by Lori Benton
Turning in desperation, she saw Falling Hawk’s sister sweep Jacob into her arms and be folded into the crowd of Indians as if a mouth had opened and swallowed them whole.
“Jacob—no!” Arms came around her. She struggled.
“Clare, let them go!”
Mr. Ring held her fast. She jerked in his arms, loosening his grip enough to manage a turn, ready to fight her way to Pippa next but found Wolf-Alone standing well within her reach.
“Give her to me!”
Wolf-Alone handed the screaming baby over. Clutching the carrier to herself, Clare sought for Jacob, but she’d lost all sense of direction. The village, the people, their faces, seemed identical no matter which way she looked.
Falling Hawk had taken command of the situation. He was the one talking now, scowling at Mr. Ring with more than a hint of the betrayal that was coursing through Clare as she seethed against Wolf-Alone, who’d done the one thing that could have provoked her into relinquishing Jacob. She met that amber gaze now, blazing mutely in her rage. Wolf-Alone looked calmly back, showing no remorse.
Not her ally, after all.
But what of Mr. Ring? What had he said to Falling Hawk and the rest? Did they understand Jacob was her son?
Mr. Ring was speaking again, his tone firm, reasoning. Other voices quieted. Falling Hawk, stone-faced, waited until he ceased to speak, then made a cutting motion with his hand. That seemed to end things. Or decide something. Everything was a dizzying blur to Clare. Faces, voices. Falling Hawk turning his back, striding away. Hands were on her again—Wolf-Alone and Mr. Ring—forcing her in the opposite direction, past bark lodges and Indians moving aside, opening a path she barely heeded. Mr. Ring pushed her head down and they were inside what must be a wegiwa. A hide fell across the entrance, muting light and noise.
Stunned, she looked around at the dim interior, seeing little of it before sunlight flashed and Wolf-Alone ducked back out. She would have a thing or two to say to that Indian later, never mind he wouldn’t understand a word. For now she faced Mr. Ring, Pippa still mewling in the carrier she clutched.
“You let them take my son away!”
“I had to.” Mr. Ring looked beset, but when she opened her mouth to speak, he raised a hand to stop her. “No. Listen to me.”
So unyielding was his tone that she hesitated. Aware suddenly of the fullness of her breasts, another reason for Pippa’s fussing, she crouched on the earthen floor—it was strewn with reed mats around a central fire pit, above which a smoke-hole in the roof streamed sunlight—and began unlacing the baby. Turning her back on Mr. Ring, she settled herself on a mat and opened her gown.
“I didn’t know Jacob would be here,” Mr. Ring went on, the strain of the scene just past evident in his voice. “Rain Crow has been living in Nonhelema’s Town, across the creek. She happened to be visiting Falling Hawk, wanting to show off…her son.”
The words stung like hail. Her hands shook. She had trouble getting Pippa to latch on to suckle. Gently she coaxed the baby as she forced out the hateful question. “He’s adopted then?”
She knew the answer, had seen it in the Indian woman’s face as she looked at Jacob, his tentative, half-fearful trust in putting his little hand in hers.
“They had the ceremony at the river yesterday. He’s called Many Sparrows.”
Clare swallowed back a churn of nausea. “His name is Jacob. I am his mother.”
She heard Mr. Ring take a step nearer. “I’d hoped to get us settled, then approach Falling Hawk on the matter in private, reason things out between us and our sister. Now the entire town knows of it, and Cornstalk isn’t here to arbitrate the matter.”
She gazed down at the dome of Pippa’s head, at rounded cheeks and busily working mouth, and with an ache asked, “What of Nonhelema? Can she do nothing for me?”
“She’s gone with Cornstalk to Pittsburgh for the council. Even were they here I don’t know what they’d think of this situation. I doubt it’s a thing that’s happened before, a white woman come seeking a son taken captive. But there’s a thing you need to—”
“What do you mean?” Clare shifted so she could see Mr. Ring, but he stood in shadow. She couldn’t see his face. “Have these people never been confronted by the kin of a captive they’ve stolen? Surely in the French War, or after it, they were forced to return their captives. They brought them back to the forts. Back to their true families.”
“It’s less common for those families to come to them.”
“But such has happened? A father, a brother maybe, come after one they lost?”
“It’s happened.”
She didn’t like the wariness she heard in his voice, as if she’d forced him to say a thing he hadn’t wanted to utter. “Have you seen such a thing, Mr. Ring? Here in this town?”
“Once.”
Impatience gripped her. Why was she having to drag every word out of the man? “And how did it end?”
“Not in the way that man hoped.”
What did that mean? Had the Shawnees made a captive of that man as well as his kin? Tortured him? Killed him? Or merely sent him away without the one he sought?
She turned her back again, hunching over Pippa, uncertain which fate would be the more intolerable. “Had you no hope at all that it would do any good once we found him?”
“Clare,” Mr. Ring said wearily. “I told you this won’t be a simple matter to unravel. We’re going to have to wait now. Until Cornstalk and Nonhelema return from Fort Pitt. Then we’ll see.”
Joy and relief at finding Jacob had been cruelly cut short. Back was the stone lodged in her chest. “And do what meantime?”
“You can take steps to gain ground with Falling Hawk, if not Rain Crow—or let me do it for you. I’ve got my own amends to make. They’re both vexed with me. Don’t understand what I’m doing, or why.”
“What are you doing, Mr. Ring?”
“For now, I’m going to find Falling Hawk, try and smooth things over, see if he can overlook what happened before.”
“They’re going to let us stay?”
“Of course we’re staying. This is my home.”
But not hers. She was a guest, an unwelcome one. Regardless, she was there, and she’d herself and one child at least to keep fed, clean, and clothed. “Where will Pippa and I sleep?”
“Right here. This is Wolf-Alone’s lodge. It’s where I live when I’m with the Shawnees.”
She’d not yet had the presence of mind to wonder whose lodge this might be, though evidence of it being a dwelling was strewn about. “Not with Falling Hawk?”
“He has a wife and children. Wolf-Alone hasn’t.”
She looked around, taking in the place. She’d seen them aplenty from outside, but this was her first time past a door-hide. The bark-slab walls were adorned with woven reed mats such as covered the floor, as well as netting, clothing, and sundry other trappings. Around the walls platforms had been built. Under and on them items were stacked—kettles and pans, moccasins, baskets, boxes made of bark. Two were piled with furs and trade blankets. Her roving gaze fastened on the nearest of those.
“Is that a bed?”
“It’s mine.” Mr. Ring swallowed audibly; she shifted her gaze to him. “Actually it’s ours now.”
“Ours?”
“Well, yours but…they think you’re my wife.” Even in the dimness she could see the man’s deepening color as he added, “It’s for your protection, nothing more. Being married to me makes you all but Shawnee to them as well. It was the only way I could assure your welcome here after…”
After the scene she’d caused. Her heart was pounding so hard that she was amazed Pippa was still nursing. “You did this at Wakatomica, didn’t you? This is what Logan meant when he said I’d been claimed. He thought I was your wife; that’s why he didn’t harm me.”
“That’s exactly why, Clare.”
Indignation flared. “Why do you address me so familiarly? We are not married, whatever these people think, and
I never gave you leave.”
He was silent a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, Missus. I’ll not do it if it vexes you so.”
His calm accommodation filled her with shame. Deftly she shifted Pippa to her other breast and said, “Though why I should make issue of it now that we’re to share a roof, I do not know.”
Mr. Ring crouched beside her. “You’re making issue of it on account you feel helpless and need to lash out against it. Better you lash out at me. I give you leave to do it, as often as you need. I can take it.”
Deeper shame washed over her at his words. She’d never meant to place him in such a situation, torn between his promise to her and his love—or whatever he felt—for these people, but it was her fault he was in it. He didn’t deserve her constant pique.
“You even renamed my daughter,” she said, disgusted that she couldn’t heed her own admonition.
“I thought you liked the name. You’ve used it.”
“I know,” she said, though it sounded like a protest. “Oh, call us whatever you will.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes,” she said, only a little testily.
He smiled at her and stood. “I need to leave you for now. You’ll be safe here. I’ll bring in the packs before I go; you can get settled.”
“I want to go with you.” She wanted to see Jacob. There was a chance that might happen if Rain Crow was with Falling Hawk. But Mr. Ring was backing away.
“It’s too soon. Best you stay out of sight for now.”
She was little better than a prisoner. And Jacob was so close. She’d seen him, held him, saw he was safe but…he’d looked different. Older. How could he already look older?
She resented the days apart, of being deprived of even a moment of her son’s life.
“Fine,” she said, turning so he wouldn’t see her face crumple. “Go. I’ll sit here and do nothing.”
His retreating footsteps paused at the door. “There’s one thing you can do. One thing I need you to do.”
She didn’t look at him. “I’ll do anything.”
“Right now,” he said, “I need you to pray.”
He found his brothers outside Falling Hawk’s lodge. Falling Hawk’s arms were crossed as he listened to the unhappy voice of their sister emanating from within and whatever Wolf-Alone was saying. Though they were drawing glances from those within earshot of Rain Crow, neither man looked desirous of entering the lodge. Jeremiah heard Crosses-the-Path, Falling Hawk’s wife, from within as well, but her softer tones were drowned by their sister’s strident voice.
Jeremiah halted in the dooryard, near Crosses-the-Path’s kettle fire, with the eyes of both men on him.
“Brother,” he said, addressing Falling Hawk, “I am sorry for the disruption our arrival has caused. I had thought our sister would be across the creek at her home, that I would be able to speak to you.”
Rain Crow’s voice fell silent an instant before the door-hide whipped aside and she emerged. She had eyes for no one but Jeremiah; her gaze seared the words from his tongue.
“Why did you wish to speak first to our brother?” she demanded. “Did you mean to get him on your side in this? He is the one who brought my son to me!”
Jeremiah steeled himself to remain calm. He knew there was much pain and likely fear behind Rain Crow’s mask of anger. “Sister, I am sorry. Please, will you let me explain?”
“No!” Rain Crow’s lips drew back from her teeth, so vehement was her denial. “What is to explain? You have brought a woman to this town who wants to take my son from me. And you—” She swung toward Falling Hawk, who took a half-step back, bumping into Wolf-Alone. “You brought Many Sparrows to me, telling me how he was found in the mountains alone. That he had no mother, no father. No one!”
Falling Hawk raised his hands as if warding off attack. “That is what I was told at Yellow Creek! Was I to know it was not true?”
“Is it true?” Rain Crow turned back to Jeremiah. “Or is this the lie, that woman you bring here? What am I to think?”
“If you will let me,” Jeremiah began again, “I will tell you what is true about that boy and his mother.”
“I am his mother!” Rain Crow put her back to them and pushed aside the buffalo hide that hung across the doorway and in English called, “Many Sparrows! We are going home now.”
Jeremiah stepped forward, putting his hand to her arm. “Will you not stay? Will you meet with the woman who has come here with me?”
She jerked free, glaring at him. “I have nothing to say to that one. I never want to see her white face again.”
Falling Hawk cleared his throat. “That is going to be a hard thing, since she is our brother’s wife.”
The words fell like stones in a pool of frogs, bringing utter silence. Wolf-Alone looked at Jeremiah, then raised his slanted brows with a look that said plainly no good was going to come of any of this, then he backed away from them and took his leave.
Coward, Jeremiah thought, but when he caught his sister’s glowering gaze he didn’t blame Wolf-Alone. He wanted to slink away like the lowest of snakes.
Inside the lodge Falling Hawk’s wife and daughters were speaking, their voices cajoling. The boy didn’t seem to want to come out.
“Many Sparrows?” Rain Crow ducked inside and in seconds was out again, the boy clutched by the hand.
Jacob Inglesby, though clearly frightened and confused, wasn’t struggling or crying. He saw the men gathered outside the lodge and looked up, straight into Jeremiah’s face. The boy’s eyes widened in recognition. They weren’t his mother’s striking green but a rich dark brown.
“Mama?”
“Come,” Rain Crow said again. “We go home.”
“Where’s Mama?”
Rain Crow was tugging him along, the look on her face riven with pain. The boy twisted to look back as his little feet stumbled along, barely keeping up with Rain Crow’s strides. For as long as he could, he kept them in his sights, searching for Clare, pleading wordlessly with Jeremiah—or so it seemed. Then they were gone down the path to the creek.
Crosses-the-Path peeked out of the lodge, but Falling Hawk waved her back inside. The warrior heaved a sigh. “All I wanted to do was bring gladness to the heart of our sister.”
“That is a thing I want to do as well.” When Falling Hawk looked at him with disbelief, Jeremiah added, “You know I have grieved with her for the ones she lost.”
“That is not all you grieve,” Falling Hawk said bitterly.
“That is true. It puts my heart on the ground to see how she has turned her back on the Almighty, whom she professed to love and serve.”
Falling Hawk’s face hardened. “It is good she has done that thing. I wish our mother would do so, but at least we have our sister back.”
Jeremiah said, “Here is a thing about the Almighty, my brother, that you might not understand. He is a jealous God. Whatever she calls herself, our sister is His. He will not let her go far before He woos her back with His love.”
He had to say the words, though he knew there was little chance of them changing Falling Hawk’s heart. No lover of the missionaries or their God, his brother saw their sister’s faltering faith as a good thing.
Was his challenging her right to Jacob Inglesby going to push her further from that faith? That was a thing he hadn’t foreseen until this moment.
He had to do something. He had to fix this.
“I will go after her,” he said and took a step in that direction, ready to cross the creek that separated the towns. “I will talk to her.”
Falling Hawk’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “You will talk to her, but not now. She will hear nothing you have to say now.”
And that was all it took to remind Jeremiah. He didn’t have to do anything, fix anything, not when he couldn’t see the path ahead clearly. Not until, unless, he was sure it was of the Almighty’s leading. Even if doing nothing was the hardest thing of all.
Maybe especially then
.
Meanwhile, the Lord Himself would fight this battle. But he very much hoped Clare was doing the one thing he’d asked her to do.
When Pippa was fed, Clare laid the baby on the bed Mr. Ring had claimed. She bent low and sniffed the top blanket. It smelled of him.
She straightened and paced the confines of what was to be her shelter for an undetermined period of time. If only it could shelter her from the memory of Jacob’s cry. “Mama…”
She clamped a hand across her mouth, pressing hard.
“Right now I need you to pray.”
A reasonable request, all things considered. Clare tried, but her mind skittered over the constant pleas she’d sent heavenward a thousand times already, latching onto nothing but “Mama…”
Groaning, she halted with her arms pressed to her ribs. How long must she wait and do nothing while Mr. Ring made whatever negotiations he deemed necessary to pry Jacob from his sister? Memory of Rain Crow’s grasping hands, her voice calling what must have been the name she’d given Jacob, made Clare grit her teeth. Many Sparrows.
“His name is Jacob!” she said, loud enough to startle a squeak out of Pippa. Clare held her breath, waiting. The baby settled back into sleep.
If only she could sleep and forget her grief and worry until all was accomplished and she and her children were safe. What if Mr. Ring’s efforts proved in vain? Ought she to devise a plan? Something less desperate than snatching up her children and running from that Indian town into the cornfields surrounding it, then into the forest surrounding them, then finding the distant Ohio River and following it home.
Such an impossible-seeming thing had been accomplished before, Clare knew. And by a woman. Mary Draper Ingles, heavy with child at the time, had been taken captive by Shawnees during the French War, forced into the wilderness with her two small sons. Her escape and return from captivity, months later, was a feat of endurance most Virginians could still hardly credit. Yet it hadn’t come without staggering cost. Mary had abandoned her children with the Shawnees to make that daring escape.
