The Crockett Chronicles- The Complete Collection

by Jennifer Lynn Cary

  “That is wonderful. We had a lovely day of lessons. I think Janie is getting better at her sums.” She winked at the child. “Mary, Lettie, and Martha are getting on so well with multiplying and dividing, I think they will need a better teacher soon enough. Beth and Jason, suppose you share with us what you’ve been reading.”

  Jason opened his mouth, but before he got out a word, his father cleared his throat. Jason pouted again, glaring at his food.

  “Ladies first, Beth.”

  Beth’s steady gaze on her plate was a telling sign that she hoped Jason would go first and take so much time that they’d forget her. Sarah could not comprehend the crippling shyness that attacked her daughter at every turn—Sarah had never had a shy day in her life—but she felt the pain. Even now, Beth’s head dipped, her quiet words falling onto her plate. “I read—”

  “Speak up, girl, we all want to hear.” Joseph meant it kindly, and his tone was gentle, but the words still bruised.

  Beth cleared her throat. “I read Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.” Her eyes began to search her plate as if something else captured her interest.

  “What did you think of the story, Beth?”

  “It… it made me cry.” Again, her voice was soft. But as she raised her head, she began to quote from the play. “‘The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes the thronèd monarch better than his crown. His scepter shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings, but mercy is above this sceptered sway. It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings. It is an attribute to God himself. And earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.’”

  William gave his sister a slow grin as he added to the monologue. “‘Therefore, Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this—that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.’” He nodded to her. “You did well, Beth.”

  “So did you, son. I am glad you remember that from your mother’s lessons.” Joseph smiled and Sarah’s heart swelled a mite.

  She spotted the silent nods between William and his father. Whatever happened, it would work out.

  * * *

  Joseph still marveled at how well Sarah got the children to help. After dinner, Jason fetched water to heat for dishwashing while the girls cleared the table. John hung the chairs out of the way and pushed the table against the wall while Beth swept the floor. They all knew what to do, no one begged off, and quicker than Joseph ever imagined, they set the room in order. He had an inkling Sarah had learned this from Anne Fontaine over in Bantry Bay. That was a forever ago. Yet Sarah’s eyes still flashed like emeralds when their gazes locked, just as they had back then. She still stood tall and lithe, and her auburn mane still thrilled him when she let it down to brush. He longed to watch her brush it all day. Even after all these years. Even after all their children.

  Joseph found his heart mellowing with his thoughts. He wouldn’t be as strict as he should with William.

  But why was the boy home? James was still at college, at least according to Willie. What made him leave his younger brother and return? Joseph had an idea. Should he demand to know? Should he send him back straightaway? Should he let William find his own path? If Joseph ever needed wisdom, it was now.

  “Willie, let’s go for a walk.” Hopefully that wouldn’t make the boy too defensive. He didn’t want to ignite that short fuse.

  “Sure, Da.” William stood, and Joseph was taken with how tall he’d grown. Even more since being away. Willie held the door for his father.

  Joseph nodded, grabbing his hat from the peg by the door as he passed. Willie followed, pulling the door shut.

  They walked, Joseph waiting for his son to say the first word. Back home in Ireland they would have walked to the River Foyle. Here, it was safer not to venture too far into the wilderness. The docks were a busy place with the recent arrivals, so he headed in the direction of the center of Beaufort.

  Once at the Commons, he found a tree with a good-sized rock near its base. He could sit on that and lean back, still waiting for William to speak.

  Finally, after kicking at oyster shells and scuffing his toes in the sod, the boy found his voice. “I suppose you’d be wanting to know why I came home.”

  Joseph nodded. “That might be the place to start.”

  William sighed and began to pace. “I’m just no good at this school stuff. I thought Mama had taught me enough to make it, but it is like they speak a strange language.”

  “You are not stupid. What seems to be the problem?” He was in no hurry to push the boy. If he could hold his tongue, William just might use his to explain it all.

  “Well, I feel stupid. And it is so boring! All anyone does there is study. Read. Read. Read. No one takes a break to see the town or just live. I felt so... confined.” He stopped pacing, meeting his father’s gaze. “Da, I’m not cut out for classes or classics or antiquated philosophies. I’ve got to move and breathe and experience things. Da, I want to travel, to see places, not just hear about them. I get excited when ships pull in, imagining where they’ve been. I want to go to sea.”

  “You do not understand what you are asking, son.” The words were out before he could stop them. The look on William’s face told him he should have tried harder. “Son.” He reached for him.

  William pulled away. “You don’t understand! I’m trapped here.” He raised his hands, palms out, as is to push back any arguments. Turning on his heel, he left in the bluff’s direction.

  The place called to his son. He’d seen him up there, allowing the sea breeze to pour over him. It was better to let him go. At least he wasn’t heading for the docks. Yet his heart told him Willie would head in that direction soon enough.

  * * *

  William had promised himself he wouldn’t lose his temper. And he knew his father tried to listen. What an ignoramus he was! He didn’t give his father a chance. His father, who worked so hard to pay for him and James to attend William and Mary College. His father, who took care of his family, loving each of his children. His father, the man he admired and wanted to emulate.

  “I am so daft!” He shouted to the wind. Of course, his father didn’t understand. He was solid, strong. The protector. Craving freedom wasn’t in his father’s blood. Perhaps the storm that brought him from his mother’s womb left him bewitched, for if ever there was a person to embody a mix of thunder, lightning, and wind, that person was he. And right now, the storm within raged beyond his control.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth slipped in the back door, snatching a leftover biscuit on her way past the larder. To sleep outside wasn’t a safe idea. As far from the center of town as they were, an Indian kidnapping or worse was still a possibility. If she chose closer to town, there were sailors to consider.

  Yet, none of that was more dangerous than what she faced in her own home.

  Or rather, her stepfather’s home, as he often corrected.

  She made sure the house remained clean, that he had food, and worked to accomplish those things while he slept or went out. Other than that, she gave him a wide berth. If he’d been to the tavern, there was no telling the condition he’d be on his return. He might stagger in and collapse into a deep slumber for enough hours to give Elizabeth time to sleep. Or he might come back angry that someone bested him at cards. Then he was more likely to take out his anger on her—with his fists or a leather strop. And then there were the times he claimed he was lonely, now that her mother had gone. Elizabeth reminded herself that her mother hadn’t abandoned her to this. She had died. Unexpectedly. Her leaving seemed to unlock a door for her husband, a door that led to Elizabeth’s bedroom.

  After waking to find him standing over her one night, Elizabeth had
added a bolt. Still, she never felt safe.

  “Lizzy? Dat you girl?”

  A chill slithered up Elizabeth’s spine. “What do ye want?”

  “C’mere, girl. I need yer ’elp.”

  Elizabeth took one, then two steps toward the front room.

  “Get in ’ere, ya trollop.”

  She inhaled and stepped into the room.

  He’d slid down the wall to land on the floor. It appeared he was part drunk and part pummeled senseless. His eyes were bruised, swollen. The right side of his mouth bulged. A trickle of blood ran from the corner, down his chin. When he parted his lips to call again, she spotted a new bloody gap where he once had teeth. “There ye be.” His nose wrinkled, as if he were trying to squint his eyes but the swelling refused to cooperate. “Lizzie, need a drink.”

  She brought him a whiskey bottle, he snatched it with his left hand. She jumped back. That was when she noticed his right arm’s strange angle.

  He bit out the cork and spit it onto the floor before taking a giant slug.

  “Yer arm, ’tis broken.”

  “Ye, dear girl, are a master of ob-ser-VA-shun, that ye are. Me arm’s broke. Ye need to set it for me.”

  Had he lost his mind? What could he be thinking? “I know nothin’ of settin’ broken bones. I will get the bonesetter.” She turned toward the front door, the one she noticed stood wide open.

  “No!”

  Freezing mid-step, she turned to him. “Ye need more help than I can give ye. I won’t be long.” Her heart tendered a smidge, as she knew he suffered.

  “No,” He hung his head. “There’s n’ money ta pay. Nuthin’ left.” He took a breath, raised his head, and tried to focus on her face. “Ye have ta do it, Lizzie.” He tossed back another drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he chugged.

  She scanned the room for something sturdy for the setting. Perhaps a blown-off roof shingle courtesy of the last storm? Then she spotted it. Draped across the chipped basin in the corner. His strop. It would have to do—at least it wouldn’t be used on her if it was holding his arm together. She added a stick from the fireplace that had yet to burn and found an old linen sheet of her mother’s, and at last dumped her supplies on the table. A quick prayer might be in order, though it seemed hypocritical. Useless, although she thought help me!

  She would have to get close enough to touch him. Goose pimples raced up her arms and her stomach twisted. But despite the bile at the back of her throat, she inched closer to look. “I need to be cuttin’ away yer sleeve.” She wouldn’t call him Da, even now.

  “Then be doin it.” He slurred worse, except for the curses he muttered under his breath. Those were all too distinct.

  “The knife be in the other room. One moment.” She hopped up to get it.

  “Lizzie, ye won’t b’ leavin’ me lie this, will ya?” A tear made a track down his cheek to mingle in the blood pooled at his lip.

  The thought had crossed her mind. Walk out the back door, never return. But who could do that? “I won’t be but a stitch.” She even offered a small smile, hoping he’d believe her.

  The knife lay hidden at the back of the larder. Why leave an extra knife where he could get it? She pulled it from its hiding place and returned to the front room. “See, only an instant. Now, I’ll check yer arm.”

  She cut the tattered cloth away as gently as she could.

  He still moaned and finished the whiskey, letting the bottle fall to his side.

  The bone was broken but had not punctured the skin. Her stepfather passed out before she could give him the stick to bite. She tore off a section of the sheet and then tore that into strips, binding them about his arm, working the two parts of the bone together. The next thing to do was to wrap the strop about to give body and support, keeping the bones from pulling apart. She added the stick, since it wasn’t between his teeth, at the base of his forearm between the cloth and the strop. Once done, she fashioned a sling from the leftover linen.

  There was no moving the man. He was much taller than she and weighed at least fifteen stones. So, she got bedclothes from his room and tucked the pillow behind him. A paper fell from his pocket. She placed it into her apron waist and draped the cover over him. He was out for the night. If God were smiling, a good portion of tomorrow, too.

  She closed and bolted the front door, gathered a candle, extinguish the others, and made the back door secure before climbing the stairs to her room. The bolt slid into place, though she had little to fear tonight. She sat on the edge of her bed, stymied at the troubles her stepfather could find. The paper at her waist rustled, reminding her of its presence. Any bill needed to go through her, or it would most likely be lost or forgotten. She pulled the scrap free and unfolded the piece, reading the quill scratches. A bill of sale.

  One girl, seventeen years of age, four and a half stones. Sold to Eleazar Ferguson in lieu of the thirty-pound debt. Delivery expected the twentieth of May in the year of our Lord 1730. Debt paid in full upon delivery of girl.

  Sold to Eleazar Ferguson?

  An icy wave poured over her. Elizabeth’s hands shook. The paper fluttered to the floor.

  Her stepfather had sold her.

  * * *

  Jason stared out the door, daring his brother to come home. Willie’s presence made life so haphazard. When he was gone, life was—

  “What are you thinking about, Jason?”

  He startled. “None of your concern, Janie. You wouldn’t understand anyway.” He closed the door and plopped on the bench.

  Janie followed his actions, crossing her arms to match his. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t understand? I’m not a baby anymore. I understand lots.”

  “Oh, you do? Have you noticed Mama crying or Papa more quiet than usual?”

  Janie’s eyes grew wide. “No! Why is Mama crying? Is she sick?”

  “Sick at heart. William is breaking her heart.”

  She squished her face at him. “What do you mean? She’s glad he is home. I am too! I miss Willie when he’s gone.”

  “Don’t you miss James?” Not that he missed him, but Willie couldn’t be that special.

  “Aye, only James would chase me away. He likes to study and says I interrupt him. Willie lifts me in the air, and he helps me.” She scooted closer. “Don’t you love Willie anymore?”

  Jason sighed. “I told you, you wouldn’t understand. You’re a girl.” He turned his back on her.

  “Mama, Mama! Jason hates Willie! Jason hates Willie!” She ran upstairs to her mother.

  Jason darted after her. “I didn’t say that! Mama! I didn’t say that!”

  “Whoa!” Mama stood at the top of the stairs. “What a fuss! Tell me, what is going on?”

  Janie tugged at her mother’s skirts. “Mama, Mama, Jason hates Willie. He doesn’t love him, and he wants him to go away!”

  “Jason, is that what you think?” Mama’s eyes tore into his soul.

  “I never said that!”

  Her hand went under his chin, making him peer in her eyes. “But is that what you think?”

  He glanced down at Janie’s smug little face.

  She stuck out her tongue.

  He sighed. “I just think he disrupts things. He’s like a powder keg ready to go off. It’s peaceable when he’s not here. That’s all.” He stuck his tongue out at Janie.

  “That’s enough! Yer talking about me son. Me flesh and blood. I love all me sons, all me daughters too. I do not have a favorite. But each one of ye has a special place all yer own in me heart.” Mama put her arms around both Jason and Janie. “I know life gets exciting with Willie. But I love him for that. How dull life would be without his exuberance!”

  “And how less disappointed you would be if he’d only—”

  “Only what, Jason?” The voice came from behind.

  Jason swung toward the staircase. Too late to stop, he knocked Janie off balance. She flailed her arms, grabbing for the banister and missing. Mama leapt for her, grasping only air as Janie tum
bled down the steps, one after another, with William catching her at the bottom.

  “Quick, lay her on the bench.” Mama was downstairs before Jason could even move.

  “I got her, Mama. She’s all right.” Willie carried her to the bench. At first it appeared as if Janie wasn’t breathing, but then she caught her breath and let out a howl. Willie and Mama comforted her while all Jason could do was watch. The horrified anguish and then relief on Mama’s face crushed him. Just as much as Willie’s heroics made his blood steam.

  What if Janie were hurt? No doubt she’d have a couple bruises, but it could have been much worse.

  It was Willie’s fault. Jason crossed his arms, his mind made up. All of it. If Willie hadn’t been sneaking in on private conversations, this wouldn’t have happened. Jason charged out the door.

  He hadn’t gone far when something grabbed his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

  “Jason, it’s all right. Janie is all right. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  Jason spun and took a swing at Willie, fist connecting with nothing but air.

  “Whoa, wait a minute. What’s that for?”

  “For knocking Janie down the stairs, for one.”

  Willie’s jaw dropped. Now was the time to hit him. Instead, Jason exploded. “You scared her, sneaking up on our private conversation. Who gave you that right? You don’t belong here. Go back to school. We don’t want you here!”

  “You mean, you don’t want me here.”

  “I mean WE don’t. I am not alone.” Jason felt like two different people—one who ranted and raved at his brother and one who stood by wondering who the mad man was.

  “Well, brother Jason, if that’s how you see it, perhaps I will have to oblige you. I can’t stay where I’m not wanted.” Willie turned on his heel and headed for his bluff.