by RITA GERLACH
Tears moistened Theresa’s eyes. She wished a man would whisper her name in his sleep. She had pretty looks, blonde, slim, and misty-eyed. However she was not beautiful and lacked the graces of genteel ladies. She had not come to the revelation it did not matter.
The room grew darker as the candle melted. The breeze blew through the open window against her face and she stepped over to it to draw the curtains. Looking down she saw Black Hawk. She gulped at the sight of him. He walked forward, stopped beneath the window and looked up. An oak grew alongside the house and he climbed it.
Most women would have fallen back into the room and shut the window. But Theresa figured she had nothing to fear. He was John Nash’s friend. When Black Hawk reached the windowsill, she met his eyes and saw something in them she had never seen in any other man. He was admiring her.
“What is it you want?” she said in a stammering whisper. “You must go away.”
Pulling himself up, Black Hawk put his hand on the sill. “My brother is well?”
“Yes. He is sleeping. Go away.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. “It is good a woman cares for him. I am at ease now.”
Theresa scrutinized Black Hawk. His face looked bronzed in the moonlight, friendly. She noticed the bands surrounding his forearms and the feathers fastened in the locks of his hair.
“Your hair is the color of the elms in harvest time,” he said smiling.
Theresa’s heart leaped at his words. “Go away!”
“I will go.” Black Hawk climbed down. “Tell my brother I’ve gone to the mountains.”
Lithe, Black Hawk dropped from the tree. In a moment, he disappeared into the night. Theresa watched for a long while from the window, while John Nash slept and the moon skimmed the horizon.
* * *
Nash woke early as dawn crept over the hills. He pulled himself up on his elbows and looked at his wound. A fresh bandage had been applied. He had a raging appetite and thirst. He had not eaten in days.
He set his teeth and groaned as he tried to get out of bed. It was no use, so he fell back against the pillows. He lay there wondering for a moment why he had met with such misfortune. The breeze flowed through the window. Cool and fresh, it touched his face. He was thankful to be alive.
The door swung open.
“I’ve brought some food, Mr. Nash. You must be starved. When was the last time you had a home cooked meal?”
He thought of Standforth and Lady Margaret. She been the only mother he’d known, and although she had not given birth to him, she worried over him. He recalled the first night home and the bounty she had set, how good it was to be with her and his father. Feeling a little guilty over leaving them, he looked over at Theresa Boyd with a sad smile.
“Home cooked? Months ago. My mother set a fine table.”
“Then you must eat as much as you can in order to regain your strength. I’m sure she would insist upon it.”
Theresa put extra pillows behind him and helped him up. Nash felt a little foolish that he needed help and tried to swallow his pride.
“The doctor says you were lucky. The arrow missed an artery. Thank God, otherwise you would have bled to death. You may need some help walking for a while.”
“How long have I slept?”
“Twelve hours.” She poured tea into a china cup, handed it to him. “Hilda made those eggs special for you. She will be upset if you don’t eat them.”
He ate while Theresa explained all the doctor had done.
“I hope I’ve not been a burden to you and your father.”
She smiled. “No.”
“Well, I won’t impose on you any longer. I’m grateful for the help you and Mr. Boyd gave me. I don’t know if I could have made it back to Laurel Hill.”
“Dr. Cole is very good, don’t you think.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
He saw her glance at the window, her face contemplative.
“I met your friend Black Hawk. He climbed the tree outside the window, paid me a compliment about my hair.”
“You were not afraid of him?”
“I had no reason to be, since he is your friend.”
“He is admirable.” He drank the last of the tea, thankful but anticipating Joab’s strong coffee.
Theresa shifted in her chair. “If you don’t mind, who is Rebecah?” Her eyes held a glow of curiosity, and Nash handed her back the tray.
“How do you know that name?”
“You talked in your sleep.”
“Oh? What did I say?”
“You called out to her.”
Yes, and he had dreamt of her all night.
“Should I send her word?” Theresa asked. “I can write a letter for you and have it sent this very day.”
“That won’t be necessary.” His heart felt heavy.
Theresa looked disappointed. She went to the door. “If she is someone dear to you, she should know you’ve been hurt.”
“You’re kind to offer your help, Miss Boyd. But unfortunately, I’m not dear to her.”
Her eyes gazed at him sorrowfully. “Let me know if you change your mind.” She turned out the room and shut the door.
Nash reached for his buckskins, and tried to think how he would address the men of the town without causing a major panic. Yet his thoughts were crowded, disrupted by the mention of Rebecah.
Slipping into his hunting shirt was easy. Putting the buckskin trousers on was painful for his leg. He must be careful not to force the bandage open if he meant to keep it. He positioned one hand on the table beside the bed and pulled himself up, standing on his good leg. Determined not to let it get the best of him, he tried to walk.
With his hand guiding his leg, he limped forward. A knock on the door, and Joab came inside the room. Looking worried, he rushed over to Nash and put his arm around his shoulder to help him.
“I’ve been worried sick, Mr. John.”
“I’ll be alright, Joab.”
“You should be in bed and not runnin’ around.”
“We’ll be home later, and you can fuss at me then. I need to speak to Mr. Boyd.”
Being the town clerk, Boyd was dressed for the day. He waited at the bottom of the staircase, hat in hand.
“Are you well enough to be up, Jack?”
“Yes. Forgive me for barging in on you last night. You were the first person to come to mind to go to.”
“I’ve sent word to all the Committee of Observation members that we are to meet at the tavern to hear your news.”
“Do you have a cane I could lean on? It’s embarrassing, but I cannot use Joab as a crutch.”
Boyd reached behind the door and handed him the only one he owned. “I daresay you won’t be dancing with the ladies of the town for a time.”
Nash smiled. “I was never a good dancer anyway.”
“How did this happen?”
“A Shawnee arrow. If it had not been for Black Hawk, I don’t think I would have made it. He knew what to do for my wound, and knows the trails better than any white man.”
“He has gone into the mountains.”
“I knew he would.”
“You saw warriors this far to the east?”
“A band painted for war. We came upon a farm…they’d burned it, killed and scalped the couple living there.”
Mr. Boyd’s eyes widened. “God help us.”
“I pray He will.”
They passed out the door down into the street. John Nash’s heart sunk to see the people moving along it going about their day in this peaceful town still untouched by Logan’s War. Mothers holding their children’s hands paused as the men crossed the street and headed for Mrs. Carlton’s Tavern. Soon a crowd of townsmen followed Nash, grave-faced and silent as they filed inside.
CHAPTER 28
Later that night, in the tavern on the corner of Market and Court Streets, men huddled together discussing the grim news brought to them earlier in the day. There were no rounds of ale, for the atm
osphere was of a solemn nature.
“He was carryin’ Nash over his shoulder because he’d been shot straight through the leg, I tell you,” one man with a great beard and thick spectacles said.
“I heard it was an arrow that got him,” said Tobias. “But nothin’ takes Nash down easy, you know. He reminds me of a fellow I knew under General Braddock’s command. Been shot in both legs and lived to tell about it. Now that was a war, the French and Indians, and the General was a great man.”
Andrew Clarke had been listening to the entire buzz for the last twenty minutes. He was silent until he could stand it no more. He stood, knocking his chair backward and leaning his hands upon the table. His face twitched with anger.
“He was shot alright.” He lifted his mug, took a swallow, and wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “I’ll put down my last coin it was an Indian that done it. A renegade on the warpath.”
“Calm down, Andy.” Tobias patted him on the shoulder.
“Aye, and I heard it were an Indian that saved Nash’s life by bringing him here,” said Sam Evans the town blacksmith.
“I saw him comin’ into town with Nash. Bold as brass was he, and noble an Indian as I ever saw,” said the tavern maid Meg as she set down the mugs.
“Set your heart to pacin’, did he, Meg?” laughed Tobias, followed by the others. Meg shook her curls and nudged him on the shoulder.
Evans downed his cider. “Let’s be happy Nash weren’t killed.”
Clarke slumped in his chair. “We better face the facts. You were at the meeting, Tobias. You heard what Nash said.”
Tobias looked grim. “Aye, I heard. Nash sat there still as a post, not movin’ a muscle, not showin’ any pain as he told us the news. But you could see the worry in his eyes.”
“Keep your muskets oiled,” Clarke said to the men. “Now we got two wars to fight, one with the British, the other with the Indians. Cresap better not show his face around here for what he’s brought on us. Too bad John Gibson didn’t shoot him dead when he found him in that cabin.”
Sam Evans leaned over the table. “There’s no proof Cresap done anything. Who we gonna believe, an Indian chief or one of our own. I say we wait and hear Cresap’s side of the story.”
“The Committee is mustering a militia to protect the settlers,” said Clarke. “I’m staying, and I’m sending my wife and baby girl to Baltimore to stay with her aunt until the whole thing blows over. I’ll not see them murdered and scalped.”
“It’d be wise if we thought of our kin,” said the bearded man.
“Some of the women won’t go,” said Sam. “They’re as much attached to the land as their menfolk. I doubt Indians will come as far as the town though.”
“Well the militia will keep the hordes of hell away.”
“What’s a handful of men against a whole nation of braves?” said Clarke.
Creaking on rusty hinges, the tavern door swung open. In stepped a man who dared show his face in Fredericktown. Heads turned and eyes watched this loathsome creature of the backwoods walk up to the tavern keeper. He demanded whiskey, and when he was told it was dry, his face twitched red with anger.
Andrew Clarke did not take his eyes off the man’s arrogant face. He remembered how LaRoux looked at Nash with unfounded hatred the last time he was in the tavern.
“Well, well.” Clarke stood. “What do you want in our town, LaRoux? Come to flaunt any new scalps?”
LaRoux turned at Clarke and put his dirty hand over the hilt of his knife.
“Been to the Potomac, you French mongrel?”
LaRoux took an abrupt step forward. Tobias reached up and grabbed Clarke by the sleeve. “Let him go, Andy. He’s not worth it.”
Shaking his arm free, Clarke moved around the table and faced LaRoux. Fire flared in his eyes, fire and hate. Unmoved, Clarke met him stare for stare with equal hatred.
“Logan’s family was murdered by a band of butchers. It’s bringing every Indian down on our heads from the Ohio to the Hudson.”
LaRoux leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “I heard about it. What’s that got to do with me?”
“We’d all like to know. Logan rallied with Chief Cornstalk. The six nations are at war with us and are out to kill every man, woman and child that has white skin.”
“Let them have their warpath.” LaRoux glared and turned away.
Clarke clenched his fists, as all eyes watched. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with the family killed near the river. Because if you did, there isn’t a rope too short or too long in Fredericktown for your neck.”
LaRoux’s eyes blazed. He drew his knife and lunged at Clarke. The men in the tavern sprung out of their seats. Clarke fastened his hand around LaRoux’s wrist. LaRoux twisted and slammed his fist into Clarke’s side. Clarke gasped. Bounding from his chair, Tobias came between the two men and pushed LaRoux back. The blacksmith and innkeeper threw their hands forward to keep the men apart
“If any killing happens, LaRoux, you’re to blame and you’ll hang from Smith’s oak by sunrise!” Tobias warned. “Put your knife away and get out of here before we haul you off.”
“No man will take me,”
“John Murphy was the last man hung back in forty-nine. You want to be next, LaRoux? Cause if you are, we’ll see to it for attempted murder.”
LaRoux clenched his teeth and broke free. He sprang at Tobias. A tangled mass of men reached for the old man, for Clarke whose wrist was bleeding, others for LaRoux. A man drew his pistol and shot it into the rafters hoping to end the fight. Yet the knife gleamed in the air and descended into a feeble breast.
A chilling cry pierced the shouting. Everyone froze. Tobias fell to the floor. LaRoux burst from the throng. Like a rabid animal, he ran from the tavern and disappeared into the blackness. Men ran out into the street, but LaRoux was nowhere in sight.
“We’ll go after him!” Cursing, Clarke started out the door of the tavern.
“He’s gone, Andy. We won’t find him now.” Sam Evans pulled him back by the shoulders with his great hands.
Clarke blinked his eyes against the darkness then hurried back. He knelt beside Tobias. The old man lay shaken on the edge of death.
“I’m not ready to die.” Blood was in his mouth, and forming in the corners of his lips.
Mrs. Carlton tore the edge of her petticoat and pressed the cloth against the wound. She was a middle-aged widow, with hair streaked silver, robust and as good at business as any man in town. “He’ll never step foot in my establishment again, Tobias. I’ll guarantee you that, my dear.”
Tobias looked up into her eyes. “I can’t believe he got me.”
“Now you lie still and don’t talk anymore. Some lads have gone for the doctor. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
Meg was crying.
“Quiet, Meg. You’ll only make things worse.”
Tobias choked. “Turn away, Meg, so you don’t see me die.”
Andrew Clarke tightened his grip. “You’re not gonna die. You’re made of cast iron.”
“I did well though.”
“Aye. Didn’t know you had it in you. Every lad in the county will talk for years how Tobias Johnston fought the French-Shawnee bravely—another tale to add to the ones from the last war.”
Tobias blinked his glazed eyes. “A legend is it?” He withered in pain, and settled back against Clarke’s arm with a look that said he was afraid.
“Hold on, my friend.”
Sam Evans stood at the door watching for the doctor. “He’s coming up the road. I see his horse.”
“I shouldn’t have started it with LaRoux. Look what I’ve done.” Clarke moved his head back and forth.
Tobias gripped his arm. “Ain’t your fault, Andy.”
“You saved my life, you old fool.” Clarke held him harder. “You hold on.”
Dr. Cole rushed inside the tavern and knelt beside Tobias. He lifted the bloodstained cloth and a look of dread spread over his face.
/> A light smile crossed Tobias’s mouth. “Tell them to bury me under the sycamore next to my dear Jenny, up at Mount Olivet in the peaceful hills. You keep my musket and powder horn, Andy.”
A slow breath slipped from his lips. Then the light within them faded. Tobias closed his eyes and died in Andrew Clarke’s arms.
CHAPTER 29
The ruins of a church were in darkness. Moonlight broke through the clouds, bathed the ancient stones in variegated hues of blue and purple, flowed through glassless windows. No one was certain of its history. But legend had it Queen Elizabeth had once made a secret rendezvous there with the man she loved. Torched by the Parliamentary Army, its walls stood as a testimony against the pride of man and a memorial to those who had worshiped there.
Rodney Nash slid off his horse and pushed aside a low branch that hindered his view. He looked up. Stars flickered against the cold black sky. He entered the place that had once held the church door. The breeze blew against him in a single breath.
A tall figure of a man stepped out of the shadows to meet him. The look in Laban Huet’s eyes touched a part of Sir Rodney most men of his time ignored—a lost and stricken gaze that spoke of poverty and struggle.
Long cries in the wilderness concerning the plight of the poor had fallen on deaf ears. The rich and powerful said the poorhouse, debtors’ prisons, diseased streets, and country shacks were enough. Some went so far as to support the kidnapping and transportation of the penniless to the Colonies, no matter what age or gender.
Yet there were charitable men like Sir Rodney, who made the poor one of his causes. His soul stirred while looking at Laban. The fellow clutched a tattered hat with dirty and callused hands, and even in the gloom, Sir Rodney could see beneath his well-worn coat bony shoulders.
“We must be quick, Sir Rodney. The sun will be up soon.”
Sir Rodney put his hand on Laban’s shoulder. “Do not fear. No one has seen us. Do you have what I asked for?”
Laban nodded and handed Sir Rodney a packet.
