘thank you’ and took a couple of the radish roses.
I was glad that José had not refused to eat the food after a black man had touched the tray. Evidently, segregation was not the way of life in Spain. Simon was mum, just looked constipated and agitated, and ate nothing.
Sarah was beginning to come out of her trance, and had accepted a ‘Continental coin’ cucumber from me. She hadn’t stopped staring though. She was just about to say something—profound, I�
�m sure—when we heard it.
There was a horse coming up to the house at full speed. Wallace walked away from our soirée and stood in the middle of the road, ready to intercept the rider.
The lathered horse came in with a raggedy young man clutching its mane. The spindly roan didn’t have a saddle on it, and if it had ever had even a blanket, it was long gone. The man dropped off his ride as soon as it came to a stop. He almost fell down, either from being no-saddle sore or fatigued, but either way, he had lost his legs. Wallace gave him a hand up.
The raggedy man looked up at Wallace and gasped, “It’s you!”
Wallace recognized the man immediately and quickly stepped away, rubbing his hand on his pants, as if it was soiled.
It was Clyde, one of the men who had raped Wallace six months before. We had both been attacked, although Wallace much more brutally. We thought that my feral friend, Lady the puma, had devoured or at least killed Clyde. She had killed my attacker, Gimpy, and castrated and possibly killed Clayton, the other rapist. All we ever found of him were the remains of his genitalia.
If looks could kill, Clyde would be dead, but instead, he was on his knees, pleading. “You have a right to punish me, and I’ll let you do it later, but please, first, help me! My brother and sister are holed up at the mill with your kin. There’s three Redcoats there holdin’ ‘em with guns. The Captain said as soon as the rest of his men get there tonight, they’re gonna line everyone up and shoot ‘em all, make an essample of ‘em. I knowed the way around the back, so I snuck out to get help. Your kin tole me to get you to come and rescue ‘em. The Lobsterbacks didn’t see me sneaking out, but I wasn’t who they wanted anyhow. They wanted the big man with red hair—your father, I reckon—and anyone that joined up with him. We can sneak back in and blindside ‘em if we hurry. There’s only the three of ‘em right now. Please, help me.”
Clyde was prostrate on the ground now, his hands cupped as in prayer on top of Wallace’s boots. Wallace took a step back and said, “Get up.” He paused and added, “We’ll need fresh horses,” then turned and headed for the barn.
“I’m coming, too,” shouted Sarah as she ran after him.
Wallace stopped and turned on his heel. I saw him take a deep breath, the look of fire ablaze in his eyes. I was sure he was going to tell her to stay put. He blew out his breath in a huff and said, “Then get your bag and let’s get on with it.”
Wallace took long strides to the barn, grabbed the jackass’s reins, and threw them over the hitching post for Clyde. He wasn’t going to give him one of our horses to ride, and didn’t even want the man inside our barn.
I didn’t blame him on that one. I looked over and saw Clyde bent over the trough, using both hands to bring water to his face to drink. He felt uncomfortable, and as uncharitable as it was, I was glad. I didn’t want to talk to him, nor did anyone else. I shuddered at the thought of him.
I ran after Wallace, my heart ready to tell him that he couldn’t go—it was our wedding day—and caught up to him as he swung the saddle over the horse. He just missed my head with a stirrup as I popped up on the other side of him.
“I’m sorry, Evie. What kind of man would I be if I let my fathers be murdered? I have to go.”
“I know,” I said, as I held the horse’s halter for him. Tears were streaming down my face, but I didn’t want him to see them. I had left my shawl in the house, so had to settle for wiping my tears on the shoulder of my blouse.
I felt a hand come under my chin and lift it. “Here, blow,” said Wallace as he offered me his beige embroidered silk handkerchief. I blew, then quickly tried to wipe away my sadness with the edge of the cloth, only managing to get the wetness removed.
“We may have to delay the wedding a day or two, but I will marry you, I promise,” he said. Then he lifted me off the ground and gave me a hard, quick—almost painful, but passionate—kiss. He set me down just as fast as he had lifted me and snorted, his face taut with anger. He turned away and mounted Thor, Jody’s latest acquisition, a still not completely broken Arabian mix. “Sarah will have to catch up. Kiss the babies for me, aye?”
“Okay, and I’ll save another one for you,” I said and pushed his silk handkerchief back into his pocket.
Sarah came running up with her bag in hand. “I hope I have everything,” she said frantically as I helped her get her horse ready.
“You always have the best-packed medical bag in the colonies—maybe even the world—and you know it.” She shrugged at my remark, her lips tight with frustration. She handed me the bag, then put her foot in the stirrup to climb up. “Let’s just hope and pray that you don’t need it,” I added as I handed it back to her.
It hit me again; I couldn’t contain the emotional eruption. I grabbed her leg and clutched tightly, “Bring him home, please, please! I don’t want to be a widow before I’m a bride.” A huge wail came out of me, then two big hiccups. I sucked it back down and tried to put on my brave-little-soldier mask. “Go, go,” I said as I pulled on the horse’s rein and led her out of the barn. I slapped Jessie’s behind so Sarah had a chance to catch up to Wallace, almost out of sight, and Clyde, just ahead of her, hanging on for dear life on the bare back of that sturdy but ornery jackass, Prince Charles.
***47 Rescue at the mill
I watched the three of them take off, my hopes and dreams for a happy wedding day riding grimly astride Thor’s saddle. The unlikely trio was on their way to resolve a disquietingly odd scenario. Wallace, the former victim, was blindly answering his attacker’s request, heading into a hostage situation in order to help members of this horrid man’s family. Well, Wallace did have a personal interest in the liberation effort, too, so I guessed it wasn’t that odd. His fathers were also being held against their will. At least it was a rescue mission and not cold-blooded vengeance. I snorted. “Forever Pollyanna, eh—always looking for the good in a situation—at least it’s not vengeance…”
I tried to compose myself and wiped my face on my damp sleeve, only to realize that it was too wet to be of use, so I leaned over and employed my apron. I straightened up, pushed the hair out of my face, and sucked it up, gazing one last time at the vanishing trio. I was standing resolute in my newly recovered respectability when I noticed it. It had flown out of his pocket—the embroidered handkerchief used to wipe away my tears just moments earlier. To hell with respectability and dignity: I ran after that cloth as if it was a lost part of his body. To me, it was, in a way. It was the last object we had shared that I could touch.
I bent over and picked up the now dear and precious memento: my fiancé’s crumbled and dusty silk snot rag. I stayed crouched on the ground and shifted side to side on my flat feet, clutching the cloth to me as if it was a pouch of gold coins. I reached in front of me and grabbed a golf-ball-sized stone. I rubbed it hard with my thumb a few strokes, pressing my anger and aggravation into it. I stood up and hurled the rage rock down the road where the three mismatched rescuers had disappeared. “You’d better come back in one big piece!” I shouted at my long gone fiancé.
I turned around and headed home, angrily kicking stones in front of me. I knew no one had heard my scream. I was still a long distance from the house, and the riders were too far away to hear me, but it felt good to both vent and be bossy.
“Damn…damn…damn…” puffed an angry young voice from the direction where I had just thrown my attitude adjustment rock. For a moment, I thought I was hearing myself curse, but the sounds were coming from behind me.
I turned around quickly and saw a totally naked young girl half-running, half-falling down, on this same trail that Sarah, Wallace, and Slug Mold had just traveled. She must have recently emerged from the brush on the side of the road. I stared at her for a long moment, and then realized that the falling down aspect of her movement was going to win out over the running part. I raced up to her, my skirts pulled high so I could move faster, and caught her just as she stumbled one last time.
What do you say to a naked youn
g lady? In this case, nothing. I could see that she needed water before any questions could be answered. Her lips were swollen and cracked, and it looked as if her tongue was too big for her mouth. “Come here,” I said as I bent over and helped her wrap her arms around my neck. “Lift your legs around me and I’ll carry you back to the house. We’ll get you something to drink and some clothes.”
I heard mumbling and crying in my hair. She was wrapped around me like a blonde spider monkey puppet and sobbing, “Damn, damn, damn, damn,” over and over again.
The barely lucid young lady—by her budding body parts, I’d say she was about 11—was so lightweight and leggy that it had been no burden to carry her like a toddler. It was a natural progression for me to treat her as one, too.
I stopped at the barn, got her some water to drink, and then gave her a rag I had dipped in the horse trough. Her overheated body was covered in a red flush. “Wipe yourself down with this, and stay put,” I said.
I ran over to the clothesline and grabbed a length of the green calico fabric I had prewashed and hung out to dry. It seemed like that bolt of cloth never ended, which was a good thing. I could hear our guests on the porch enjoying themselves. The little girls were teaching Pastor Lawrence some of the songs and stories I had taught them. “One fish, two fish,” the girls were chanting. I stayed mum, covert in my laundry retrieval. I didn’t want to draw any attention to this new situation.
I rushed back to the barn and saw that Master Simon was looking inside, possibly for me. All of a sudden, his head snapped back, as if he had just been hit on the chin. I couldn’t see anyone else, but I realized what had happened: he must have spotted the girl and seen that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. A true gentleman, he quickly averted his eyes from the little Lady Godiva, and was now walking my way.
Rather than wait for his questions, I took the proactive approach. “I haven’t a clue as to what’s going on, but I’ll find out once she gets decent. Stick around, though,” I said as I turned and walked backwards away from him. I shook my finger at him and continued my admonishment, “I want to talk to you, too.”
Naked in the Winter Wind Page 51
