Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (17 page)

Lanley
took her arm. “The vows, Rebecah. Say them.”

She
glanced at the minister then at Lanley. “The vows? No…I cannot.”

Lanley
squeezed her hand. “Rebecah?”

“Forgive
me, Cecil.”

He
caught her as she fell and laid her upon the floor, a look of disappointment
and bewilderment bursting upon his strained face. Brent quickly rose from his
seat and rushed forward. The witnesses gasped.

“She
is dead,” uttered Lanley with wide eyes.

“Have
you not seen a woman swoon, Lanley,” said Brent irritated. “Get her up.”

“Here
is Lady Margaret,” Lanley fanned his face with his handkerchief. “She will
help.”

Her
ladyship knelt beside Rebecah. She pillowed her head on her lap and unfastened
the lace at her throat. “We must take her back to Endfield.”

“Is
she ill, my lady?” asked Lanley on a note of fear.

“Indeed,
she is.” She looked over at Brent, then back at Lanley.  “It appears the
wedding is delayed.”

Frederick County, Maryland, Early
Summer

After
a long bone-shaking coach ride from Annapolis, Nash alighted at the same spot
he had left months before. It was late in the afternoon on a Sunday. He walked
down a hillside toward the river and home, on a trail scarce the size of a bridle
path. Far in the distance, he heard church bells ringing in Fredericktown.

Returning
to Laurel Hill was the foremost thing on his mind, though now and again the
face of a girl clouded his goal. He failed to ignore his love for her, yet
believed he had been foolish to assume she felt as he did. It annoyed him like
the vines hanging over the road. With a quick jerk of his arm, he pushed them
out of the way.

He
welcomed the rush of cool air and breathed in until his lungs were full. Spring
had come and mountain laurel budded along with the dogwoods and hardwood trees
of the forests.

He
climbed another hill, and from it he could see the tip of a church steeple
piercing the horizon. Fredericktown seemed too remote to be rocked with the
tumult of the world. Its fine houses of brick and stone sheltered godly folk of
neighborly dispositions. Timber whitewashed houses and log cabins gleamed in
the sunshine, where children played in grassy yards and housewives hung their
washing and churned butter. And like today, the bells of the clustered spires
were heard for miles across the valley.

Nash
had not slacked his pace. The road turned and there stood a row of evergreens
twenty feet high. Passing slowly beneath their shadowy limbs he crossed onto
his land. All this would make his memories of England fade he hoped. His
heartbreak would be soothed and soon he would be over Rebecah.

He strode
across an open field where he had felled trees. It was time to plant wheat. He
imagined it knee-deep, rippling in the breeze like waves of the sea. Farther
down a slope, he came to a creek shadowed by locust trees. Water sparkled blue
as the sky above. He spotted his house now, and sprinted toward it.

Strange,
but not a soul came out to greet him. He thought Joab would have been sitting
out on the porch. He walked through the door.

“Joab!”
he called.

He
scowled at the dust that lay everywhere. Joab always kept the house clean—until
now. A sinking feeling moved through him. What if something had happened to his
old friend?

He
went to the old man’s room next to the kitchen. A patchwork quilt lay neatly
over the bed, a tic pillow at the head. He searched the floor beneath it. No
shoes. But there were some clothes in the closet. The kitchen larder was empty,
save for a bit of flour and sugar.

Perplexed,
Nash laid his pistols on the table in the front room and drew off his hat. He
sat in front of the cold hearth and rubbed one of the barrels with a cloth to
polish it. He hated the solitude. If things had been different, Rebecah would
be with him tonight, and he would not be polishing pistols.

Tomorrow
he would ride to town and make inquiry as to Joab’s whereabouts.

The
sun dipped lower, and he lit a candle. Pulling from his writing desk paper and
quill, he penned the events of his voyage and journey home to his father. The
words flowed at first and then lessened. He lifted the quill in a weary gesture
and put it back into the inkwell.

His
thoughts were too cluttered to continue. Besides the likelihood of his father
receiving a letter was small. It would cost him to send it out from the
Chesapeake. Suspicions were running high. The British were searching anything
going out of the country.

Instead,
he opened his Bible and found a blue ribbon marking a place in The Song of
Songs. It was her ribbon, one he had gently taken from her hair while he kissed
her. She had smiled and looked into his eyes, willing to bestow such a token of
affection. He held it between his fingers and read the verse it marked until his
eyes grew weary from the dull light.

Darkness
had fallen and the moon shone through his windows. Outside an owl hooted.
Though it sounded like the great horned bird, he could tell it came from human
lips. He placed the ribbon back in its place, then picked up one of his pistols
and pulled the hammer back.

He
walked to the window and looked out from the edge. In the moonlight, he saw an
Indian standing at the foot of his porch. Over one shoulder hung a bearskin
fastened to a leather thong, the teeth hanging down the Indian’s breast. Poised
in his large hand was a bow.

He
stood silent and tall, in beaded moccasins, with eagle feathers in his hair—Black
Hawk, his friend and brother.

Two
seasons ago, Nash had been tracking a buck he had shot, when coming through the
woods he stumbled upon the lone Indian. Startled by Nash’s sudden appearance,
Black Hawk pressed himself against a tree. He stood rigid, proud, at his full
height, his thick arms folded and his head raised unafraid. He stared back at
Nash through valiant eyes, shaking with the fever that ravished his body.

Taking
a step forward in a useless effort to plunge his knife into the breast of the
white man, Black Hawk fell. Nash remained standing with his flintlock musket
aimed in the direction of the fallen warrior. His body glistened with sweat,
smearing the black war paint crisscrossing his limbs and face. Across his eyes,
the black band lined in red remained unmarred. His raven hair, long and cropped
short at the top, was dressed with feathers.

That
day the warrior rambled incoherently. Nash, being the man he was, raised him to
his feet and led him back through the forest. He nursed the Indian back to
health, and Black Hawk said he would have killed Nash if he had been able. But
now he owed him his life and his view of one white man changed.

 Moonlight
trembled over the feathers in his hair, upon the beads around his throat, upon
knife and tomahawk. “I knew when the season of blossoms had come, and the bucks
cry in the forests, my brother would return.”

“You
are welcomed, my brother,” said Nash, as he came out the door. “Come inside. We
will talk, if indeed you will sit in the house of a white man.”

“You’re
my friend. We will speak as brothers in your house.” 

Black
Hawk sat on the floor. “My brother is well?”

“As
well to be expected. It was a long journey, and I missed home. You carry your
weapons to visit me, Black Hawk. Has anything changed?”

“Not
between you and I, my brother. But since my brother left, the woods have been
full of noise. The jay has not been silent for many moons. Deer have been swift
to hide in the deep places. The woods are dark, my brother. Rivers beyond the
mountains run red.”

Nash
stared curiously at the Indian and frowned. “Trouble and darkness are
everywhere. So shall it be until the end of time.”

Black
Hawk nodded. “The end of time will come when the Great One will take our bones
from the earth and make us live again.” He balled his fist and swept it downward,
then upward as he spoke. “The bones of my people will not always be in the dust.
We will not always mourn.”

“I
believe this too. Why do the rivers run red?”

“There
is war. The whites have killed our people.”

“The
Indian does not accuse without a cause. He despises a lying tongue.”

 “This
is so, my brother. But we too are men and act unjustly. The Indian has killed
and burned men’s houses. The whites have killed and burned our villages. The
Indian has hated as the white man has hated. Our blood is the same color.”

“So
we are alike. None is different.”

Nash
thrust his boots on his table and leaned back in his chair. “But there are
those who are evil men. Logan is a good man. Jefferson is a good man. But I’ve
heard of Daniel Greathouse and the evil thoughts he has toward your people and
the murders he and his men have done. Few believe it, but I know them to be
true and not wild tales.”

“My
brother’s spirit moans like the wind. I’ve not seen my brother sad in the face.
England was not good to my brother?”

“My
time there for the most part was well spent. But I was not wise, for I failed
to guard my heart.”

“Perhaps,
my brother’s heart is stronger for it. Now you understand when the warrior is
not vigilant trouble comes. Now you are wary like the wolf.”

“You
are wise, Black Hawk. I’m glad you’re my friend.” He handed the Indian more
venison jerky.

“Will
your god give you power to heal your wound?”

“He
has done so.”

“He
gave me the power to take this bear. His skin is a gift to you.” Black Hawk
untied the tong and swung the skin over his shoulder, then spread it out on the
floor. “The fur is good, my brother.”

Nash
touched the bearskin. “It’s too rich a prize to give me. But I thank you for
it.”

He
knew not to refuse a gift from an Indian. It would be a great insult, and he
thought of what Black Hawk went through to get it. “You took it with your
knife, I see. You rival Logan in your hunting skills.”

Black
Hawk gently smiled at the compliment.

“Have
you heard how the British makes war against us?”

“It
is in the wind.”

A
low growl came from outside. Black Hawk rose and went to the door. “I tamed a
cub.”

Nash
looked out and saw an animal rolling on the ground. “A mountain lion?”

“He
is a kitten, my brother.”

“How
did you capture him?”

“The
wild thorn growing in the mountains caught him. After I freed him, I brought
him here to my brother’s house. The dark-faced man was frightened of him and
got his gun. But I would not let him shoot him. When he saw the cub would do no
harm, he dressed his wounds with oil and I with the herbs in my pouch.”

Nash
smiled. “He will no doubt protect you.”

“When
you bring your maiden into your house, he will frighten the wolf from her
door.”

Nash
frowned. “I’ve no maiden.”

Black
Hawk shrugged. “It is time I go.”

“Sleep
here if you wish.”

“It
is the roof. I cannot sleep beneath it on such a night. I will sleep in the
woods beyond the house and look at the stars.” Black Hawk walked into the grass
and stood beside his cub. “Logan sits before his lodge. He is troubled. If my
brother comes to the village, he will smoke the peace pipe with you to show his
love. He asks that you come.”

He
watched the lithe warrior disappear into the darkness. For some time, Nash
stood alone on his porch. Black Hawk’s words troubled him. Would he ever love again
as deeply as he had with Rebecah? Some would call him crazy to think it ever
was love in such a short time. But he knew what he felt, that it ran as deep
waters within his soul.

He
then ran his hands through the length of his hair, and reentered his house.

*  *  *

The
following day, Nash headed into town. The sun was brilliant, the day hot. The
shrill song of a red-winged black bird filled the air, the cicadas twilled in
the dusty trees.

Mrs.
Charlton’s tavern stood on the southwest corner of Market Street. He heard
laughter from within and walked up to the open door. Pausing a moment, he stood
across the threshold and watched the revelry inside. Tobacco smoke filled the
room with a blue haze. A serving girl stepped between rough-hewn tables, laying
down mugs frothing with ale.

A
gray-headed older man leaped from his chair. No one knew Tobias Johnston’s age,
not even he, but most people believed he was the oldest gent in those parts.
His dull gray eyes fastened on Nash. Wiping his hand across a bristly face, the
old man’s eyes brightened and he raised his arms over his head with a, “Yee
haw! There stands Jack at the door, lads!”

Heads
turned. Men sprang to their feet and cheered. A tumult of greetings followed.
Backwoodsmen, farmers, and local businessmen hurried out of their seats and
threw brotherly arms around Nash.

“We
see England didn’t swallow ya up, Jack!” A round of laughter followed. 

“You’ve
returned to the frontier in one piece, bless God. We were worried you’d not
come back.”

With
a wink and a smile, Tobias raised his mug in a toast and drank it dry, the ale
dripping along his beard.

Nash
soaked in the warm greeting and smiled. “No one missed this place more than I.
It’s good to be home.” 

He
could hardly be heard over the excited murmur of the men. Meg, the serving
girl, put down a plate piled high with meat pie. Nash went to pay her and she
pushed his hand back. He stood and thanked her with a kiss. The men cheered
“Hurrah!”

Meg’s
cheeks turned red and she hurried away.

Soon
enough he got an earful of news. “We’re all mad as hornets, Jack. You’d not
believe the measures they took to rescue the East India Company.”