Shiloh

by Lori Benton

  “I hope she’ll find it to her liking,” Ian said, his mind flown to Seona and her likings. After living under his da’s roof, his homestead would seem primitive. Would she pine for Boston’s comforts?

  Whether or not, he wanted to lavish upon her all she was denied growing up a slave at Mountain Laurel. If she would receive it from him. It hadn’t escaped his notice she had agreed to join him in New York, bringing their son, without promising she brought her heart as well. He hoped his suggested reason for the omission was true: she meant to speak of such things face-to-face.

  For himself, the love long-buried for Judith’s sake had resurrected during their exchange of letters, rushing in to fill mind and heart until he was hard-pressed to set either on anything else—even the appalling news of his sister, in that last letter found waiting for him on his way out of Shiloh. He ground his teeth over what he would like to do to Morgan Shelby, then set his mind again on Seona, knowing he would have the full story from her. And so much more, he hoped.

  He longed to provide her a life abounding in contentment. He wanted them to be a family, in the eyes of God and man. Was she coming to New York with something else in mind?

  With his copy of the deed tucked safe in his coat, alongside the gold remaining, Ian crossed the street to retrieve Ruaidh from Cooper’s stable, only to be sidetracked by sight of a nearby trade store and the notion of purchasing something for Seona. A gift fit for a wife. The first of many, he hoped.

  The store smelled of new wood, pickled meat, oiled leather, and something scented of lavender that minded him of a similar shop where he had bought a comb for Seona’s ringleted hair. He hadn’t seen her wear the comb in Boston. He hadn’t seen much of her hair, for that matter, pinned high and capped often as not.

  “Good day to you,” a voice said from among the shelves of goods. A man emerged, aproned and bespectacled, brushing his hands clean of something powdery before offering one to shake. “Hansen’s the name. May I be of service?”

  “Cameron’s mine,” Ian said. “I’m headed up to the Mohawk to meet the woman I mean to marry. I thought to get her a gift. I’ve no fixed notion what.”

  Beetled brows rose above the man’s spectacles. “Something practical?”

  “Actually . . . no. Not in the least.” Ian’s gaze fell to a display near the store’s front, a shelf containing trays of small trinkets. “I bought her a hair comb once.”

  Hansen indicated the shelf with an outstretched hand. “Another?”

  “Perhaps.” Ian moved to the trays and sorted through their contents while Hansen watched, offering suggestions, until another customer entered the shop and he left Ian to paw through the selection—rings and bracelets, brooches and pendants, most copper or pewter, a few small silver pieces, all variously worn. There were a few paper fans. One, a beautifully painted, slightly spark-damaged specimen he thought from Japan, tempted him despite the imperfection.

  In another tray he found strings of the purple-and-white shell beads the Indians called wampum. There was a row of small glass bottles containing scented oils, including the source of the lavender. But nothing made his heart click with recognition of the right gift. About to seek his fortune among the larger items displayed, he saw a thing he had nearly missed—a silver ring, its slightly tarnished edges causing it to blend with the pewter rings jumbled in a birch-bark tray.

  He fished it out and took it to the store’s window, where the light revealed the ring’s design, an intricate series of woven vines and flowers. Morning glories. He made out the trumpet blossoms—tiny versions of those Seona had drawn at Mountain Laurel—as well as the sparkle of three diamond chips cresting the top of the band. An exquisite piece of work, despite the dimming tarnish. And, he judged, about the right size for Seona’s slender finger, around which he suddenly had the earnest craving to slip it.

  “Found something?”

  Ian turned from the window to find the store empty save for himself and its proprietor. He held the ring out on his palm. “I have.”

  Hansen named a price Ian knew he could pay—with half the gold in his breast pocket. Uncertain whether he should, he made as if to inspect the ring again. “Where did it come from? Someone here in the village?”

  Hansen scrunched his brows in thought. “Best I recall . . . it arrived with a tinker, come down from Fort Stanwix. The work of a silversmith there. The stones—such as they are—aren’t paste. They’re the genuine thing. And did you note the inscription?”

  “I didn’t.” Ian turned the ring until the tiny words etched inside the band, darkened with age and wear, came into view: I Am My Beloved’s. “A poesy ring? I’ve never seen one with stones set.”

  “They’re usually plain,” Hansen agreed. “Will it suit?”

  It was a lovely ring, and Seona was surely his beloved. Was he hers?

  “I’ll take it,” he said. “If ye’ll take what I have in trade.” He took out the pouch and fished for the bits of gold he had left. “It’s the genuine thing,” he said, echoing the man’s words. “Judge Cooper will attest. I’ve paid him with the tender.”

  Hansen’s eyes lit with recognition. “I heard tell of a settler having paid the judge in raw gold. That’s you?”

  Alarmed—but much desirous of obtaining that ring—Ian said, “It was paid me down in Carolina, where I sold what land I once possessed.”

  With a half-wry smile, Hansen said, “That’s sure to disappoint folk hereabouts—not least Judge Cooper. He’s stirred up no little speculation as to whether there’s gold lying underground in these parts.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Ian was quick to say. Quicker still to conclude his business in Cooperstown. With the ring tucked into the pouch in his coat, he rode up the eastern shore of Otsego Lake toward the village of Cherry Valley.

  He had never considered himself easily spooked, but more than once Ian’s scalp prickled as he rode the forested track out of Cooperstown, until he grew convinced of someone following him—not merely traversing the same road as he but deliberately trailing him, taking pains to keep out of sight. Once he paused, concealed around a blind bend in the rough trace angling through the wooded hills. He waited for a time and saw nothing save flitting birds, though Ruaidh’s head lifted to the breeze, nostrils flaring, one ear pointing back down the trail.

  Someone else paused and waiting? Something else?

  “Or nothing,” he muttered.

  Unnerved by his own jumpiness, he rode on.

  Stars hung bright in the eastern sky and twilight lingered in the west as he reached Cherry Valley, where he felt uneasy about sleeping rough and instead found an inn with a stable box for Ruaidh, a pallet indoors for himself. He saw to the horse’s needs, then, bags hoisted to his shoulder, headed for his supper, only to halt in the shadowed stable-yard.

  A wiry man, bearded and slope-shouldered, stood at the inn’s rear door, backlit by lamplight shining from within, conversing with the innkeeper. Beyond that spill of light, it was full dark. Neither noted him, but Ian was almost certain he knew the bearded man, even before he jerked a nod toward the stable and his features caught the light.

  Aram Crane, the one Neil and Willa MacGregor—and her Mohawk brother—had named a villain, the man he had confronted last autumn, threatening James Cooper outside the tavern.

  The innkeeper wagged his head in response to whatever Crane had asked, looking ready to end the conversation. Crane glanced his way again, speaking still. The words were indistinct, but that now-familiar scalp prickling had Ian ducking back inside the stable, thankful he had paid the innkeeper in small coin, not the few flakes of gold left in the pouch. But his dealings with Hansen had made it abundantly clear that its existence was known and connected with him.

  Had Crane seen him ride into Cherry Valley? Or followed him from Cooperstown?

  Either way, Ian mistrusted the coincidence of crossing paths with the man yet again. With his saddle for a bolster, tomahawk and rifle near, he passed a fitful night outside Ruaidh’s
box, stirring at every rustle of the stable’s inhabitants, to rise in the morning, haggard but relieved. No one had come near him in the night save a lad from the loft, stumbling out to the privy and back, never more than half-awake.

  Suffering the all-over fidgets, Naomi would have said, with a headshake at the weary day in the saddle awaiting him.

  Better heavy lids and coin lost to an unoccupied bed than my self or my possessions molested in the night, he argued back as he led a saddled Ruaidh along the stable’s aisle toward the gray predawn, meaning to be away before the settlement stirred—and meaning, eventually, to have from his neighbors more than the vague account of Crane they had given him.

  Another who did harm to us, Willa MacGregor had said of the man. A British Army deserter, Neil had called him. The banked fury on Joseph Tames-His-Horse’s face as he spoke of the man had been the most eloquent. The need to know exactly what lay within Crane’s scope asserted itself as Ian neared the stable doors, open to the yard—around which a man stepped and halted, not quite blocking his path.

  Ian’s stride hitched, but he recovered and forced himself to continue walking toward Aram Crane, who made no effort to avert his stare or step back. Ian caught his gaze in passing, giving no sign of recognition. The calculation in Crane’s cold eyes sent prickles of alarm down his spine.

  In the yard, rifle in hand, Ian swung into the saddle, from the corner of his eye noting Crane still watching from the stable doorway. Never moving.

  Ian left Cherry Valley at a walk, resisting the urge to look back to see if watching was all the man was doing. Did Crane know not just his face and name, but where he was from? Who his neighbors were?

  Whatever was motivating the interest, Ian didn’t feel the telltale prickle of being tracked during the long ride to Canajoharie. Nor did he find any sign of Seona, Gabriel, and Lily there. Likely they were still far east along the Mohawk, if they had yet crossed the Hudson.

  Minding it was one of Crane’s haunts, he left Canajoharie in haste, headed east.

  19

  ALBANY, NEW YORK

  Seona knew it was morning again because the kitchen maid, Hannah, had brought buttered eggs, toasted bread, and a jar of blackberry preserves to the room. Had it been midday or evening, it would have been different fare on the tray. It had been her chief way of marking time since arriving in Albany.

  “He’s been sleeping sound for a good while now,” Lily said, straightening from checking on her grandson, his small limbs quilt-tangled on the bed.

  When Gabriel’s fever finally broke, darkness had shadowed the room. It had been a chilly night for June. They still had the window shuttered. Daylight seeped through the cracks now. The only other light came from a set of candles on the table where Seona sat, bleary-eyed as she picked at the eggs on the tray, forking a bite without tasting it.

  “Wish I could say the same of me,” she said around the mouthful.

  At least her mama looked hopeful the worst of Gabriel’s ague had passed. Ned would be relieved. Impatient to be back across the Hudson and away to Deerfield, he had checked the docks repeatedly, and every other inn and public house in Albany, besides visiting taverns and stables, but had found no sign of Ian.

  “Best we let him sleep ’til he wakes on his own.” Lily joined her at the table for breakfast, which Ned and Catriona had taken in the inn’s public room. “I’m daring to hope we can start for Schenectady today.”

  Another twenty miles, that would be. Seona sighed, then smiled at her boy’s pale curls peeking from the quilt’s folds. Gabriel had proved himself a good traveler, happy as his auntie Catriona in the saddle. Until this sickness.

  “I’m glad for a day off a horse’s back,” Seona said, then frowned. “No—two days, isn’t it?”

  Lily eyed her over a cup’s rim. “It’s the third day dawning, girl-baby. Ye’ve been cooped up in this room too long.” She sipped her tea. “Ned’s down to the docks again, but Catriona’s around somewhere. Finish up your breakfast and go find her. Get some air.”

  Seona’s gaze went to the bed as she swallowed another bite, but Lily didn’t let her speak the doubtful protest forming on her tongue.

  “I’ll stay with him.” With a glance around the room, strewn with washing hung to dry, belongings scattered about, Lily added, “And start packing up our things. If ye see Ned while ye’re out, tell him it looks like we should be ready to start well afore midday.”

  “Miss Catriona was in the kitchen with me after breakfast,” Hannah Kirby said when Seona found the maid wiping down tables in the public room. “She’s gone out to see that lovely filly—yours, she says.”

  “Juturna’s mine,” Seona confirmed. “But Catriona’s twice the horsewoman I’ll ever be,” she added, at which the young maid gave a knowing smile. Doubtless she had seen far more of Catriona these past days than Seona had.

  Thinking of the many times Hannah had climbed the stairs with a tray laden with broths or puddings to tempt Gabriel’s appetite, meals for her and Lily, extra candles, water—all with nary a complaint—Seona placed a hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m sorry for the extra work we’ve put you to, but thankful for your help with Gabriel.”

  “He must be feeling better,” Hannah said with a quick flash of her dimple, “seeing as you’re belowstairs.”

  “He’s sleeping good,” Seona said, stifling a yawn. “Mama thinks we’ll be on our way today.” She studied the maid with interest, wishing there were time for an acquaintance, one Catriona had no doubt made. “Is the stable out back or across the street? I didn’t take note when we arrived.”

  With a final swipe of the rag, Hannah picked up an empty glass smelling of ale. “Cook’s preparing dinner, but I’ve a moment to spare. I’ll show you the way.”

  Out back of the inn was a yard in which their cart was parked, a covered well, a bakehouse, a capacious henhouse, and the stable. Seona trailed Hannah through its doors and down the aisle past several box stalls, most empty and tidied, a few hung with tack and occupied by horses munching feed.

  They passed a man mucking out a stall. Hannah greeted him as Uncle. Seona caught only a glimpse, but a startling one—the man had graying black hair tied back into a long straight tail and skin a darker bronze than Hannah’s. Seona had seen full-blooded Indians on the outskirts of Boston, selling their baskets, brooms, and wares. This man was clearly one such, dressed in breeches and a work frock of rough weave protecting whatever he wore beneath. On his feet were moccasins, worn and unadorned. He smiled at Hannah, met Seona’s gaze briefly, then bent to his work as they passed.

  Several boxes farther down, Juturna peered over a wall and whickered. Catriona stepped into the aisle, currying brush in hand. “Seona? Gabriel must be better—you’re down from that room at last.” Already slender, Ian’s sister had lost half a stone before they left Boston. Her short gown hung a bit loose.

  “He’s better. Mama thinks we’ll be leaving today. I came out to tell you.”

  “All right.” Catriona stepped back into the box. Though Seona had noted the dark smudges under her eyes, she seemed in better spirits than she had displayed for weeks. “Did you meet Hannah’s uncle, Oneida John?” Catriona asked. “He’s taken care of our horses.”

  “Did I see him working?” A glance at Hannah confirmed it. “But what sort of name is Oneida?”

  “The name of my mother’s people,” Hannah said. “One of the Haudenosaunee—the People of the Longhouse. Iroquois, you’d say.”

  “Like the Mohawk,” Catriona added, stepping around to Juturna’s opposite side. “I told Hannah about Maggie MacGregor, in Shiloh.”

  “A half-breed like me,” Hannah said, then grinned, showing that dimple again. “The Great Longhouse once stretched from here to the lakes in the west with the Six Nations all in a row. The Mohawk were the keepers of its eastern door. Since the war they’ve mostly gone.”

  “To Canada,” Catriona supplied, already having spoken more than Seona had heard at any one time during their jour
ney. “Oneida John fought with the Marquis de Lafayette during the war. For our side.”

  “As did many Oneida warriors.” Hannah’s expression sobered. “Some of their families took refuge in Schenectady during the war.”

  “And never went back?” Seona asked.

  “Most did,” Hannah said. “Uncle took a musket ball in the leg during a battle. It never healed right. He couldn’t go back to fighting or even hunting. But it was really because of my mother we ended up here, in Albany.”

  “I haven’t heard that story,” Catriona said, moving to brush Juturna’s tail. “What about your mother?”

  “By the time her family left Schenectady to rebuild their village, she’d married a white man and I was born. Uncle found work after the war and stayed too, then followed my parents here.”

  “Where are they now?” Catriona asked. “Your parents?”

  “Dead. A few years ago. Uncle’s taken care of me since.”

  While Catriona expressed her sympathy, Seona’s mind swirled with half-forgotten snatches of that poem Ian’s sister had been so taken with last spring. The one about the Indian student who traded his bow for book learning. Did Hannah’s uncle miss the forest like that Indian in the poem had done? What did he think of folk like her, like Ian, coming to live in places his people once called home? Would she ever again feel herself at home in a place, not adrift somewhere between worlds? Or like an intruder? Impulsively she asked, “Was it hard?”

  “Was what hard?” Hannah asked.

  “Learning to live in the white world.” Like she still struggled to do. Learning to live as a freewoman, one who passed for white but wasn’t.

  “I suppose it has its challenges, but it’s the only life I’ve known,” Hannah said. “It’s harder for Uncle, finding his place in a world too often shifting underfoot.”