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The Crockett Chronicles- The Complete Collection

Page 53

by Jennifer Lynn Cary


  “I mean, what if he rode away one day and chose to not come back?” Watching the woman’s eyes, she wondered if she’d said too much.

  “Do you think your Joseph has gone for good? Is that what all this is about?”

  She nodded meekly. She was ashamed to admit even that much to Anne.

  “First, let me tell you Joseph loves you. I know. And second, he is on a business trip to London for the company. He will be back as soon as the business is concluded. Didn’t you ask him?”

  “We haven’t been…communicating very well…for some time now.” Sarah thought she was past tears, but the hot liquid burned in her eyes just the same. “I don’t think he wants me anymore.”

  “Then let us pray about it.” Kneeling down next to the bed, Anne placed a hand on Sarah’s head and closed her eyes. “Oh, Almighty God, Thou art God over all things great and small. Thou deliverest Daniel and the Hebrew children yet allowed Paul and Peter to die for Thee. We do not understand Thy ways but know Thou workest for our eternal good in all Thou doest. I bring my young sister to Thy throne of mercy. Thou knowest the depth of her pain and suffering, and Thou knowest the outcome. We pray for Thy Holy Spirit to fill her with the faith she needs to trust in Thee to bring her dear husband back. Not only back to Bere Haven, but back to her arms and Thy will. Do whatever needs to be done to accomplish Thy will in this matter, we implore Thee. We leave this worry at the foot of the Holy Cross of Thy Son, Jesus, in Whose Name we pray. Amen.”

  “Amen”

  Nothing more needed to be said.

  * * *

  Strength returned a little more each day. And with it came a new hunger, a desire to spend time reading the Bible and praying about what she read.

  Often Anne would come by, or Sarah would take Wee Joseph and spend the afternoon at the Fontaine’s house, or rather, fortress. Rumors flew quite regularly of French corsairs making trouble for Protestant villages along the Southern Irish coast, but none had been spotted near Bere Haven.

  This beautiful morning, Sarah planned to go with Anne to visit the sick and poor in the neighborhood, bringing food and doing good as St. Paul instructed. Her window was open and the sea air invigorated. Leaning out over the sill, she took in a deep breath and heard a cry. Holding the air inside, she closed her eyes and listened.

  She heard it again. Letting the breath out, she realized it couldn’t be her imagination. The cry sounded too young for Wee Joseph. And weak.

  She ran down the stairs and to the back door. As she opened it, there sat a basket on the step.

  The cry came from inside.

  Peeling back blankets, she saw the angriest face she’d ever seen on a baby. Scooping him up in her arms, she patted his back and paced in the kitchen.

  That didn’t seem to be what he wanted. Or was it a her?

  Bridget came into the room, tying on her apron. “Whatever is making such a racket on this bright new day?”

  “It is more like who is making such a racket, and I don’t know the wee one’s name. Or gender, for that matter. There, there, little one. From whence came ye?”

  Feeling around in the basket, Bridget held up only the covering. “There’s no note and I do not recognize the basket or blanket. Could she be hungry?”

  “Aye, she could, or he could or he or she may want a clean nappy. I think there are still some up in Wee Joseph’s room.” Sarah headed for the stairs and Bridget followed.

  Wee Joseph woke as the women entered. His eyes grew at the sight of the baby and he covered his ears.

  “Tis but a babe crying, Wee Joseph, just like ye used to do when ye were little. I think we need to change the nappy.”

  Wee Joseph climbed off his bed and toddled to his mother, wrapping an arm about her leg and popping a thumb in his mouth.

  “Would ye like to help me, son?”

  Wee Joseph nodded and reached toward the baby. Sarah stooped so he could see. “Look at the tiny feet and hands, love. They look just like yers, only smaller.”

  “I found the nappies. Would ye like to change him or her?”

  “I think I remember how.” Sarah tweaked Wee Joseph’s nose and stood. Taking the baby to the dresser she made a soft place for him—or her—and unbundled the soiled nappy.

  This was definitely a boy, and she remembered just in time what little boys can do when feeling exposed. “Bridget, would you bring that basin here. I think we should bathe this little one before putting him in clean clothes.”

  She removed his gown and noted he couldn’t be but a day old by the look of his navel. Taking care around the stump of cord, she washed his little body and his fine blond hair, of which there was little on his nearly bald head. Bridget held out a towel, and Sarah carefully wrapped him up. “Now to put you in a fresh nappy and gown. What is your name, little lad? We can’t very well keep calling you babe or laddie, now can we?”

  Someone knocked at the door downstairs, so Bridget left to answer it.

  By the time Bridget came back with Anne Fontaine, Sarah had the baby dressed and wrapped in a clean blanket. She sat in the rocker with him on one side and Wee Joseph on her other.

  “What shall we name him, Wee Joseph? He needs a name, don’t you think?”

  Wee Joseph gently touched the baby’s cheek. “John.”

  Sarah gazed at her son, “John? You think that is a good name for him?”

  Wee Joseph nodded.

  “Why John?”

  “Jesus loves him.”

  Sarah’s glance caught Anne’s. Wee Joseph remembered the Bible story she’d told him before bed about John, the disciple Jesus loved.

  She stroked the baby’s downy head, watching his face. “What do you think, wee one? Do you like the name John?”

  The baby shoved a fist in his mouth and began to suck furiously.

  Anne leaned over to get a better look. “I don’t think he is concerned with what you call him. I think he is more in want of something to eat.”

  Sarah glanced up at Anne. “I know. Do you have any ideas?”

  “I do. Bridget, I’ll be needing a clean horn, an old but clean leather glove, and some boiled goat’s milk.”

  Bridget left to gather the articles, and Anne sat down on the edge of Wee Joseph’s bed.

  “Do you know from where he came?”

  “Heaven, as far as I’m concerned. We found no note in his basket and I don’t recognize the blanket. It’s on the floor by the dresser if you want to look.”

  Anne picked the blanket up between her thumb and finger and held it out. “Actually, I believe it is one of mine. An old one I gave away some time ago.” She grabbed her chin and squinted her eyes. Then, with a shake of her head, she tossed the blanket back on the floor. “I’m not able to recall. Sarah, ma petite, I can see you are becoming attached.”

  She couldn’t deny it and nodded her head. “He’s so helpless and needs me almost as much as I need him, I think.”

  Anne put her hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Will you give me time to check the villages? There is a mother somewhere without her baby.”

  What kind of mother willingly gave away her baby? But in the end, Sarah agreed. She had to. If someone had her Wee Thomas, she would want to know.

  They spent the rest of the morning trying to get John fed. The cow’s horn had been hollowed and the point cut off. A finger from the glove slipped over the narrow end of the horn, forming a nipple, and the palm of the glove was strapped over the wider end after the goat’s milk had cooled and been poured in.

  It took some practice keeping a finger over the nipple end while tying the other end off with a leather strip. Neither Bridget nor Sarah could do it alone, so the old cradle had been brought down into the kitchen to hold John while they worked together.

  Anne left to do the visiting without Sarah. That evening, she returned to see how things progressed.

  Sitting on creepies in the kitchen, Sarah and Bridget shared about their adventurous day of feeding baby John—not Johnny. Wee Joseph insisted. Anne
laughed until she had to wipe her eyes free of tears.

  “Bless me, I think no child ever had such determined and entertaining nannies.” She slapped her thighs. “And I should now tell you what I learned today about the child’s parentage.”

  Sarah’s heart grew tight. She knew Anne would search for the information while out but hadn’t expected her to learn anything so soon.

  Leaning forward, Anne folded her hands and rested her elbows on her knees. “I learned of John’s mother. She was a young slip of a girl still in need of a mother herself. It seems she had kept her secret about carrying the child until she delivered, all alone. A friend found her, cared for her until she died. This friend found clothes for the infant. No one in the mother’s family would care for the child, and the lass I spoke to was afraid of what might happen if they ever got their hands on him.”

  Sarah wiped a tear from her cheek. “What of her friend? Is she safe? Can we help her?”

  “Not much we can do at the moment, at least not more than I am doing. Young girls can be prey without loving parents. But you can always pray God will keep her from the same fate.” Anne cupped her hand to John’s soft cheek. “So, it looks like he is yours. What do you plan to tell Joseph when he comes home?”

  “He’s been gone so long now. I don’t even know when to expect him back. I thought…prayed he would send a letter, but I have yet to receive one. I don’t know what to do.” Not long ago, she would have broken in pieces to say such a thing. Now, she spoke the truth knowing she would give it to God in prayer before she went to bed.

  Anne stood. “Courage, dear Sarah. The battle isn’t over yet.”

  “Courage rises from the wound.”

  “What was that, dear?”

  “Something my father told me. Courage rises from the wound.” Sarah smiled. “And it does.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  By five in the morning, as the sun glistened over the bay, Sarah laid little John back into the cradle and stretched. Her body felt like it had spent the night in the rocker, and that was very close to the truth. The laddie housed a great appetite.

  Fortunately, Bridget had the presence of mind to create several horn feeders. And due to Anne’s prolific love of reading, they knew to boil the horns after each use to rid them of the tiny things one could see under a microscope. Fascinated with the work of Robert Hooke and Anton van Leeuwenhoek, Hooke’s Microscopia had captured Anne’s imagination. The wonder that God created things so small the human eye alone could not see them, only gave her more praise to sing.

  Even still, after each boiling, the leather nipples and bases had to be made pliable with butter, which also acted as a proofing to keep the liquid from passing through. And that called for poking tiny holes in the tip of each nipple so Wee John could drink.

  Then there was the matter of boiling the goat’s milk, to keep it easier on Wee John’s digestion, according to Anne. Boil the milk. Cool the milk. Make ready the feeder. And all the time the wain waited quite impatiently.

  And it had only been one night.

  Yet when he lay sleeping in her arms, Sarah could think of nothing more lovely, like a piece of herself had returned to its place.

  She woke to the hungry cries of an insistent young lad. Rolling to her side, she noted the sun higher in the sky. She must have lain on the bed after putting John into his cradle.

  Stretching again, Sarah rose, still fully dressed, and lifted Wee John to her. “Shh wee one. I know, I know. We will change yer nappy and see about some more milk.”

  She carried him to Wee Joseph’s room and changed his clothes, all of which were very damp. Wee Joseph rubbed his eyes and watched.

  “Why John cry, Mama?”

  “That’s how wee ones tell us they have a need. He needs his nappy and clothes changed, and he’s most likely hungry too. Are ye hungry?”

  “Aye” He climbed out of bed and held her skirt as they went down the stairs.

  “Mama, will John be me brodder?”

  “I’m praying about that, Wee Joseph.”

  “Will Da love him?”

  “I’m praying about that too.”

  Bridget’s eyes appeared tired, but she was already at work in her kitchen fixing Wee Joseph’s breakfast and Wee John’s milk. “What might I fix for ye, Mistress Sarah?”

  When Sarah shook her head, suggesting a bannock left over from yesterday, Bridget overruled. “I’m not about to let ye get sick again now that yer nearly back to yer auld self. Ye will have some of the brochan I prepared for Wee Joseph, and there’s tea for while ye wait.”

  Wee Joseph perched on a high stool at the preparation table.

  While she waited, Sarah paced, John nestled in her neck sucking on his fist. She knew Wee Joseph watched closely.

  “I don’t want a brodder.”

  Turning to face her son, Sarah studied his face. “Why, Wee Joseph? Why don’t ye want a new brother?”

  “Him cries too much. I wanna sisser.”

  Sarah leaned against the wall and bit her lip to keep in the laughter. A glance at Bridget showed her back shaking, though she, at least, kept quiet. “Son, I am very sorry to tell ye this, but sisters cry too. Babes are noisy creatures. They can’t talk so instead they cry.”

  Wee Joseph squinted his eyes and puckered his lips, thinking quite seriously. Finally, he nodded. “Den I teach him, so he don’t cry so much.”

  Bridget lost control. She snorted, bent over double, an arm about her middle while she held the table for support.

  Wee Joseph’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong? Is Bridget sick?”

  Sarah chuckled and cupped her son’s chin in her hand. “Yer an amazing young lad, that ye are, son. I think ye should teach John to talk, but ye’ll want to be patient. He’s learning so very much all the time, just like ye did when ye were his age. And do not worry about our Bridget. I believe she’s feeling better already.”

  Bridget caught her breath and straightened. “Aye.” Her stoic agreement couldn’t hide how her eyes danced with laughter.

  A knock sounded at the front door. Sarah motioned she would answer so Bridget could continue her preparations.

  Little Elizabeth Fontaine stood on the top step, a miniature of her mother. Without a word, she held out a sealed packet.

  Sarah accepted it. “Thank you, Elizabeth. Would ye like to come in and sit a spell?”

  Elizabeth shook her curls and ran back toward her house.

  “And a good morning to ye, too, lassie.” Sarah smiled as she watched the child race to her father who glanced up and waved. Sarah waved back and closed the door.

  Adjusting the baby in the crook of her arm, she headed back to the kitchen, turning the letter over in her hand. The handwriting made her heart skip a beat.

  She handed John to a surprised Bridget. “I need to read this. Please. I will return as quickly as I can.” Racing up the steps, she ran to her bedroom and closed the door.

  Joseph’s unique penmanship burned against her skin. Suddenly she feared opening it.

  Trust Me, Sarah. Let your courage rise. Nothing can separate you from My love.

  “Courage. Aye.” She took a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, sliding a fingernail beneath the edge of the seal. Opening the pages, she nearly cried that he had written so much.

  My dearest Sarah,

  I know I should have written you long before this, and in truth, I have started many letters to you. None conveyed my heart, though, so I make my poor attempt once again.

  First let me say I love you. I have always loved you and will never stop loving you. You may call me a coward and perhaps rightly so, but to tell you that in person and not be able to take you in my arms is more than I can bear. Now that I am miles and miles from you, I can tell you, though, I still long to hold you near.

  Yet, what kind of a man would I be, what kind of a loving husband, if I pursued my own passions to your detriment? I tell you true, lass, you greatly move me. I am only human. You are the most b
eautiful woman in the world to me, and I would lay down my life for you in an instant.

  And that, in a way, is what I am attempting to do. I have never wanted to hurt you. I long for us to have a peaceable home.

  So, dearest Sarah, I ask you, I plead with you to please, please let me keep you safe. This has nothing to do with your desirability. I desire no one else.

  Please understand. I saw Kathleen die. I helplessly watched while you suffered at Wee Thomas’ death. We have a wonderful son in Wee Joseph. If we never have more children, if we never try to have more children, we remove a risk to your very life. And there is no point to life if it means going on without you.

  I will be home very soon after you receive this post. Dealing with the new backers has been disappointing, to say the least.

  I pray you will understand what I so vainly attempt to explain. We can speak of it more thoroughly when I am there. Until then, please remember I love you. I have never stopped loving you. I will never stop loving you and will protect you until my last breath.

  Joseph

  No matter how many times Sarah read it, she couldn’t stop thrilling at his words. He loved her. He still loved her.

  She still wanted to be held and loved as a wife should be, but this was a step. Though misguided, his heart still belonged to her. And he would be home soon.

  Soon.

  And he didn’t know anything about Wee John. Would he accept the babe? Would he give him his name? “Oh Father, Ye showed me one answer only for me to bring Ye one more problem. I am learning this is not too much for Ye. I will take courage in Yer love for me and trust in Ye for the answers. One answer at a time, if necessary.”

  She stared at the letter again. “And, Father, thank Ye.”

  * * *

  The walk from the dock had never seemed so long. Joseph dreaded to learn how Sarah received his letter. Would she be agreeable? Would she leave him or demand he leave? He had no idea what to expect.

 

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