The Heart's Stronghold

by Amanda Barratt

  Footsteps sounded behind her, pressing through the crowd. Captain Boone and Jemima, followed by Silas. The three of them drew near the front gates, slightly apart from the others.

  “What’s that you say?” Boone called.

  “Chief Blackfish has heard you have a very pretty daughter. He and his warriors desire to look upon her.”

  A gasp went up from inside the fort. Rosina swallowed, throat gritty. Was this some kind of trick? Would they truly attack a defenseless woman?

  “Since my daughter’s kidnapping, she and the other women are very much fearful of Indians.” Though loud, Boone’s voice had a guarded edge.

  “All she need do is come outside. Blackfish will look upon her from a distance.”

  Jemima Boone was one of the most fearless people Rosina had ever met. But to leave the fort gates alone and face a party of warriors …?

  “Pardon me.” Rosina nudged the man beside her. He let her pass. She elbowed her way forward, sidling through, until she reached Jemima and Flanders. Captain Boone had both hands on his daughter’s shoulders as he spoke quietly to her. Silas stood slightly to the side, hand resting on the powder horn at his waist. She avoided his gaze.

  Before she could speak, Boone turned to her. “Mistress Whiting.” Gravity etched itself across his unshaven face. Sweat ringed the collar of his hunting shirt. “Jemima has agreed to go. Will you go with her?”

  “Nay.” Silas’s voice sliced the air. “I won’t permit it.”

  Boone nodded slowly. “I understand.”

  “Wait.” The boldness of her tone surprised her. Had her father heard her, she’d have gotten a strapping and gone to bed without supper. But Boone paused, looking down at her from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. She cleared her dry throat. “Is it necessary for Jemima to go?”

  “Doing as they ask may give us more time.”

  “Is there danger?”

  “Rosina—”

  She turned to Silas, leveling him with a look. Surprisingly, he silenced.

  Boone drew a weighty breath. “I think not. They would not stoop to attack an unarmed woman, especially my daughter. But I cannot promise anything.”

  Rosina reached and clasped Jemima’s hand. Sweat slicked her friend’s calloused palm. Jemima glanced at her. Her blue eyes were steely in her freckled face, but a trace of fear filled their depths.

  “I’ll go with her.” The declaration came out strong. Determined.

  Boone nodded. “Fine then. We’ll be keeping watch.” He slung his rifle from his back and held it in both hands. Flanders’s forehead creased as he eyed the two of them, reluctance in his gaze, though he made no move to speak against his wife’s decision. Silas stood at his side, motionless, hands fisted around his own weapon. Had their encounter in his cabin gone differently, would he have put up more of an effort to stop her? She shoved aside the question. She didn’t want him to stop her. She could face this.

  “Are you sure you want to come?” Jemima whispered, her voice sounding suddenly young and scared. “You don’t have to.”

  “I’m coming.” She wouldn’t let her friend face this alone. Even Daniel Boone’s daughter wasn’t invincible.

  They dropped hands. Jemima turned to Flanders. The two embraced, Flanders whispering something in Jemima’s ear before pressing a kiss against her lips. Rosina swallowed, caught by the intimacy of the moment between husband and wife.

  Jemima broke away from her husband. “Let’s get this over with then.” She set her slim jaw.

  Shoulders straight, the two women approached the fort gates. The towering pickets creaked open. Behind them, Rosina sensed the gazes of the settlement upon them. Her legs shook. Perspiration slid down her back. Her skirt swished in the warm breeze. Overhead the sky was pale blue, sunlight raining down.

  Each step they took carried them away from the strong walls that spelled shelter.

  Just keep walking. God help us.

  She forced herself to face the assembled Shawnee with lifted chin and unblinking gaze. They eyed her openly, curiously. Beside the interpreter stood a well-built man with plucked and braided hair bedecked in a fine English-style shirt open at the throat, adorned with silver bangles and beaded jewelry. Obviously, this must be Blackfish. The other warriors were dressed in simple buckskin, many bare-chested. A hatchet glinted from the belt of a muscled young warrior.

  Jeremiah’s bloodied body rose before her mind in a stark flash of memory. Her heart hammered.

  Captain Boone thought they would be safe. Permitted his beloved daughter to face them.

  There was nothing to be afraid of. She played the statement through her mind as Jemima stood beside her, utterly still.

  The chief turned to his interpreter and exchanged a few words.

  “Chief Blackfish asks you to let down your hair,” the interpreter called.

  Rosina glanced at her friend. Jemima quirked a brow, a fleeting gesture of amusement, before lifting her hands to her pinned-up hair. Rosina’s fingers fumbled for her braid. She ran them quickly through the thick, dark strands, the ribbon that secured them crumpled in her fist. Jemima pulled out her comb and shook free her lush auburn mane.

  Wind played with the strands, pulling them away from Rosina’s face. She stared straight ahead at the onlookers. Chief Blackfish watched them, a smile spreading across his lined face. Several of the warriors grinned. Yet they were not lascivious smirks, but gestures of almost boyish enjoyment.

  Feet rooted to the grass, the women stood a couple of minutes longer.

  “Let’s go,” Jemima murmured. They turned and made their way toward the fort, the gates opening to receive them. They hastened inside, and the gates shut.

  Boone and Flanders waited just inside. Boone pulled his daughter close in a quick embrace. A smile softened Rosina’s lips. What would it be like to have such a kind and loving father? She could scarce imagine it.

  Silas approached and stopped beside her. “Are you well?”

  Her hair still hung unbound about her shoulders. But her hands remained at her waist. Whether weary or unwilling to put herself to rights, she couldn’t tell. “I’m fine.”

  Relief showed in his face. He’d worried about her. The knowledge pooled through her. In a gentler time, she’d have let herself bask in it. But perhaps hours from the start of a siege, this was not that time. They must focus on securing the fort, personal feelings aside.

  Thus, she gathered her hair and bound it with the creased, sweat-dampened ribbon. “I’d best go see if Chloe’s all right.”

  He nodded, and she walked away.

  Chapter 9

  On Wednesday afternoon they held a feast … for the enemy. The women of Boonesborough outdid themselves with an array of victuals—venison, buffalo tongue, fresh vegetables, platters of bread and cheese, and pitchers of milk. The spread looked mighty tempting, and they’d dipped into their dwindling supplies to procure it.

  It was a pity that Silas couldn’t swallow more than a bite, surrounded as he was with a Shawnee brave on each side. The whole affair was to lead up to another parlay, decided among Blackfish and Boone last night, after Blackfish demanded a decision and Boone gave his answer—they refused to surrender. Instead of taking up arms, however, Blackfish said he had no wish to massacre the fort, and asked for another day of talks tomorrow.

  So they dined. Nine men from the fort. Twenty Shawnee. Like one of those church socials back east where food was served before a meeting of the congregation.

  And what a congregation.

  Silas cast a glance at the fort, where riflemen manned each post, instructed to fire at the slightest sign of unrest. Rosina—stubborn woman—along with Jemima, was among those standing guard.

  Man, woman, and child alike, they must all do their part. Although Silas would rest a heap easier if Rosina was safe inside her cabin.

  Feast eaten—or not, in the case of many of the fort men—Boone invited the group to leave the long plank tables set up outside the fort gates and move to th
e large elm tree some sixty yards away for their meeting. Silas moved in beside Boone as they walked. Despite the friendly facade Boone had donned during dinner, Silas read the telltale lines of concern mapping the captain’s face.

  “Most of these men aren’t chiefs,” Boone whispered, clapping his broad-brimmed hat on his head, “but the finest warriors the Shawnees lay claim to. Best be on your guard, Longridge.”

  Silas nodded. Despite the cool breeze, perspiration trailed down his back. He’d been in a few skirmishes against seasoned warriors before. But ’twas not a prospect he relished.

  After everyone was seated on woven blankets and pelts spread across the ground, the meeting began. Silas glanced at the warrior seated to his left, his angular face painted red and black for war. During his time as a scout, he’d encountered braves who’d shown him kindness, and he’d shared food or the warmth of his fire in return. But the one next to him today had the look of a man who’d rather torch Boonesborough to the ground than sit and listen to negotiations. At Blackfish’s right, standing like a hewn marble statue, stood Pompey, the interpreter.

  A pause hung in the air. Blackfish sat straight and tall, cross-legged, beneath the shade of the tree. “I will withdraw my army if the settlers of Kentucke promise to abandon the fort within six weeks.”

  Boone, seated between a Shawnee brave and Blackfish, looked to the other men of the fort. The air smelled of bear grease, Kentucke wind, and tension. “Nay,” Boone said in a firm voice. “That we will not do.”

  “By whose right did you come and settle here?” Blackfish uttered the words, the demand in his tone overshadowing the lilting language of his people. Pompey quickly translated.

  “Richard Henderson purchased this region from the Cherokee through the treaty made at Sycamore Shoals,” Boone answered.

  “I know nothing of this treaty.” Blackfish turned to a warrior dressed in the garb of a Cherokee who stood nearby. “Did your people sell this land to the whites?”

  Features stoic, the man paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I believe such a treaty was made.”

  A flicker of surprise crossed the middle-aged chief’s rawboned face. He paused. A fly whined over Silas’s head, but he didn’t dare make a sharp movement to swat it away.

  “I see that what Boone says is true. That alters the case. You must keep this land, and live on it in peace. But for a time, my people and yours must be separate. We will go over the Ohio River and stay on our side. You will not cross the river for a time. Later we may hunt on each other’s land and trade and be brothers.”

  Silas eyed the chief. Sounded reasonable enough.

  “You will also take the oath of allegiance to the great King across the sea, King George, and submit yourselves to the British authorities.”

  Silas tensed. Submit to British tyranny? Lose their hard-fought independence in the midst of a revolution? He’d sooner walk over hot coals. But if it meant the prevention of bloodshed, a play for more time … They were ill-equipped to defend the fort without the Virginia militia, and there were women and children within its walls to consider. And if Blackfish withdrew his warriors this time, they might never be able to muster such a large force again.

  After a pause, Boone nodded, glancing at Silas and the other men from the settlement. Richard Callaway rubbed the scruff on his chin, looking disgusted.

  “Seems fair enough,” Silas said.

  “We agree to abide by your terms,” said Boone. Pompey repeated the sentence to Blackfish, who gave a satisfied nod. Quill and pen were brought, a treaty made and signed. For long minutes, Blackfish spoke to his warriors, explaining the terms. Silas listened carefully. Then Blackfish turned back to Boone.

  “We have made a long and lasting treaty, and now we will shake hands and embrace as brothers.”

  Almost in unison, everyone stood. The hair on the back of Silas’s neck prickled. Sun slanted through the leaves of the great elm tree.

  Two of them for every one of us.

  Blackfish swallowed Boone in an embrace. The Indian who’d been seated next to him turned to Silas and grasped his arm in a nooselike grip, bony fingers crushing painfully. Silas steeled his jaw, keeping his face composed.

  Instead of letting go, the brave only tightened his hold. Panic dug beneath Silas’s skin. This was no brotherly handshake.

  A grunt. A thud. Silas glimpsed the blur of Richard Callaway and a Shawnee tussling on the grass. Another Shawnee warrior to his right tackled Flanders, tomahawk in hand.

  Then chaos. Silas grappled the Indian holding him, slamming his knee into the man’s gut. The Shawnee staggered backward. Boone struggled with Blackfish, throwing the chief to the ground.

  Gunfire erupted from the fort. A Shawnee fell, blood spurting from his chest. Some of Blackfish’s warriors sprang from a clump of nearby brush and fired back.

  The world was ablaze with bloodcurdling cries, flashing tomahawks, and the brute will to survive. Silas fought as hard as he could, dodging the stream of bullets from both sides, yanking a warrior by the back of his shirt and throwing him off Boone, who’d taken a hit in the back from a tomahawk. Blood seeped, a blooming, growing stain against the fabric of Boone’s favorite hunting shirt. Smoke hung in an acrid haze.

  Squire clutched his shoulder with a howl. A warrior ran at Silas with a whoop. Silas dodged, ducked, fist slamming into the solid muscle of the man’s torso. Bursts of gunfire exploded. Prone bodies of the wounded and dead littered the ground. Boone, despite his wound, butted a charging Indian with his head, and sent him flying.

  “Back to the fort, men!” he yelled, voice cutting through the thick smoke.

  Silas dodged a warrior, fists pumping, feet pounding. Sixty yards seemed like an eternity. Silas’s moccasins scarce touched the ground. Boone and the others kept pace, Richard Callaway half-carrying Squire. Silas’s lungs burned. Another volley of shots exploded, bullets whistling inches above his head.

  Rosina.

  Her name came to him in that suspended moment. Her winsome face. Her tears.

  He must survive.

  The fort gates opened with their familiar creak that had never seemed so blessed. The last man scrambled inside just as the gates swung closed. Silas bent double, gulping for air and counting heads. Five … Six … Seven …

  All nine. Alive. But this was no time to rejoice.

  The siege had begun.

  Chapter 10

  If she lived long enough to recall this day, she’d never forget the stench of burnt gunpowder. Nor the terrified bawling of the cattle, the frantic whinnying of the horses, the shouts of men calling back and forth. The smoke that choked the air in a blinding haze, the bursts of shots. A world of fog and fire.

  Dressed in a loose-fitting hunting shirt and a pair of leggings, Rosina ran as fast as she could from one loophole to the next, carrying a water bucket, powder, and balls to the men. Her muscles screamed, but now was no time to acknowledge pain.

  All must fight to save the fort.

  She glimpsed Silas shouting orders, assigning posts. He stood tall in the center of the compound, figure unmistakable, face a study in strength, smoke clouding the air around him. Just looking at him gave her courage. She hastened up the ladder, movements weighted by the heaviness of her child. Hair straggled from her braid, clinging to her skin.

  Squire Boone had instantly taken a position at a loophole and commenced firing, despite the hasty bandage and blood seeping from his shoulder. Rosina passed him a dipperful from the water bucket.

  “Drink.” Her voice could scarce be heard amid the thunder of shots. The Shawnee and British fought like wild things. So many against so few.

  He stared at her, eyes glazed, forehead glistening. “Thank you,” he rasped.

  “You must rest!” she shouted, sweat streaming down her face. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

  She turned. Silas approached their post on the upper level of the wall. In that moment, she ached to fling herself against his strong chest and feel the safet
y of his arms around her. She’d had that opportunity when he’d asked her to be his. She’d turned it down.

  Now it might be too late.

  “You must get to your cabin, Squire.” Silas kept his gaze beyond fort walls, forehead furrowed.

  “Who will man the loophole?” Squire’s breath grew heavy. Red bled through his bandage. He had a bullet within that needed to be dug out before infection set in. For him to remain in the thick of the fighting could be fatal.

  Rosina spared only a glance at Silas before answering. “I will.”

  For the first time since his approach, Silas looked at her. A sudden flash of longing leapt into his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished.

  “Aye. Jemima’s doing the same on the other side.”

  With a look of gratitude, Squire stumbled away. In a swift motion, Silas pulled his broad-brimmed hat from atop his head and shoved it onto hers. His calloused palm grazed her cheek. Her eyes burned. Both from the smoke and from everything that lay between them.

  “Get to it then,” he said in a rough voice, then strode away, as if it cost him everything to leave her there.

  Taking up Squire’s rifle, she went through the motions of reloading. Peering through the loophole, she sighted. Aimed.

  The kick of the rifle nearly threw her backward. But she’d aimed true. Through a haze of powder, she saw the fallen body.

  Had she wounded him? Or done worse?

  A sudden surge of bile rose up in her throat. Nay … nay. She daren’t think of that.

  Reload. Aim. Fire. Her muscles screamed. Grit and gunpowder coated her throat, slaked only by an occasional drink brought by one of the women. The walls of the fort crackled and thudded with bullets. But still they held.

  How long she stood at her post, she didn’t know. Hours? Centuries? Her keen eyesight proved her an able shot. Bullets whizzed and whistled all around.

  At any moment, one might fell her.