Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone (100 page)

“Her name is Chastity,” Silvia said, just as evenly. “And thee knows why, though
she
never will, God willing.” She took an audible breath and breathed out a slow, dragon-like plume of white. “I shall most certainly keep her—and her sisters as well. I will not speak ill of thee to them; they deserve to think that their father loved them.” There was just the slightest emphasis on “think.”

“Thee has no right to take them from me,” Gabriel said. He didn’t sound angry now; only matter-of-fact. “Children belong to their father; it’s the law.”

“The law,” Silvia repeated, with contempt. “Whose law? Thine? The King’s? The Congress’s?” For the first time, she looked about her, over the spreading dark fields and the leafless trees, the houses in the distance, hazed with smoke. “Did thee not tell me that the Mohawk have a different view of marriage? Well, then.” She set her gaze on him again, eyes hard as stone. “I shall speak with thy master, and we will see.”

WITH THAT ULTIMATUM,
Silvia turned and walked determinedly toward the house. Gabriel Hardman pursued her, his crutch thumping in his anxiety to catch her up, but if she heard his importunities at all, they had no effect.

Finding herself alone, Rachel shook herself violently, trying to dislodge her memory of the last few minutes, so as to let her feelings settle in some way. She went into the privy, and despite its dankly malodorous nature, she dropped the latch and felt a welcome sense of privacy and quiet surround her. The gentle workings of her own body eased her, too, with their quiet reassurance. Her brother, Denny, had told her once that Jews—a race much given to prayer—had special brief prayers to be recited on private occasions such as this, thanking the Creator for the untroubled working of bladder and bowels. That had made her laugh at first, but she thought now that there was good sense in it.

The tingling of her slowly re-engorging breasts made her aware of other workings, and she gave quick thanks for her child as she came out into the biting air.

“And for wee Chastity and her sisters, too,” she added aloud, realizing suddenly that the terrible scene she had just witnessed between the Hardmans was certain to draw three innocent children into its vortex. “Lord, they don’t even know about their father yet!”

She looked anxiously toward the house, but neither Silvia nor Silvia’s erstwhile husband was in sight. The door opened, though, and her own husband came out, his face lighting when he saw her.

“There ye are!” He lengthened his stride to reach her sooner and clasped her in his arms. “I thought maybe ye’d met a snake in the privy, ye took so long. Are ye all right?” he asked, looking at her face with sudden concern. “Did ye eat something that disagreed wi’ ye?”

“Not the food,” she said. She wanted to cling to him, but her breasts were so sensitive at the moment that she detached herself. “Ian—”

“The wee man’s roarin’ for ye,” he said, cocking his head toward the house. He was; Rachel could hear Oggy bawling from where they stood, and her breasts at once began to leak. She ran for the door, Ian on her heels.

“See,” Ian said to Oggy as she snatched him up, “I told ye
Mammaidh
wouldna let ye starve.” They were in the guest chamber Catherine had given them when Brant had delivered Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa’s message, and Rachel sank down on the bed, fumbling her stays loose with one hand. Oggy lunged for her, seized the available nipple like a starving alligator, and the shrieks abruptly stopped.

“The Sachem’s taken a fancy to my mother,” Ian said, in the sudden silence. “He’s challenged her to a contest—pistols at ten paces.”

“A contest, or a duel?” Rachel inquired, closing her eyes in the bliss of relief as her milk let down. The free breast was dripping, but she didn’t care.

“Either way, I’ve got five to one on Mam,” Ian said, laughing. “Her father taught her to shoot, and Uncle Jamie and my da took her on the moors to hunt rabbits and grouse when they were lads. She can hit a sixpence at ten paces, so long as the pistol is true.”

“With whom is thy bet? Joseph Brant, or the Sachem?”

“Oh, Thayendanegea, to be sure. What’s amiss, lass?”

She opened her eyes to see his face a few inches from hers; she could feel the heat of his body in the chilly room and nestled closer.

“I take it thee doesn’t know that Friend Silvia’s husband is here?”

Ian blinked.

“What—the man that’s supposed to be dead?”

“Unfortunately, he isn’t. But he
is
here. They met, just now, outside the necessary.”

“Unfortunately,” he repeated slowly, and raised one eyebrow. “Why would it be better for him to be dead?”

Rachel heaved a sigh that made Oggy grunt and latch on more ferociously.

“Ouch! I have no objection to the poor man going on living, it’s the ‘here’ that’s the problem.” She told him briefly what had happened.

“And what about Patience and Prudence?” she demanded, re-settling Oggy on her lap. “From what you told me of thy first meeting with them, they’re well aware of the straits in which their mother found herself and how she dealt with their circumstances. They clearly love her and are loyal to her, regardless. But now their father has come back, and they love him, too!”

“But they dinna ken yet—that he’s not dead and he
is
here?”

“They don’t.” Rachel closed her eyes and kissed Oggy’s small round head, soft with its scurf of silky dark hair. “I have been thinking how we might assist them and Friend Silvia, but I see no good way forward. Does thee have any notions?”

“I don’t,” he said. He went and looked out of the window. “I dinna see either of them. Not that I ken what the man looks like, but—”

“He limps badly and walks with crutches. The Shawnee who captured him cut half his foot off with an ax.”

“Jesus. No wonder he didna go home, then.”

“Silvia said she would speak with his—her husband’s master—I suppose she meant Joseph Brant. Perhaps they’re with him?”

Ian shook his head.

“Nay, they’re not. That’s what I came out to tell ye—Thayendanegea’s gone. I’d told him right off why I’d come, and when we’d finished wi’ eating, he said he’d go himself to Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa and arrange for me to see her.” He lifted his chin toward the window, where the pale afternoon light was coming in. “It’s eight miles, he said, but he’d be back for supper, if he left straightaway.”

“Oh.” The news was a shock, only because she’d quite forgot the small matter of Ian’s former wife. “That’s…very good of him.”

Ian lifted one shoulder.

“Aye, well, it’s manners to send word, if it’s a formal visit—and this is,” he added, glancing at her. “But ye’re right, it’s good of him to go himself. I dinna ken whether it’s respect for Uncle Jamie, or for Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa—”

“He thinks highly of her, then.” Rachel tried to make that a statement and not a question, but Ian was sensitive to tones of voice.

“She’s one of his people, his family,” he said simply. “She was with him in Unadilla, the last time I saw her. Long before you and I were wed.” He turned to the window again, shading his eyes against the light.

“Where d’ye think Silvia’s gone?”

No more than a moment’s thought supplied the answer.

“She’s gone to get her daughters,” Rachel said, with certainty. Ian stared at her.

“Is she in any condition to ride?”

“Absolutely not.” Agitation made Rachel stiffen, and Oggy dug his fingers into her breast in order to hold on. “Ow!”

“I’d best go find her then. Give Mrs. Brant my apologies about her dinner.”

IAN PAUSED TO PUT
on his bearskin jacket—there was only a haze in the sky, but it was the lavender color that foretold snow, and the air was chilling fast—but didn’t bother to arm himself beyond the knife in his belt. Even if Gabriel Hardman was a lapsed Quaker, he didn’t think a maimed man on crutches would be a difficulty. He was glad that he hadn’t roached his hair for this visit; if he had to ride to Canajoharie and back in the cold and snow, his own pelt would serve him well enough.

He strode out of the house, heading for the barn where they’d left their horses. Silvia wasn’t a good rider, and even if she’d managed to saddle and bridle her horse alone, she wouldn’t have got far.

He’d heard the random bangs of pistol fire, but hadn’t paid attention. His mother hailed him, though, and he saw that she and the Sachem had had their contest: a grubby handkerchief was pinned to a huge, bare oak, perforated with singed and blackened holes.

Jenny was flushed from the cold, and her cap had come off when she threw back the hood of her cloak. She was groping behind her head in search of it, and laughing at something the Sachem had said to her, and despite her silver-gray hair, Ian, rather startled, thought she looked like a girl.

“Okwaho, iahtahtehkonah,” the Sachem said, seeing Ian. He smiled broadly, looking at Jenny. “Your mother is deadly.”

“If ye mean with a pistol, I expect so,” Ian replied, slightly squint-eyed. “She’s no bad wi’ a hatpin, either—should anyone give her cause.”

The Sachem laughed, and while Jenny didn’t, she sniffed in a way that indicated amusement. She arched a brow at Ian, turned—and then turned back, having seen something in his face.

“What’s happened?” she said, her own face changing in an instant.

He told them, briefly. It occurred to him that the old Sachem was not only Thayendanegea’s uncle but plainly had influence with him.

The Sachem didn’t interrupt or ask questions, and preserved an attitude of respectful attention, but Ian thought he found the account entertaining. As he brought the story to an end, though, it occurred to him also that the Sachem very likely knew Gabriel Hardman well and might feel loyalty toward him.

His mother had been thoughtfully cleaning her pistol while he spoke, ramming a cloth down the barrel with its tiny ramrod. Now she put the pistol back in her belt, folded the stained cloth, and tucked it into the cartridge box.

“We had a wager, did we not?” she asked the Sachem. He rocked back a little on his heels, a smile still lurking in the corners of his mouth.

“We did.”

“And ye admit that I won, I suppose. You bein’ an honest man?”

The smile grew plain.

“I cannot say otherwise. What forfeit do you demand?”

Jenny nodded in the direction of the house. “That you go with my friend Silvia, to talk with Mr. Brant. And that you see justice done,” she added, in the manner of an afterthought.

“You didn’t win by
that
much,” the Sachem said, with mild reproach. “But since she’s your friend, clearly you will go with her wherever she goes. And as you are also my friend—are you?” he interrupted himself, lifting one white brow.

“If it’ll make ye go with her, aye,” Jenny said impatiently.

“I will go with
you,
” the Sachem said, bowing. “Wherever you wish to go.”

THIS EXCHANGE DISTURBED
Ian, but he hadn’t time to do more than give the Sachem a brief “trouble my mother and I’ll gut ye like a fish” look on his way to the barn. His mother caught the look and appeared to think it funny, though the Sachem kept a decently straight face.

Silvia was indeed in the barn, with the skewbald gelding named Henry that she’d ridden from Philadelphia, leaning against his warm bulk, face buried in her arms, as he calmly plucked mouthfuls of hay from a hanging net and chewed with a comforting, slobbery sound. The horse’s saddle and bridle lay on the ground at her feet.

Silvia looked up at the sound of Ian’s footsteps. Her face was blotched with weeping, her cap askew, and her limp brown hair uncoiled on one side and hanging down beside her ear, but she bent at once to seize the bridle from the ground at her feet.

“I was—was waiting—he was eating, I couldn’t bridle him while—” She gestured helplessly at Henry’s tack and the slowly champing jaws.

“And where d’ye intend going?” Ian asked politely, though that was clear enough. The question focused Silvia’s mind, though, and she drew herself upright, eyes bleared but fierce.

“To get my girls and take them away. Will thee help me?”

“And go where, lass?” Ian reached for the bridle, but she clung to it, desperate.

“Away!” she said. “It doesn’t matter, I’ll find a place!”

“Rachel said ye thought of taking the matter to Thayendanegea.”

“I did, yes. I was trying to decide,” she said, placing a hand on the horse’s neck. “Whether to wait for his return and ask for his judgment between me and Gabriel—or ride to the inn, fetch the girls, and run.” She was breathing like a runaway horse herself, and now stopped to mop her face and swallow. “If I waited—Gabriel might get help to pursue us, and should he catch us…I—I doubt I could prevent his taking the girls from me. And…what if Brant should take Gabriel’s side?” A belated thought struck her.

“Do the Mohawk believe that children are the property of the father?”

“No,” Ian said calmly. “If a woman puts her husband out of her house, or he leaves, her bairns stay with her.”

“Oh.” She sat down suddenly on the saddle and raised a trembling hand to tuck back the dangling hair. “Oh. Then perhaps…?”

“Perhaps it’s no Thayendanegea’s business,” Ian said matter-of-factly. “What goes on between a man and his wife is…what goes on between a man and his wife, unless it’s causin’ a stramash that bothers other folk. I mean, if ye shot your husband, that might cause a bit of a nuisance, but I dinna suppose ye mean to do that, bein’ a Friend and all.”

“Oh,” she said again. She sat for a bit, staring at the hay-strewn ground between her feet, and he let her sit.

“I should
like
to shoot Gabriel,” she said, and stared some more, her lips pressed tight together. Then she shook her head and got unsteadily to her feet. “But thee is right. I won’t.”

She drew a deep breath and reached for the bridle in his hand.

“But I must have my girls with me now. Will thee help me to go and get them?”

The light was fading fast and a wind with the cold breath of night came into the barn and stirred the scattered bits of straw along the packed-dirt floor. Ian merely nodded and bent to heave the saddle up.

“Go and fetch your cloak, lass. Ye’ll freeze, else.”

IT WAS LESS
than an hour’s ride to the inn, but the sun had gone down, swallowed in a sudden bank of cloud that rose up from the trees like black bread rising. It began to snow.

Ian had put Silvia up before him, saying that she might become tangled in the rope leading their second horse. So much was true. It was more true that while she was no longer starved, she was still thin as an icicle and just as brittle, and he felt an urgent need to shelter her.

The wind had dropped, thank God, but the snow fell thick and silent, muting all sound and burdening the branches of the pines and fir trees. It was a good road, but he still pushed Henry a little, lest it disappear under the horse’s hooves. This wasn’t his country, and he didn’t want to go astray and end up spending the night in the woods with Silvia.

“I met Gabriel in Philadelphia,” she said, unexpectedly. “My parents were still alive then, and we belonged to the same meeting. They’d chosen someone else for me—a blacksmith who owned his own forge. Older than I by ten years, well established. A kind man,” she added after a pause. “With a house and property. Gabriel was a clerk, my own age, and earned barely enough to keep himself, let alone a wife.”

“Well, I was nay more than an Indian scout when I met Rachel,” Ian said, watching Henry’s misty breath flow back over the horse’s neck as they rode. “And a man of blood, forbye. I did own some land, though,” he added fairly.

“And thee had a family,” she said softly. “My parents both died within the year—smallpox—and there was no one left but me; I had no brothers or sisters. Gabriel had broken with his people when he became a Friend—he wasn’t born to it, as I was.”

“So ye only had each other, then.”

“We did,” she said, and fell silent for a bit.

“And then we had the girls,” she said, so softly that he barely heard her. “And we were happy.”

THE SNOW HAD
stopped by the time they reached the inn, though everything in sight was lightly frosted, shining gold where lamplight fell through windows, silver in the fitful streaks of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Silvia let him lift her down from the horse, but when he made to come in with her, she put a hand on his chest to stop him.

“I thank thee, Ian,” she said quietly. “I need to talk with my daughters alone. Thee should go back to Rachel and thy son.”

He could see her thin, worn face in the changing light, one moment smoothed with shadow, the next strained with anxiety.

“I’ll wait,” he said firmly.

She laughed, to his surprise. It was a small and weary laugh, but a real one.

“I promise I shall not seize the girls and ride off into a blizzard alone,” she said. “I had peace to think while we rode, and to pray—and I thank thee for
that,
too. But it became clear to me that I must let Patience and Prudence see their father. I need to talk with them first, though, and explain what has happened to him.” Her voice wavered a little on “happened,” and she cleared her throat with a little
hem.

“I’ll stay in the taproom, then.”

“No,” she said, just as firmly as he had. “I can smell the landlady’s supper cooking; the girls and I will eat together and talk and sleep—and in the morning, I will comb their hair and dress them in clean clothes and ask the innkeeper to arrange for us to be taken back in a wagon. Thee need not worry for me, Ian,” she added gently. “I shall not be alone.”