by Norah Hess
Six months later the young girl was dead. A premature birth had left her hemorrhaging, and a drunken doctor had been unable to help her.
The night after the funeral Egan Traver appeared at the Akers' door. In his arms he carried his blanketed baby girl. Silently he laid the child in Hertha's arms. Hertha was struck by the grief in his eyes. This man had truly loved her daughter.
"Hester wanted her to be called Marna," he murmured, leaning down and kissing the baby's cheek. He brushed away a tear and pressed some money into Hertha's hand. "Take care of her, Hertha. Don't let Emery get his hands on her."
Hertha nodded mutely, and Egan Traver closed the door behind him.
Hertha had thought she would be unable to look at her granddaughter, much less raise her. How could she tend this baby who had caused her own child's death? But at its first wailing cry she had turned back its blanket, and the little helpless piece of humanity had gone straight to her heart. It was as if she were gazing down on Hester fourteen years earlier.
The baby flourished, and gradually Hertha's grief dulled to a point where she could live with it.
Emery spent more time at the taverns and less time at his job as a cooper. Many times Hertha was hard put to make a nourishing meal for herself and baby Marna. There were times when she was tempted to spend some of the money Egan had slipped to her. It lay safely hidden between the pages of her Bible, one place she knew Emery would never look. But always when she picked the Bible up to remove a few dollars, a small voice would whisper, "Wait, Hertha, you will need it more later on."
Sighing, she would lay the big tome back on the shelf. Their bowl of soup would be a little thinner that night.
In the mid-1700s a revival in religion came about in Philadelphia. From it, a new kind of preacher emerged. He was a preacher who did not stay in one church but moved from place to place, preaching wherever people would gather to listen. Many of this new breed found their way into dimly lit taverns to preach in their dramatic and emotional way.
One night one such man stood on a tabletop in a tavern in Philadelphia. In a loud and threatening manner he warned his unwilling audience that they would spend eternity in a burning hell unless they stopped their drinking and whoring. In a dark corner, a whore on each knee, sat Emery Aker. As he steadily poured rum down his throat, he became quarrelsome and began to call out insults to the preacher. When the man singled him out and asked why he wasn't home with his family, Emery became enraged and jumped to his feet. He grabbed up a solid oak stool and, before he could be stopped, brought it crashing down on the preacher's head.
The preacher wilted slowly to the floor, his head cracked open.
Speechless by the swiftness of Emery's action, everyone crowded around the dead man. Not too drunk to realize he'd hang for the man's murder, Emery slipped out the back door and hurried home.
Barking orders to Hertha to pack their clothes and some food, he took down his rifle and primed it. To Hertha's anxious and alarmed queries, he would only answer, "I'm fed up with this town. We're goin' to a place called Kentucky. We're gonna homestead. There'll be no more bosses standin' over me."
At his insistent prodding, their few clothes were shoved into a pillowcase, and food and gear were strapped together. She was careful to stow the Bible in the grub sack.
Hertha closed the door behind her without regret. So much pain and misery had gone on within the walls of this house. She grieved only at leaving that lonely grave behind. She stepped off the rickety porch and stopped short. Emery was slinging their belongings over the back of their neighbor's mule. Hertha hurried to him, grabbing his arm. "Emery Aker, we're not going to steal our neighbor's mule. We'll walk."
He jerked away from her, whispering fiercely, "Walk? Are you out of your mind? Do you know how far we have to travel?"
Before Hertha could answer, Emery grabbed her and tossed her astride the animal. With the baby in her arms, she could only grab at the rough mane and hang on as Emery sent it into a jiggling run with a crack on its rump.
They moved swiftly and silently through side streets and alleys. Gradually the loud song and braying laughter of the taverns faded away. As they hurried along, always keeping to the shadows, it came to Hertha that Emery was running away from something-or somebody. In all likelihood some irate husband, she guessed.
Whatever the reason, she was glad to be leaving behind the dirt and squalor of Philadelphia. A small stirring of hope began to beat within her. Maybe at long last Emery would change and they could lead a normal and decent life.
Her arms tightened around baby Marna, and she prayed silently that Hester's baby would know security.
Soon the streets gave way to pastureland and homesteads. When Emery disappeared into the darkness of a barn and emerged silently astride a strong, spirited horse, the small hope of a better future dwindled and died in Hertha's breast. Her husband was in serious trouble and wanted to leave the territory fast.
He motioned her to follow him, and wordlessly she nudged the mule. What use was there in questioning him? His answer would only be a hand across her face.
In the bright light of the moon she watched Emery peer over his shoulder every several yards. Again she wondered what terrible thing he had done to cause him to fear pursuit. The spring night air was cool, and Hertha shivered. Holding the baby close, she wondered what end they would all come to.
After the third day on the trail Emery began to lose his hunted look and to become once again his usual callous and brutal self. Each day they made early camp, and Hertha barely had time to set camp in order before he was pushing her toward the spread-out bedroll.
All camp duties fell to Hertha, from the chopping of the wood to the carrying of water from nearby streams. Emery spent his time sprawled out on a blanket, talking of the big farm they were going to have in Kentucky. According to him, everything was going to be fine from now on.
One night as he talked and laid his plans, Hertha asked timidly, "Do you have much money on you, Emery?"
He glared at her darkly, blurting out, "Don't worry about it, woman. A man don't need much money in this new country we're goin' to. He raises all he needs."
From his blustery tone she knew he had little, if any, money. She sneaked her hand into the pocket to which she had transferred Egan's money. She knew now why she had never spent any of it.
On the sixth day they had their first human contact. All that day they had climbed steadily. Around noon they rode out of the forest and into a level clearing. It was dotted thickly with black, charred tree stumps, standing starkly against the new green grass pushing up around them. Hertha let her eyes run the long, narrow strip to where a small barn stood, leaning dangerously toward the ground. A man of medium height and weight moved desultorily around the building, aiming an occasional half-hearted kick at a stone. He stopped often to squint toward a long, low cabin sitting at the edge of the forest. As Hertha and Emery watched him, the door swung open and a woman, lean and angular, stepped out on the porch. Cupping her hands to her mouth, she called loudly, "Come and eat."
The man hitched up his pants, spit out a wad of tobacco, and moved toward the house. Emery grunted in satisfaction. "Good, they're gonna eat. Maybe they'll invite us in for a bite."
Urging the mule to catch up with him, Hertha called to him anxiously, "Don't ask them for food for us. Ask them if they can spare some milk for Marna."
If Emery heard her, he gave no indication.
As it turned out, the man and woman greeted them warmly and invited them to share their meal. As Marna noisily emptied a bottle of freshly strained milk, the woman remarked how grateful they were for company. "It was a long winter with never a visitor," she complained. "I thought I'd go crazy with only Luke to talk to."
Hertha smiled in sympathy. "I guess it could get awfully lonesome out here."
The woman sighed. "You can't imagine. I told Luke we're gonna sell this place and go back to civilization. There ain't no way I'll spend another winter here."
"Just as soon as someone comes along and gives us our price."
In a voice the men could not hear above their discussion of horses and trapping, Hertha asked, "What is your price?"
The woman looked at Hertha speculatively for a minute, then answered firmly in an equally quiet voice, "A hundred and fifty dollars for the land and buildings, or two hundred dollars with the stock and furniture thrown in."
Hertha ran a measuring glance around cabin. There were few pieces of furniture, but it seemed to be sturdily constructed. There was at least one cow, she knew, and a dozen or so scrawny chickens had scattered under their feet as they walked across the grassless yard.
She threw a glance at Emery, still conversing loudly with the husband, and scooted her chair closer to the wife. "Do you think you and I could do some business without the men?"
"Indeed we can," the woman answered quickly. "I handle all our dealin's. My old man don't know beans when it comes to handlin' money."
Hertha gave a short, bitter laugh. "Neither does mine, although he thinks he does." She gave the woman a long, searching look. The woman gazed back encouragingly. Deciding that she could be trusted, Hertha spoke rapidly, "I don't want my husband to know I have any money. He'd be furious if he found out. So would you please pretend that you are willing to sell us this place on time?"
Compassion flickered in the woman's eyes. She had not missed the pinched, unhappy look in the narrow face, nor the large bruises on her legs and arms. It was plain that this gentle woman lived in hell with her overbearing husband. She reached over and patted Hertha's knee. "Tell him anything you want to, honey. I'll back you up."
By nightfall the Akers owned thirty acres of forest land and ten acres of cleared land. They also owned a cabin that was in fair shape and a barn that might fall down with summer's first storm. There were a dozen and a half scraggly hens and one rooster. The cow had freshened a month ago, her calf a bull. Rounding out the livestock were a sow and six baby pigs.
Just before the couple left, Hertha slipped some money into the wife's hand and whispered, "Would you please buy me some seed at that post you spoke about?"
The knowing hill woman climbed on her horse and picked up the reins. Then, as an afterthought, she spoke down to Emery. "If you'll come down to the post tomorrow, I've got some seeds you can have for plantin'."
When her surprised husband inquired what she was talking about, she gave him such a look he quickly snapped his mouth shut.
As the Akers stood on the porch, waving good-bye to their new acquaintances, Hertha was almost happy. At least they had a roof over their heads, a start. Time would tell what Emery would make of it.
The next morning, well after the sun was up, Emery hitched the stolen mule to a plow and started to break ground. It took but half an hour of fighting the bouncing plow as it bit into hard virgin soil mixed with roots and stones to send him back to the cabin. Standing in the open door, he ordered gruffly, "Hertha, you go plow while I go fetch the seeds."
It was close to nightfall when Hertha heard him finally returning home. Her arms feeling as though they were pulled from the socket and her back one dull ache, she set the meager supper of salt pork and cornpone on the table. As Emery staggered up the path and lurched into the main room, she wondered how he had managed to get drunk without money. He threw the bag of seed on the table, and she grabbed it up eagerly. At least he hadn't bartered it for drinks.
The next morning a local homesteader came to take away the bull calf. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he explained shamefacedly before Hertha's dismay, "but I paid your husband for the animal yesterday."
Gulping back her disappointed tears, Hertha lied quietly. "Yes, I know. Emery told me."
The spring days rolled along, and Hertha plowed and planted as much as her strength would permit. Emery spent all his time at the tavern, drinking and carousing with his new and dubious friends. Each day he was a little later getting home, and he finally stayed away for days on end. Before summer was over he had sold off the young shoats and drunk up the profit.
"I guess it's just as well, Lord," Hertha said in her prayers one night."I wouldn't have any feed for them, anyhow. I'll do well to feed the rest of the stock."
Their first winter on the hilltop wasn't too bad. They butchered the sow, and along with the beans and potatoes that Hertha had grown they ate well Occasionally Emery shot some game, and the fresh meat was always appreciated.
Unknown to Emery, Hertha's sympathizing friend and her husband had made monthly trips up to the cabin bringing cornmeal and other staples. But by spring of the following year Hertha's money was gone, and the couple now came only to visit.
Hertha had known after the first week on the small homestead that Emery would never work the place and provide for her and Marna. She was unable to do a man's work, and she could not sleep nights wondering where to turn next Her path to survival came about in a strange way.
One June morning, with Marna in one arm and a basket on the other, she set out to pick the dewberries that grew in thick clusters at the edge of the clearing. Within a few yards of her porch, she stumbled and almost fell over the body of a young Indian brave. She gave a frightened cry and stepped back.
The red man lay inert, moaning softly. He wore nothing but a loincloth, and her eyes fell instantly on the bronze, muscular leg that was swelling rapidly. Setting Marna down, she knelt at the Indian's side. Peering closely at his leg, from the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a snake slithering from sight beneath a rotting log. "He's been bitten by a copperhead," she whispered fearfully.
Swooping up the little girl, she ran swiftly to the cabin. She placed Marna in the middle of the bed and cautioned her to stay there. Jerking open a cabinet door, she chose her sharpest knife, laid it in a pan of water, and set the flames to boil. She reached on a high shelf and brought down a pouch of herbs and roots and powders. When the water bubbled, she mixed some with the herbs and powder, forming a thick paste. Then she gingerly lifted the knife from the water, folded everything into a clean white cloth, and hurried outside.
Kneeling again beside the brave, she made two deep slices across the tiny puncture marks that glared redly on the dark skin. Thick, almost black blood spurted upward, then ran freely. She let it flow a moment, letting the poison drain from his veins. Then, scooping up a handful of the herb mixture, she spread it thickly over the wound.
The spring sun shone brightly, beating down on the young brave's face. She cut some branches from a maple tree and erected a shade over his head. Hurrying back to the cabin, she fetched a pan of cold water and bathed the leg, which was burning to her touch.
Within an hour the swelling was going down and the Indian had ceased his moaning. In the early afternoon he opened his eyes, and Hertha was ready with a bowl of squirrel broth.
At first the brave stared at her suspiciously, the black, piercing eyes making her tremble. Then, as his glance took in the plaster and his nose recognized the aroma of familiar herbs, he relaxed and said, "Wolf thanks white woman for saving his life."
"No need for thanks," Hertha answered, her voice coming out in a tiny squeak.
She started to spoon the broth to him, but the red man took the bowl from her and lifted it to his lips. He handed it back, empty, then wordlessly lay back down and closed his eyes.
A couple of hours later, after Hertha had fed Marna and milked the cow, she went to check on Wolf. Only the bent grass where he had lain gave any proof that he had been there.
Regularly after that, it was not unusual to find on her porch a string of fish or a couple of fat squirrels, sometimes a brace of quail, and occasionally even a haunch of deer. And, through the Indian, word of Hertha's ability with herbs spread through the settlement and countryside. At any hour, night or day, a knock would come on the door, from someone seeking her help.
Hertha's involvement with nature's cures dated back to
her childhood in England. Her mother had been a well-known apothecary, and through the years she had meticulously passed on her knowledge of medicine to her daughter. Each spring and fall she had insisted that Hertha join her on forages into the forest. At an early age the young daughter knew all the plants and roots and what ailments they cured. When Hertha came to the new country, she brought with her the thin, muchused book of recipes. Realizing now the need of medicine in the hills, she studied the book at every opportunity. In it she also entered and described many new plants and roots that she learned about from the Indians.
Her mind became more at ease. At last she had the means of providing a living for herself and Marna. She seldom took money for her ministering, preferring instead that she be paid with meat and other foods, because money would be taken away from her and drunk up at the tavern. She treated many hunters, however, whose only way of paying was with money. Whenever possible, she hoarded this money, keeping it safely hidden from Emery's clutching fingers.
The years went by and Hertha roamed the wooded hills in the summer, searching for the supplies she would cure and mix in the winter. The hill people loved the strange, bent old woman and hated her evil husband just as strongly. Emery had lost all sense of decency in the passing years and was now tolerated only by his drinking companions in the tavern.
It was Emery and his friends who had caused Hertha to go looking for her granddaughter on this fine fall day. No female was safe from them if she should be caught out alone.
Hertha made her fourth trip onto the porch, staring out toward the wilderness, an anxious look in her eyes. Where was that child?
As Matt Barton rode through the darkening forest, he kept his eyes roving. This country was new to him, and supposedly the Indians were friendly. But in the part of the wilderness he had left some time ago, the Indian was the white man's enemy.
