Daughter of the Sword (50 page)

“And then?” prodded Deborah.

“Lyon got up, spurs jinglin', and told them that before he'd let Missouri dictate to
his
government on anything, he'd see all of
them,
and every man, woman, and child in the state, dead and buried. So they took off for the capital.”

“Jefferson City?”

Johnny nodded. “Lyon is calling for men. He's got to keep Jackson from handing Missouri over to the South.”

“And you think you've got to help him!” Sara cried.

“Wastewin, I know I do.”

She sat as if frozen. Tom, clambering onto her lap, patted her cheeks. “Mama? Mama?”

For once, she put him down. After a moment's pout, he ran to Judith's inviting arms. The twins were usually absorbed in their own world, but when they came to the grown-ups they were used to being indulged.

As Sara reached for Johnny's rough, powerful hand, Deborah couldn't keep from a flash of wondering how they were with each other as husband and wife. Was Sara merely grateful to Johnny, or had he become her man? If that hadn't been so before, it certainly happened now.

Sara pressed Johnny's hand to her cheek and then released it “When will you leave?” she said.

Maccabee wanted to go, but Johnny persuaded him to stay. “No use in your goin' along to do camp chores, but you could keep the smithy runnin' and look after the women.”

“
We'll
look after him,” said Judith saucily.

“Fine.” Johnny grinned. “Just so you're all here when I get back. Maccabee, I'm thinkin' maybe you and Rebe can work together at Friendental for a spell and then here, takin' care of the work at both places. His striker's not much account.”

Maccabee considered a moment. “No one could say we wasn't real
black
smiths, could they?” he chuckled. “But if I get a chance to do some real fightin', Laddie may have to take over.”

Laddie looked rebellious. At fifteen, he was as tall as Johnny, but he still had a child's smooth face. “I want to go with you, Johnny!”

“Your turn's liable to come,” said Johnny in the tone that meant he wasn't open for argument. “Don't rush it, son. One man at a time's enough from our outfit.”

But Johnny didn't go alone. Doc Challoner came by on his way to join up. He'd wanted to ask Deborah to visit Ansjie sometimes. “She says men are fools to blow holes in each other.” He grinned. “And she's right. But it's still my job to patch 'em up.”

He spent the night. The next morning he and Johnny rode east, Johnny on Sleipner's colt, given to him by Conrad, and Doc on Sleipner.

Sara didn't cry then, but later that morning Deborah found her hugging Johnny's old horsehide coat and weeping as if her heart would break. Thos had been her joy, but Johnny had made her happiness.

Slaves began to come—not through the underground railroad, but like leaves before the wind. Many slave-owners in Missouri and Arkansas were afraid of losing their “property” and were selling their people south, a fate blacks dreaded. To escape this, or simply taking advantage of the confusion caused by war, hundreds of slaves flocked into Kansas, often bound for Lawrence, which was to them a sort of Jerusalem.

According to the refugees, Lawrence people had been kind, feeding and sheltering slaves who wanted to settle there, helping them find work and even running a night school. But the town was overcrowded and not recovered from the drought of the year before. So singly or in groups, these wayfarers stopped at the smithy.

Though the Fugitive Slave Act was still in effect, the war made it unlikely to be enforced in Kansas or the North. After their guests were rested and fed, Deborah, Sara, or Judith talked with them to see what they wanted to do. Deborah took those who wished to go north on to Topeka and white-haired Amos Blakeman. The problem was what to do about those who wanted to stay in Kansas.

Penniless, with no tools or supplies, all they had was the ability to work. Brooding on this, things suddenly clicked in Deborah's head.

“Johnny and Doc aren't the only men who went off to war,” she said, glancing around the supper table and at the three refugees who'd come that day, having trudged barefoot from central Missouri.

Sam and Jewel were husband and wife. Jace was Jewel's younger brother. They all looked to be in their twenties, and their elation at reaching freedom had been considerably dampened by realities.

“Marse Hugh couldn't find anyone to buy us together, so he was fixin' to sell us separate,” Sam had explained. “So we took off for where we heard the Union army was. We thought they'd take care of us, but the cap'n, he say we still Marse Hugh's, and Marse Hugh a Union man, so if he come huntin' us, we have to be handed back. Cap'n say we better scoot for Kansas.”

“Glad we cain't be sold no more,” said Jace. “But we don' know what to do, and no one else seem to know, either!”

Now, swept up in the simplicity of her idea, Deborah clapped her hands together. “You need a place to live and work,” she said. “And there are lots of farms where the men have gone off to fight. Do you want to farm?”

“All we know.” Sam shrugged. “But how we goin' to do that?” He shot her a suspicious look. “We don' come here to be slaves again, and we sure cain't own land, no more'n a mule.”

“Well, that's bound to change,” reasoned Maccabee. “Unless the South wins the war, the slaves are goin' to be freed. Then they'll own land 'stead of bein' owned by it!”

The fugitives looked skeptical. “Maccabee, I'm sure you're right,” said Deborah. “But for right now, I'll bet we can find places for lots of folks who want to stay.” She turned to the young blacks. “My family's place was—burned down, but the soddy we lived in till we built a cabin is in fair shape. There's a good well and we've kept planting the fields, so there's wheat and corn this year. If you want, you could take it over for a while.”

“For sure?” asked Sam between hope and doubt.

Deborah shrugged. “With Johnny gone, it'll be hard for us to take care of it. It'll belong to the twins someday, but long before they need it you'll probably have land of your own.”

“Land of our own!” echoed Jace.

Tears glittered in Jewel's eyes and Deborah felt a lump swell in her own throat as she comprehended something of what it must mean to people who'd been chattels, possessed like horses, to think of being owners themselves, holding land and the fruit of their labor.

It must be scary, too, making decisions after a lifetime of being told what to do and when, having to supply one's own necessities instead of having them provided, however inadequate.

Freedom was choice, and choice was scary. Deborah had a treacherous moment of wondering whether most people, providing they could consider themselves free, wouldn't rather be relieved of choice, the struggle to support a decision.

“We saved a few tools from the place,” said Maccabee. “You want to loan Belshazzar, Deborah? There's a plowshare I can weld a new point on. Yeah, I figger we can get you off to a purty good start. Damned lucky you come this year 'stead of last! Wouldn't have been a crop.”

Judith nodded. “You got time to get food for winter. We'll give you seeds for melon, squash, and pumpkins.”

“Maybe we can build a new cabin,” Jewel dreamed.

Deborah felt a pang. Other people living where her family had, sitting by the fireplace.… But the stab of pain eased into thankfulness. If her parents knew, they'd be happy. What better way was there for their home to come alive again?

“But before we start,” said Sam with new, quiet authority, “I notice your wheat's high enough for harvest. We help you.”

“Obliged,” said Maccabee. “I've been tryin' to get away from the forge, but everyone seems to need somethin' fixed yesterday, or teams go lame 'cause they need shoes.”

So Deborah, Judith, and Jewel bound as Jace and Sam swung the cradles. “When my back aches,” said Judith as they paused beside a shock to wipe itching sweat from their faces and necks, “I just remember last year, when there wasn't any wheat!”

Deborah laughed and nodded. “It was like the first years, when all we had was cornmeal.”

As she bound the ripe grain, she thought back to all her harvests: Thos reaping that first June, with Dane joining them; the second strange harvest, with Conrad and Cobie, and again Dane had helped.

Strange, considering his absences, that he'd taken part in both reapings. Last year, there'd been none, only drought. Drought in her, as well.

Thos was dead, and Conrad. In spite of the heat, a chill ran down her spine as she bent to her work, hoping that no one's life would be exacted for this crop. Roused memories, usually forced beneath her consciousness because of their pain, took possession, compelled to think of Dane as a living man, not an impossible, rejected dream.

She had heard from him twice since that letter saying he was taking Rolf to England. Rolf! Another sealed poison burst loose. Her body felt again that tearing, that assault, and she clenched her hands, staring unseeingly at the reaped grain before her. He still owed for Conrad's death. He would pay, if he came back!

And Dane?

His letters had said that he loved her but that Sir Harry was enfeebled from a stroke and clung to him like a child. Dane felt he couldn't leave him.

If Deborah would come to England, though, Dane would joyfully arrange her passage and Sir Harry would bless their marriage. He didn't mention Rolf.

Deborah hadn't answered. She loved Dane in a despairing, muted way, but there could be nothing between them till the war ended and Rolf was dead.

Almost two years had passed since they parted. How much nearer was she to fulfilling her debt to her family and what they'd believed in?

She'd helped scores of slaves get away to the North. Kansas had entered the Union a free state. She must help raise food and keep things together while this war went on, and for a while it would be a big task to help refugees get settled.

None of this was militant or glorious, but it had to be done. The one who sowed might not reap, but there'd always be hungry people.

She pushed away the dread of what would happen if the Confederates weren't checked in Missouri, if instead they surged into Kansas. She couldn't leave this land while it was disputed or in danger.

Ironically, she could only leave if it became safe and easy to stay. Dane would never understand that, or, rather, he couldn't accept it for the woman he loved. Not that it mattered, she thought bitterly. He was in England. By now, since she'd never responded to his letters, he might be married to a lady who'd please Sir Harry and dutifully reflect Dane's opinions. Deborah could only hope it'd bore him to distraction.

Dumping her bundle on the shock, she stretched her tired muscles, saw movement on the horizon, and shaded her eyes. Jewel peered, too.

“Rider comin', Sam! You don' think Marse Hugh—”

“He got more to do than chase us, what with both armies in his yard!” In spite of his words, Sam looked nervous. Then he threw back his shoulders and laughed. “Whoever that be, it's just one man, and one man ain't takin' us back, huh, Jace?”

“That's the plain truth.” Jace grinned. “So whyn't we get on with our reapin'?”

They all went back to work, but Deborah kept glancing toward the figure, which increased in size till she could tell it was a dark gray horse and make out the rhythmic swing of the horseman's body.

She gave a little cry. It couldn't be!

But Judith, squeezing her, called out with joy. “Dane Hunter! Bless God, Deborah! Here comes your man!” She added sternly, “And this time let's not have nonsense about it from either one of you!”

For the third harvest, Dane insisted on helping, and for the third time, with the reaping finished and supper over, he asked Deborah to come with him for a talk. All that afternoon, watching him swing a scythe or bind, she'd been anticipating and dreading this moment till her nerves were stretched to screaming tautness.

When he'd swung down from Lightning, his gaze had taken Deborah in a swift embrace. He'd strode through the stubble to bring her hands to his lips. What she'd thought dead within her quivered and trembled.

He was her man, always would be, whatever had happened, whatever might. When he straightened up she saw his face was leaner, the lines were deeper-etched, but his gray eyes were the one's she'd dreamed of and which reached now to her center.

“We have a lot to say,” he told Deborah after he'd greeted Judith and met the others. “But I'd like to swing a scythe again. Let me take care of Lightning and then I'll join you.”

Now, in twilight, he seemed as much at a loss for words as Deborah, though his reasons must be different. What had loomed threateningly for her that afternoon was Rolf.

How could she tell Dane? How could she not? And he had to know Rolf had killed Conrad and how; he had to know that Deborah couldn't forgive that.

The only way she could keep from going into all these wretched details would be to refuse to marry Dane—if he intended to ask her again.

Her heart skipped a beat. Dear God! Supposing he were married? Or had he felt it the required, gentlemanly thing to tell her in person that he no longer loved her?

“What are you thinking?” he asked, taking her hand.

Sweet fire ran up her arm from his strong, warm fingers. It was the first time a man had touched her as a woman since Rolf—

“I—wonder why you've come.”

“You do?” He laughed harshly. “Why would I come, Deborah, except that I love you, can't get you out of myself? I would have come before, but Sir Harry's had a long, hard time of recovering.”

“How is he now?”

“As well as he's likely to get. Resigned to dropping what's too much for him, except for his port, which he says he'll die sooner than give up.” Dane laughed a little. “He wants me to bring you over as soon as possible.”