Daughter of the Sword (52 page)

Sam was standing near the fireplace, surveying the ruins of the cabin. “Some of these logs are solid,” he mused, thumping them. “Fireplace jus' need a little daubin'. Be all right with you, Miz Deborah, if we build back the cabin on this same spot?”

In spite of a stab of grief for her parents, Deborah was able to say truthfully and with a smile, “That'd be one of the nicest things I can think of!”

On her way to the smithy, she detoured past Friedental to see Ansjie and ask if the village could take in more people. Ansjie, sadly missing her doctor, looking thinner and older, said she'd be glad to house a couple or several women and children, and nearly every family in the settlement agreed to house one or two fugitives. But the really important plan was the council's proposal to help those who wanted to settle permanently build homes and get started at farming.

Because of irrigating through the drought and their thrifty habit of storing food, the Friedentalers were rich compared to most Kansans who'd survived. Though they'd lived here the five years necessary for naturalized citizenship, none had taken that step because taking an oath was against their religion, so it was unlikely they'd be forced into the army even if conscription became necessary.

Such service was absolutely against their faith, and since even Prussia had let them pay a tax instead, it seemed sure that the U.S. government would provide an alternative. This meant that while most able-bodied men were going off to war and their work was either abandoned or managed as well as possible by women and children, Friedental would keep its skillful, tremendously productive farmers.

“There can be a village on the other side of the well and church,” Elder Goerz explained, gesturing with calloused hands. “The
Graf
all that land bought, though used it we haven't.”

“How many people could come?”

He puffed out his ruddy, bearded cheeks. “Maybe a hundred. Between twenty and thirty families, say. If it goes well—” He spread his hands, gray eyes sober. “One thing, Fräulein Whitlaw—they Mennonites need not be, though they're welcome in our church. They can have their own council and rules. But they must respect our faith.”

Deborah nodded, resolving to screen candidates carefully. She never wanted the villagers to regret their offer.

She and Ansjie visited Conrad's grave together, then sat quietly for a while among the wild roses. A warm wind stirred the grass. “I seem to feel his smile here,” said Ansjie.

Deborah nodded. She, too, sensed that peace. Two years had dulled the sharp edge of her guilt and loss; just as Conrad had truly predicted she'd do with her parents, she remembered their happy times more frequently than the appalling end. Still, though Conrad's gentle ghost didn't require it of her, she would never forgive Rolf.

After spending the night in Friedental, she found eight new refugees at the smithy, including three young children. After they were rested and there'd been time to talk with them and observe, Deborah took the mother with children to join Sam, Jewel, and Jace.

That left a couple and two single men who were eager to start at Friedental. Judith escorted them to the village, but no more than three or four days ever passed before more homeless, barefoot wanderers trudged to the smithy.

One gnarled old man called Tiberius had smithing skills and stayed on, but since the smithy had to temporarily shelter whomever turned up, as soon as possible Deborah or Judith would take the people to Friedental or Topeka, where Amos Blakeman was finding homes and work for those who decided not to run farther north.

When she could be spared, Deborah, protected at least in part by her boy's clothes and Bowie, began searching for places where refugees could stay.

A number of farms, abandoned during the drought, now had water again and could produce some food between now and frost, while wheat planted this fall would yield next summer.

If the escaping slaves couldn't speedily be put in the way of feeding themselves, this could be a cruel winter that would find them wishing they'd stayed where they at least had food and a roof over their heads.

Many times she rode up to an isolated farm in time to help a woman or child struggling with a task too difficult for one, or find a woman heavy with child, or with several small ones, wondering how she could plow and get in the seed that meant food next year. These women were ready, out of desperation, if not generosity, to feed and shelter someone who could take over the heavy work and give them some sense of security and protection.

To such farms, Deborah brought a couple, sometimes with children. Other women preferred to move in with friends or go east to their families, provided someone trustworthy would keep the farm going. Two couples or three or four single people could be situated at such places, and Deborah made sure that there was a responsible leader for each caretaker group.

Deborah kept no count, but through that summer she and Judith must have settled two hundred people, including those at Friedental. And, of course, there was fodder to pull and food to preserve or dry, all the usual work of a large household.

There'd been no word from Johnny, Doc, or Dane, but from runaways and travelers they heard of the Union blockade of the Confederate coastline, shutting off munitions and supplies from abroad, and of July's Battle of Bull Run in Virginia, where Confederate General Thomas J. Jackson's refusal to retreat gave him the name of “Stonewall,” and which brought a Southern victory.

Over in Missouri, Price, with reinforcements from Arkansas, had swung ten thousand men against Lyon's six thousand and defeated them after a struggle that locked Missourian against Missourian; Texans, Louisianans, and Arkansans against Kansans, Iowans, and St. Louis Germans. Lyon, wounded several times, kept rallying his outnumbered forces till he was shot through the heart.

“If Lyon hadn't been killed, the Union would've won,” growled a man whose pistols and Bowie hinted that he'd done some jayhawking. “But Sturgis from Leavenworth, he was left in command and was scared his men couldn't stand up to another charge. They'd been fightin' without anything to eat since the night before. So he ordered a retreat.”

Sturgis! He was the commander Dane was with, and probably Johnny and Doc, too. How long did it take to learn if someone was killed?

Sara and Ansjie, being wives, would surely hear in time, but Deborah realized that Dane might die and she'd never know. She resolved to send him several letters in the hope that one might reach him, and ask him to be sure that she was informed if he were hurt or killed.

Sara's voice was trembling as she asked the beweaponed traveler if there'd been many men lost.

“Why, ma'am,” he said, spitting at the side of the forge, “a quarter of the men were killed or wounded. Rebs lost over twelve hundred and did for over thirteen hundred of our'n. The First Kansas lost two hundred eighty-four men out of six hundred forty-four, with Company E havin' only twenty-six left out of seventy-six.” He spat again. “Price and his Secesh are fixin' to take Missouri while General Frémont's bound to stop him. Both sides are recruitin' and restin' up.”

“Are you going back?” Deborah asked.

One of the whiskered man's eyelids drooped in a slow wink. “Soon's I can round up a few of the boys, we're throwin' in with Jim Lane. He's gettin' his brigade together at Fort Scott. Goin' to teach them Rebs a lesson, you bet!”

When his horse's thrown shoe was nailed back on, he jogged on his way, carrying a letter to Dane that he'd promised to mail in Lawrence.

Judith stared after him, lips pursed. “Look like this war goin' to be an excuse for lots of plain robbin' and wickedness,” she said.

No one could argue. Missouri Border Ruffians might have begun the violence, but jayhawkers like Lane, Jennison, and Montgomery were just as bad. Deborah felt shame and anger that such plunderers dirtied the cause her family had died for.

Early in September a thick letter was brought to the smithy by a former volunteer of the First Kansas who'd been wounded severely enough for mustering out. Pale and hobbling, he was going home to Topeka. The women insisted that he stay overnight and rest. His shattered condition brought home the reality of Wilson's Creek. Sara and Deborah waited on him in the same fashion they hoped some woman might tend their own men.

Dane had written to Deborah and taken down Johnny's message to Sara, since Johnny couldn't write, and could read only with great difficulty. Both men were with the First Regiment but hadn't been wounded, nor had Challoner, also with the First. After Wilson's Creek they'd been sent by train to St. Louis, and now the battered command had been ordered to crush out guerrillas along the Hannibal–St. Joseph Railroad.

Dane wrote:

General Frémont's declared Missouri under martial law. Anyone bearing arms without authority's to be court-martialed, and slaves belonging to those disloyal to the Union are to be freed. Strong medicine.

Johnny surely saved my life. Lightning was shot out from under me. When I came to my senses, Johnny was standing over me fighting off a horde of Missourians.…

Johnny's letter, in a postscript added by Challoner, said:

The captain don't want me sayin' so, but I got knocked endwise by this Reb swingin' his musket like a club. Would've been trampled sure's you're born, but the captain toted me off on his back.

To Deborah's relief Dane added that in addition to Johnny and Doc, who'd let her know if he had “bad luck,” he'd given her address to Major Sturgis. She and Sara looked at each other across their letters.

“At least they're together,” Sara murmured.

Deborah delivered Ansjie's letter the next day and listened to as much of a doctor's view of a battlefield as Challoner had felt able to share with his wife. Then she crossed the village green to the neat houses occupied by people who three and four months ago had been homeless.

Rebe had his smithy between the two settlements and left his forge to greet Deborah. “Most ever'body had a good garden this year,” he reported. “Picked berries, killed lots of prairie chickens, and dried the breasts. And we've had a mighty good wheat crop and lots of corn and rye.”

“Yes.” Elder Goerz nodded, beaming with understandable pride. “We can feed all in the valley and send you grain for those others who need it. Also apples and vegetables. Dietrich can drive a wagon tomorrow to the smithy with these things.”

In spite of her joy at Doc's letter, Ansjie was depressed at being without either of her men. When Deborah suggested that she stay for a while at the smithy, she eagerly accepted and left her chickens and house in charge of the refugees who'd been living with her. The next day the two women escorted Dietrich with a supply laden wagon back to Chaudoin's. It seemed rather hard on Dietrich, who had pined after Ansjie for so long, though he'd married Cobie Balzer's elder sister and seemed busily content. He still watched Ansjie with a certain wistfulness.

Ansjie settled in happily, taking over much of the cooking and quickly becoming a favorite of the twins because, unlike the rest of the adults, she always had time for them and liked nothing better than to cuddle one or both and sing them songs in German, or play counting rhymes and riddles which made them scream ecstatically.

“Don' know what you children mean, now that you're mixin' German with Sioux and Shawnee!” grumbled Judith as Tom was beseeching her to give him and Lettie
“ein bisschen”
of the corn fritters she was frying.

“You know!” Tom cried confidently, his big brown eyes shining. He looked so much like Thos that it was hard to be stern with him even when he needed it.

“Reckon I do.” Judith grinned and gave them each a crisp bit of fritter.

The twins felt the vast importance of being two years old and “helped” till it was a constant problem not to step on them, but they brought laughter and warmth to a household beset with anxiety for its men and aiding the flow of men, women, and children who kept trudging in.

Often after supper the twins made it seem a fine idea to make molasses candy, pop corn, tell stories, or sing. Morning and its labors came too early for such evenings to be long, but they were a blessed respite.

Having settled refugees on all available places within fifteen miles, Deborah proposed one morning to venture nearer the border.

“We may not find farms that'd be safe for refugees,” she agreed when her friends objected, “but such places aren't safe for lone women, either. There must be lots of them having to choose between giving up everything they've got or being easy pickings for jayhawkers or Missouri bandits, whichever comes first.”

“That's surely true.” Sara caught the twins in boisterous flight and cuddled them a moment. “But what can you do about it?”

“I don't know. No one thought the war would last long. Lots of men volunteered for only three months, but it begins to look as if three years will be more like it. They didn't make arrangements for their families to get along without them, and if a woman's tied down with chores and children, it's hard for her to find a better way to manage.”

“Maybe some families could move in together?” asked Judith.

“Maybe. If three, four, or even two women got together, they could share childcare and get a lot more done. And where there's no one able to plow, refugee men could go around and do it in return for part of the crop. There are workers and there's land. If they're put together, maybe we can have food instead of famine.” Deborah got to her feet. “Anyway, I'm going southeast for a few days. Don't worry about me. No one's interested in a scrawny red-haired boy.”

Maccabee snorted. “
That
I believe, but plenty no-goods have an eye for your Chica mare!”

He was right. Deborah weighed the advantages of Chica's companionship and speed against the safety of a mount no one would covet. “I'll outrun them,” she said airily, then turned.