Daughters of Harwood House Trilogy : Three Romances Tell the Saga of Sisters Sold into Indentured Service (9781630586140)

by Crawford, Dianna; Laity, Sally

  “Besides,” he went on, “Fawn Woman wasn’t no innocent victim. She made her own requests. She went through my store pointin’ to all manner of useless truck she just had to have.” Jenny tugged at a handful of his beard, and he chuckled and pried her little fingers away. “All them beads an’ shiny baubles she wanted is long since lost or traded off by now.” His grin widened. “But she’s still got this fine ol’ man o’ hers.”

  His words rekindled thoughts of Mariah and her desire for the better things. Rose hoped and prayed her sister would not turn out to be as foolish as Mrs. Smith. She picked up her sewing and resumed working on another warm dress she’d started for Jenny out of a bit of woven fabric.

  The trader continued his tale, his voice thoughtful. “When I seen how unhappy Fawn was, ‘specially since she never birthed a young’un, I was fixin’ to divorce her. But then me an’ my partner was ordered to leave her village an’ head overmountain to set up a store out here on the Ohio. We figgered if we took her along, those two brothers o’ hers could be persuaded to come along, too—fer a price, a’course. She’s still ever’ bit as greedy as she always was, an’ them boys did love the new rifles we give ’em.”

  Pausing in her work, Rose slid a glance their way. The two were never without their muskets—or the knives and hatchets tucked in their waistbands. They looked formidable enough and seemed proud of being the store’s guards. No doubt it gave them a sense of power. Rose was just glad they were there to protect this little encampment and not to attack it.

  Nevertheless, something about their taciturn conversations and occasional sly looks made Rose feel apprehensive…particularly with Mr. Smith in his weakened condition.

  Just how much did Fawn Woman hate Rose…and her own husband?

  Chapter 22

  Harwood! Up!”

  Someone was shaking her shoulder. Rose struggled to open her eyes. It was still dark. Still cold.

  “Up.”

  Recognizing Fawn Woman’s voice, Rose felt for the baby sleeping beside her then sat up. Something was amiss. “What is it?”

  “Husband. Come.” The squaw’s shadowy figure hurried to the flap and pulled it back. “Come. Now.”

  Shoving her feet into her shoes, Rose collected her cloak off her trunk and threw it about herself as she followed after the woman. Since no unusual sounds or activity drifted from the village, Rose’s worst fears filled her with dread. Only one thing would cause the trader’s wife to summon her in the dark of night. Mr. Smith must have taken a turn for the worse…or—

  She couldn’t finish the thought.

  Inside the larger wigwam, the fire pit blazed, providing welcome warmth that surrounded Rose. Fawn Woman stopped near the fire and stoked it with a stick.

  “Rose?” Mr. Smith’s faint croak came from the far end of the dwelling.

  The quaver in his voice made her heart lurch. She went immediately to where he lay among some furs and sank down to her knees beside his pallet. In the glow from the flames, she could see his face had lost all color. His eyes appeared sunken, and his breath came out in jerky rasps. Deep trepidation settled its weight on her heart.

  “Rose?” he said again, even more weakly.

  She leaned close. “I’m here. What can I do for you?”

  “I need…my tin box. Get it.”

  She glanced around. “Tin box?” It seemed every available spot around the wigwam was stacked high with goods of all kinds. Nothing resembled a tin box.

  Fawn Woman, now sitting opposite the fire, pointed with her stick. “There.”

  Rose crossed to it and picked it up then returned to him. Kneeling, she held it out to him.

  He gave a slight shake of his head. “Open it.”

  She did as bidden and found it was filled with legal documents and writing paper, a couple of plumed quills, and a considerable number of coins in various denominations. In the corner was a bottle of ink.

  “Take out…your indenture papers,” came his halting whisper. “Dip a quill.” He paused and took a breath. “I need to sign ’em off.”

  He was releasing her? As she followed his instructions, the trader struggled to roll onto his side and raise his head. With a shaky hand, he used his dwindling reserve of strength to scratch his signature. His head fell back to his pillow.

  Overwhelmed at her owner’s kind act, Rose tucked the papers inside an inner pocket of her cloak. Then, after returning the box to its proper place, she sank down at his side again. “Please, Mr. Smith, I want to help you. There must be something I can do.”

  “Nothin’, child.” She detected sadness, finality in his voice. “My innards must’a…popped a hole.” Another pause. “I’m bleedin’ out.”

  Rose’s heart plummeted to her toes. She shot a frantic look at his wife. As though detached from the situation, the squaw sat staring at the fire, idly toying at it with the stick she held. A wicked twitch of her lips looked a whole lot like a sickening smile.

  The trader’s bony hand wrapped weakly around Rose’s, drawing her attention away from the insensitive woman. “Give her brothers…another musket each…so they’ll stay till…Nate comes to git ya outta here.” The pressure of his hand waned. “Take any money I have…to get started on.”

  No. No. Rose’s throat thickened with anguish. Panic raised gooseflesh on her arms. “Please don’t die. Don’t leave me.” She barely choked out the words.

  “Can’t help it.” He drew another laboring breath. “Should’a had them governor’s men…take you an’ the babe with ’em.” Nodding sadly, he gave a wry grimace. “Didn’t think I was this bad.”

  She cupped his icy hand in both of hers and held it to the warmth of her cheek. “I wanted to stay. I did. You needed me here. I wouldn’t have left you.”

  The trader attempted a smile. “Yer my brave gal.” With a groan, he blanched even whiter and let out a shuddering breath. “My boy Charlie…has a cooperage in Fredericksburg.” Another pause. “Git word to him. He’ll tell my other boys.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze with his colder, weaker one. “Yer the daughter I never had.” He peered up at her with a slight nod. “Good an’ kind, ya are…. Knowed it when I first seen ya…. May the good Lord bless an’ keep ya.”

  “But—Mr. Smith—”

  “Git little Jenny fer me…. I need one more look at my joy.”

  When Rose brought the half-asleep little one to see Mr. Smith, she found with dismay that he’d stopped breathing. His passing left her completely bereft. That he had not lived long enough to set his eyes upon his sweet angel added sorrow beyond words. After Rose took the sleepy child back to their wigwam and settled her once again on her fur pallet, an emptiness beyond anything she’d yet experienced gnawed at her heart. She and Jenny were now the only white people left at the trading post on the edge of the Shawnee village and without the protection of Mr. Smith—a reality that brought deep unrest. But at least no one was around at the moment to see her cry. Rose no longer fought against the tears she’d been holding back. Sobbing quietly, she let them run unheeded down onto her pillow until she had no more left inside.

  In the morning, the Susquehannock brothers took care of the burial. Speaking around the tightness in her chest, Rose read some scripture verses and said a prayer over the trader’s grave. It took all the strength she possessed to maintain her composure in the braves’ presence, when what she wanted more than anything was to give in to her grief and wail for all the world to hear, the way she’d heard an Indian woman grieve the loss of a family member last month. Heart aching, she placed a small bunch of lacy ferns atop the lonely mound near Hannah Wright’s resting place.

  After she and the brothers returned to the store, she offered Running Wolf and Spotted Elk the new muskets Mr. Smith wanted them to have so they’d stay and continue guarding the place. Nodding and smiling, they took them with obvious gratitude. They had always been friendly to her, especially after she made them the matching shirts.

  But their sister was another matter entirely.
Rose had no idea what Fawn Woman was thinking.

  When Rose had asked for Mr. Smith’s frayed New Testament to read at his grave, the woman had handed it over…but did not deign to come and see her husband’s body laid to rest. With a very determined look on her face, the young woman took all of the trader’s clothing and bedding and set them afire then swept out the wigwam with a vengeance. From a deerskin pouch she wore around her neck, she sprinkled some kind of powder across the floor.

  For all that frenzy of work, Fawn Woman never demanded help from Rose, which made her even more leery. The squaw had always derived perverse satisfaction from ordering her around. She wondered if the woman was actually mourning her dead husband in her own way but knew that would be one huge stretch of the imagination. Fawn Woman had made no secret of the contempt she harbored for the trader. Or for Rose and Jenny.

  Far more disturbing, all trading at the store ceased upon Mr. Smith’s death. Groups of Indians would talk among themselves and stare now and then toward the trading post, but not one ventured forth to trade or do business. The few canoes that did arrive from up or down the river were intercepted and the goods or furs were taken to one of the longhouses instead.

  Nightfall arrived all too soon, closing in on Rose with its strange sounds and black coldness. She feared having to cross the short distance from the trading post to her wigwam, but the canvas covering the storefront did little to keep out the cold after sundown. It was too chilly for Jenny. There was no other choice. She’d already started a fire in her wigwam, so carrying the baby with her, Rose banked the hot coals in the hearth. Then after collecting a musket and the fixings, plus a hatchet and a sharp hunting knife, she went at last to her meager dwelling and prepared for bed.

  Lying on her sleeping pallet, she couldn’t decide whether it was the occasional night sounds that kept her on edge…or the ominous silence. After lying awake for hours, she slept only fitfully, dozing then jerking awake at the slightest noise, real or imagined. She was now completely alone in this vast wilderness, and the stark realization made her shiver in the fearsome chill of night.

  She had no one to turn to now.

  No one but God.

  Dear Heavenly Father, You promised never to leave me or forsake me. Please take away this fear I have inside. Help me to be brave. Please, give me rest. And please, please, bring back Nate.

  Something pulled Rose’s hair. She opened her eyes to see a smiling Jenny Ann with her tiny hand entwined in Rose’s night braid.

  Remembering the uncertainty of the night before, Rose felt for the loaded musket lying on the dirt floor beside her pallet, where she’d tucked it beneath the edge of her top blanket for protection. She’d caught only short snatches of sleep, and from the brightness of the light seeping past the flapped opening, she must have overslept.

  She got up quickly, noticing she still wore her clothes from the previous day. She’d been too nervous to change into her nightshift, but here she was, just as safe as before Mr. Smith passed away. The Susquehannock brothers proved to be honorable men.

  Once she got the banked embers going to warm the wigwam, she changed the baby’s diaper layered with its crushed moss for a dry one while Jenny giggled and played with the braid dangling over Rose’s shoulder. Then she bundled the little one up and walked out with her into the cold morning.

  Rose had hoped to find someone else up and about to take the baby while she took care of her own morning needs. But no one else was around. She gave a small grimace. It seemed once the trader was no longer present, his widow and her brothers didn’t see a necessity to rise early.

  Rose sat Jenny in the little pen the child and Mr. Smith had played and napped in together the day before yesterday. In her mind, she could still hear the two of them laughing. The reminder of her and Jenny’s loss assaulted her with sorrow as she headed for the woods.

  On her way back, Rose heard the chickens squawking to be let out of their coop. She looked past their crude hut to the corralled stock. Unless it was her imagination, there didn’t seem to be as many horses as there should be. She took a quick count. Sixteen—out of twenty-two! Six were missing—including a gelding Nate had left there for safekeeping.

  She rushed to the brothers’ wigwam. “Running Wolf! Spotted Elk! Come out! We’ve been robbed!”

  There was no response.

  Rose grasped the flap and tore it aside. The wigwam was empty!

  She then dashed to Fawn Woman’s wigwam and pushed that flap aside. The squaw—and most of her belongings—were gone. And Mr. Smith’s metal box lay open, emptied of his money.

  The scuffling sounds that had disturbed her restless sleep last night hadn’t been forest animals scurrying about, after all. A quick check of the store revealed a number of items missing, the worst of which was the bundle of the best furs.

  Rose stood seething for several moments. But gradually it dawned on her that Mr. Smith’s widow was probably due an inheritance. After all, she had stayed with the man for six years. Whatever money he’d saved was rightfully hers. Rose could do nothing about the rest.

  Knowing it was now her responsibility to look after the animals, she put Jenny into the baby sling the trader had fixed for her and slipped it on. Grabbing the sack of feed, she headed for the chicken pen.

  Walking outside, she noticed a group of Indians standing at the entrance of one of the longhouses a short distance away. All were staring at her. The dire reminder came again that she was here in this Shawnee village alone, with no protector, and nothing between her and them but a single-shot musket.

  Chapter 23

  Afraid to let Jenny Ann out of her reach, Rose spent the morning with the child slung on her back while she took care of the chores. The entire time she worked, she kept one eye on the Shawnee in the village, aware of their furtive glances in her direction. What were they thinking, planning?

  She alternated between praying for God’s protection and debating whether or not to take Jenny and some supplies and ride away. But she’d need help to cross the river…and the Shawnee hadn’t even tended Hannah Wright’s wounds. What were the chances they’d be willing to aid her and Hannah’s daughter?

  Of course, there were plenty of goods available to pay for assistance, which might help. On the other hand, what would prevent the Indians from coming to the trading post at will and helping themselves to whatever they wanted?

  Father, what should I do? Give me courage…. Please, God, please bring Nate back.

  But no answer was emblazoned across the sky, and no assurance of what action she should take brought peace to her heart.

  As Rose cooked oats with dried fruit for her and Jenny’s noon meal, she spotted two Shawnee approaching. They carried no weapons, but considering she was a mere woman, would they even feel they needed them? Her pulse throbbed in her throat.

  She glanced down at Jenny nearby, who was crawling after a bean-filled rattle Mr. Smith had made from a gourd. Then she checked to make sure her musket was still propped against the sitting log.

  The two had warm fur robes wrapped around them against the cold. As they approached, Rose noted that along with the usual buckskin breeches most villagers wore, the round-faced older of the two sported an elaborate feather headdress adorned with an abundance of decorative beading. A necklace of bear claws peeked from an opening in the robe. She recognized him as one of the chiefs of the village. He raised a brown hand in greeting.

  The action didn’t seem hostile, but still…Forcing herself to relax, she returned his greeting.

  “Harwood woman,” the younger brave said.

  She nodded, grateful that one of them spoke English. “Good afternoon.” She checked to see Jenny was still nearby then motioned to the sitting log not far from the fire, where the warmth from the flames along with the sunshine would keep them comfortable. “Please, sit down.” She’d learned early on that visitors were always invited to sit and always offered food or drink.

  The two lowered themselves to the log, an indic
ation they’d come to talk.

  “Would you care for some tea?” She gestured toward the pot where she’d been brewing some for herself.

  The young man spoke to the elder, then they both nodded.

  Good. Rose managed a smile and rummaged through a sack for a pair of extra cups. There was no point in complicating things by asking if they wanted sugar or cream. She felt their eyes following her every movement as she removed the pan of cornmeal mush from the coals. She hoped the cooked mixture wouldn’t get too lumpy before they took their leave—assuming they left peaceably.

  After pouring tea into the three cups, she handed each Indian one then took hers and sat across the fire from them, waiting for them to say something.

  They didn’t. Not right away. They sat on the log, presumably enjoying their drink while steadily observing her.

  Rose breathed a prayer for protection yet again while she took a sip and tried to appear calm. This time, however, she added a request for wisdom to her growing list of desperate needs.

  At last the chief set his cup down and said something to the interpreter.

  The younger man, elaborately tattooed, with earrings made from animal teeth dangling from his lobes, smiled. “Red Hawk say Susquehannocks no good. Steal horses. Run away. Shawnee no steal.”

  The chief spoke to him again and he continued. “Smith know he die. Smith make you good trader. Red Hawk say stay. Is good store. Red Hawk give guards. Keep store safe.” He pointed to himself. “Cornstalk. Cornstalk stay. Fast Walker come, stay.” He nodded, his straight brows raised in question. “Good?”

  Rose couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Not only were they not planning to harm her; they were going to protect her and the store. Astounded at God’s mercy, her heart all but burst from thankfulness as she nodded and smiled at both of them. At least she’d learned one word to say in trading, so she used it now. “Oui-saw.” Good. She hoped she pronounced it half as well as Cornstalk spoke English. Their languages were so different.