by Alix Hawley
—He did not tell me.
Sallie picks up a handful of pebbles and eyes the boat. Jemima shakes the stones loose from her girl’s hand, and says:
—Did Daddy tell you, Ma?
—He tells me very little.
—Well then, you ought to ask him. What are they doing?
Jemima throws her plait over her shoulder, set to follow them, but I stop her:
—Stay with the children. Get the wash water boiling, Easter and Luce.
I go myself, picking through the frozen puddles. Through the tavern window, I see Becky leaning across the bar to hold her Philip’s face and kiss him. He is hanging onto his tankard. Will’s warehouse smells of ginseng. Daniel and Kenton have the Indian men inside now among the boxes and barrels, and are looping their ties to rings in the wall at the back. A smell of wood smoke and sweet tobacco. Looking up from his papers, Will sees me. He says:
—Susy all right?
—Yes. But are you? What are you doing with these men?
His shoulders rise, and his eyes shift towards Daniel. He says:
—We are keeping them here. The pay is good.
—Real pay? Not more ginseng?
He gives a short laugh and shakes his head:
—Government money. They sent them down from Fort Pitt. We can keep them cheaper than they can. Look.
He shows me all his lines of tidy figures. He knows I cannot read them, but I stare at them as though I have learned. His shoulders rise higher. I say:
—Then we are running a prison.
—I suppose so.
I hear Daniel speaking in a different tongue to one of the Indians, a short stocky man. He is very earnest, speaking gently and slowly. I catch my breath:
—Will, what is he saying?
Will shakes his head and takes his papers back. The man Daniel is speaking to is frowning and opening his tied hands as best he can. He does not understand either. I say:
—Do you know him, Daniel?
He turns to me in surprise:
—No. No.
—Then what are you talking of?
He gives me a hard look for a moment, then says:
—You know who I am looking for.
Your other wife, your child—
It hurts me to think. The short Indian man holds himself very still, watching my face. I hold myself more still, and I ask Daniel:
—Is this what you are doing?
—Yes. I told you I would find him, and I will.
—Him.
—You know who I mean.
—You think you will find—him—this way?
—Yes.
He cannot stand still. I cannot bear the thought of Cherokee Jim coming here, prisoner or not. And I cannot stand the underground smell of the ginseng any longer. I go outside and get to the washing.
* * *
Indians steal horses in the night at Kenton’s Station. He comes to the tavern in a rage to tell Daniel:
—Bold as can be, moccasin prints all over the snow in my paddock. I saw more near your fields on the way here. Cannot have been many of them, but they got three of my mares.
He bangs on the bar. Daniel frowns and gets up:
—Well. Our guests are locked up tight in the warehouse.
The girls and I have more cooking to do for these guests, on top of the tavern ones who keep coming. Bread baking from morning till night, flour drying out my hands and eyes. I hardly look up from the stoves and the taps. But now I brush my forehead and I say:
—Was it your Shawnee mother come for you, Simon?
Kenton gives me a gruff laugh, but Daniel stares at me sharply:
—It was not the prisoners, I know that.
Will says he will fashion another lock for the warehouse doors if Daniel will help. Keep everything safe on both sides. Daniel says he will of course, but I wonder how good his locks can be. Billy Broke Locks—the old song for new mothers. Susy began singing it the other night when Becky told us she is with child, her face red. My sadness surprised me. I will not be a mother again in my life. My Nathan is already nearly six years old, his face a copy of his father’s, but a child’s still, and sweeter.
When I go out for water I wonder how it would be to see an Indian standing at the river looking at us, unmoving. An Indian woman, perhaps. I wonder what I would do.
* * *
The Virginia people make Daniel a government representative. More prisoners come and go, and Daniel goes back and forth into Virginia on this business. He takes to wearing a cloth around his neck always, and a good shirt. With Morgan and Jesse he goes on longer trips to make claims he can sell to settlers, and to trade and sell his racing horses. They are faster and prettier all the time, fed on the good grass here, he says. He kisses me with a wink and says I am his prettiest.
—As though I am one of your horses, Daniel.
—Finest I ever had.
He kisses me again and swings away with the boys. It is hard not to catch his hope, even now. It is a warmth in my body as I stand in the snow.
Just before Christmas, he comes back prouder than ever and tells us he has been asked to make a treaty with the Shawnee at the mouth of the Great Miami, down the Ohio from here. We will have a lasting peace, we will be all right, he says. In the tavern there is much talk. The room is hot with agreement. Kenton yells:
—My horses will be safe, goddammit!
Daniel cheers and stands a round of rum for everyone. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, peace on earth!
Philip breaks a cask in the drunken dancing, and a patch of floor is soaked. The smell will never come out.
In the boat cabin that night I am alone. Morgan, Jesse and Isaac have taken Nathan to try trapping on one of the creeks. Not far and a shallow creek, they have promised me. I cannot stop thinking of my boy, my youngest, but he was so pleased to go, and they said they would have him home in the morning. I keep his little face in my mind. I do not think any further back, to how he was, to how any of them were.
The fire cracks and I jump—and Daniel is beside me now in the bed, moving about in his restless fashion, as though his limbs itch.
—What is it—what are you thinking of?
—The treaty, I suppose, little girl.
His voice is slow with drink. I say:
—You ought to sleep. Will you leave soon?
—In the morning.
—At Christmas?
—Best time for it. All arranged. We will meet them in a few days.
—You are certain.
—I am.
He throws his arm over me and presses closer, breathing on my neck and stroking my ear.
—What do you hope to get from this, Daniel?
—Some of your best love, your pretty—
I laugh and swat at his hand, which has crept up under my nightdress. I am so tired, but he is warm, and his drunkenness catches me:
—I meant from the meeting. Will it be a true peace this time?
—Yes.
He is stroking me, his fingers soft as mice. I say:
—Well. I hope you are right.
He tugs my arm backward and smacks a kiss on my palm:
—You are not a hopeful lady, but I will give you something, as it is Christmas.
—Daniel, I do not trust you—
I am laughing under his kisses now as he covers my face with them. He laughs also, his mouth over my lips:
—Trust me, trust me, I will show you how!
He slows, his mouth softens. We are hesitant with one another. Then I let my body know his again, and it is easier. He says into my ear:
—Can you not see? How things could be?
The fire is so low now I can see nothing at all, not even his face above mine. But I tell him I see, yes. I kiss his eyelids.
* * *
The winter sets in hard as he and Kenton and Flanders take some of the boys with them to the treaty making. I watch them disappear into a snowfall. I am called one night to a birth at Kenton’s Station
. Simon’s young wife is deep in her labour by the time I get there through the drifts. It is long but goes well, and the baby comes out plump and pink, with a lovely round head. As I am cleaning the new little girl, I say:
—This will be a surprise for your husband when he is back.
She is slack-faced in her exhaustion, and can hardly speak:
—I have had enough of surprises.
I put the baby to her breast and she gives a sudden yell. I say:
—That is one surprise, I know. Here, hold her closer to you. Soon it will not hurt so much. We do get through it.
She glares down at the baby and sniffs, wiping her eyes. Her name is Martha. Perhaps all Marthas have this way about them, thinking they have been wronged by life.
It is evening again by the time I am near home, and my fingertips and ears are icy from the slow ride. As I pass Will’s warehouse, I hear the prisoners talking in their soft language. I wonder what they are thinking of in the dark. I wonder if they are cold also. It is not good to be so cold.
* * *
Will keeps us in fresh meat through January, with no help from Philip. Susy is proud of her husband’s abilities with a gun. Becky cannot keep her hopeful gaze from her own man, though he does so little.
When Daniel and the rest return, they ride in easily, talking and talking, as though they have not even realized they are home. Nathan is outside in the white sunlight with a stick he has sharpened and takes everywhere. He bellows to his daddy and brothers over the ice and water:
—Can we go trapping now?
At this, Daniel takes notice and waves with a whoop. Once across the river, he dismounts to pick up our boy:
—Well well, are you ready to take over for us all?
Nathan hurls the stick, which bounces off the frozen ground. Daniel laughs and sets him down, tucking his own hands under his armpits, stamping his feet:
—And where is your ma?
I watch him look for me. His eyes have the same hope as Becky’s. I go just outside the tavern door and hold myself there until he sees me:
—Ah. What have you been doing with yourself, Mrs. Boone?
—Sewing fine seams and the like, of course. As always.
He comes to me and kisses my hand, then my cheek. His beard has grown in and scratches me. His skin is icy, his lashes frosted together. He says:
—One day that is all you shall do.
—Is that so.
—That is so!
Jemima wraps her arms around him from behind, and he spins to embrace her properly, rocking her side to side. She says:
—Did you bring more prisoners, Daddy?
—No no. Soon there will be no more prisoners. We signed the treaty. They have given us more of the Ohio valley. They will not come here.
He is smiling and dancing her about now. Flanders comes up as well, slapping his cold hands together, and he says:
—They were not so happy about it.
Daniel looks to him and says:
—I know Moluntha. He will keep the rest peaceful.
The name catches in my ears. The low way Daniel says it, as though his tongue has become someone else’s. Jemima stops the little jig with a cry:
—Moluntha—that was one of them at the fort, I heard you talking of him when they came. He saw my hair—
What does she mean?
Jemima pulls her plait now and touches her belly, rounding again already. She stares at her daddy, then looks at me and closes her face up. She never does this. The silence cools. Daniel holds her until Flanders moves to embrace her himself. I wrap myself tighter in my shawl, and I say:
—Who is it?
Daniel says softly:
—Moluntha is a chief, a good chief, a sincere one. An old man. I know him.
—How do you know he is good? Did he tell you himself, in his own tongue?
Fury stirs through Daniel’s body. It is always ready. But he says only:
—You will have to believe it. We signed the treaty, at any rate, and there will be safe land for all of us soon. Now we ought to get inside before we all turn to ice. Becky! What have you got to warm us?
Following Daniel, Flanders leads Jemima inside. She does not look at me again. At the bar, Becky is setting out cups and tankards. When Daniel turns, he is smiling, the ice in his eyelashes melting down his face.
* * *
He goes again. Longer and longer. Hunting, surveying, government work.
Still we do not have a real home, though we are busier than ever at the tavern and trade house, morning to night. Will keeps more prisoners. The children like to peer through the cracks in the warehouse walls and make the men speak. They learn a few words of Shawnee, or perhaps it is only nonsense they are all talking to each other.
It is autumn when Daniel announces he is going on a raid. Up the river to the Miami, where the Shawnee still have some towns. The people there did not agree with the treaty and are making noises about attacking settlements. Daniel’s face is bright though he tries to control it:
—Who is with us? Any of you boys ready for a trip?
Some of the travellers roar and raise their tankards. Isaac get on a chair with his cup held high. Flanders is nodding, and does not see Jemima spin and leave the room. I leave as well, but I know my daughter. She does not wish to talk with me.
I go to the boat cabin to be alone. Nathan comes trotting in and I send him straight to bed. When the others arrive—Ma, Ma—I do the same.
I sit at Daniel’s table. The hum of talk from the tavern is loud. I stare at the fat-lamp as its flame shudders. I do not open the Indian Book. I do not touch it.
—One last raid, Rebecca. It may not even be a fight. Likely not.
The boys are asleep by the time Daniel appears and tells me this. He is careful with his words. I lift the lamp to see his face better:
—Then why go?
—I am a colonel now, do you forget? And I told Ben Logan we would back him.
—Can Logan not do it himself?
I am careful with my words as well. Our carefulness is painful, a tightness around my ribs. He gets up and looks out the little window. He says:
—I owe Logan. He helped me once.
He says no more. I tell him:
—Go then. But you will not take my boys. None of them.
Nathan murmurs and rolls over with a smack of his lips. Jesse gives him a shove.
—All right.
—You will not.
The boys are still again. Daniel comes to where I sit at the little table, but he does not touch me:
—I said all right.
He gives me this. It is one thing he gives me.
THE DOGS HOWL at once, all at the same dreadful pitch. Flanders is the first back—he sinks from his horse on the path and does not get up.
Jemima flies up the street, past the open tavern door, her children trailing after her, the baby wailing back in her house:
—Flan!
She kneels and grips his neck, shaking him:
—Where is he?
The first question. She shakes him harder:
—You are all right, you are! Look at me! Where is Daddy?
Her cry is wild. I see Flanders shape his mouth into a word: No. My joints freeze. Levina and Becky, Easter, Luce and her little Sammy follow me outside carrying dirty sheets from the tavern beds, as if they cannot let go of them. Jemima screams:
—Where?
—I do not know. I did not see—afterwards.
Flanders tries to look at her, but his forehead and temple are cut, his thick brows clotted with blood. Jemima touches his head, then slaps his cheek:
—After what? What happened?
—He was all right—when I saw—
The dogs howl on. The children are crying and clutching at their ma. I say:
—Jemima, get him inside. Help him, girls.
Luce and Easter wrap the sheets around him, and Jemima gets him to his feet. Becky’s Philip watches through the window.
She goes to him and tucks herself under his arm. The rest of us help Flanders into the tavern and sit him near the fire. Luce takes the little ones away while I check his head. The cuts are not deep, but they are long and wide, and need cleaning and poulticing. I look into the openings in his skin, the blood dried in smears and trickles on his face.
Daniel—
When he has had water, Flanders tells us what he can.
They wanted a fight, we gave them one. We won.
A lot of them at the first town, not so many we could not give them a licking. Plenty on our side. Logan’s men too. Ready.
Daniel was fighting someone, shouting. Then something struck me. A tomahawk or a club maybe—
—Flanders, what was Daniel shouting?
I cannot help asking as I wipe at his forehead, and he tries to speak further, but his words come slow and muddied. He rolls his eyes towards me, but he cannot lift his wounded head, though Jemima pulls it upward between her hands.
—Jemima, he is exhausted. Go and find Susy.
My oldest girl has lint bandages and dried oak bark for the bleeding, left over from her last birth. And I want her near me. With a sigh, Jemima gets up. But when she is at the door, she cries:
—Simon!
It is Kenton, riding hard at the front of a straggling line of other travellers. He pulls up outside and comes straight past her to me, tugging off his hat, his scar a deep sickly purple with cold. Unhurt, but changed. Taking a great breath, he works his mouth. No—you will not speak first:
—Simon. Where is he?
—I do not know. Not yet.
He takes my hand, wet from the cloth. His own are enormous, dry and dented with the marks of the reins. He says:
—It was that firehead, that McGary, you know. It was not Dan’s fault, none of it.
Hugh McGary, whose son was murdered like mine, like two of mine—I pull my hand away:
—I do not want to know. Only where is he?
The others have come in now and are standing in a shuffling row, some of them bruised, one holding a broken wrist against his chest. I say:
