Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (33 page)

But what if
war broke out? She could be trapped. No family. No friends. She’d have to find
work and wait the whole thing out.

She bit her
lip, stared at the sky.  

Does he
still care?

Her heart leaped
at the thought.

Jack is a
good man, and a good man would never send a lady away who has traveled across
the ocean and through the frontier to him. He may not want me at first, but
I’ll find a way to make him want me in the end—if he is free.

The breeze
strengthened. Forests murmured with the whisper of wind. The sky grew dark as
slate. She watched the whirl of clouds. Thunder pealed. The wind calmed.

The trees
stood motionless. An eerie hush fell over the land. Rebecah fell back against
the seat. She remembered what Jack had told her about the wilderness storms,
how fierce they were.

The coach
rattled on. Thirty and five miles left to cover before the spires of Fredericktown
broke upon the skyline— thirty and five miles of wind, storm, and shaking trees.
She wished they had stayed longer at the trading post, at least until the storm
passed and the sky broke open again with the sun. The rain would have sounded
differently beating upon the logs. She could have sat and talked with the woman
and her boy, listened to the men’s tales.

But now they
were miles away, and the storm swallowed the light of day.

Lightning crossed the sky. Thunder shook the land. Rebecah
sat stunned. Her hands gripped the side of the door. Lightning struck a tree.
She screamed and covered her ears. The horses strained. The horses whinnied. The
coach pitched to one side and veered off the road. It creaked and moaned, slid
down an embankment, and landed in a ditch.

Nash
placed another log on the fire. His men huddled for shelter in a cave. Cleft
into a granite outcropping, it was high in the mountains, hidden by enormous
trees. Damp and crusted, it smelled of earth, mold, and years.

Clarke
snored with his hat over his eyes, embracing his well-oiled musket. Black Hawk
sharpened his knife. The preacher read from his well-used Bible, the size of
which fit in his palm.

As
the storm raged outside, loneliness for Rebecah seized Nash and he stared with
a searching heart at the flames. He could not shake the thoughts, nor purge the
feelings. He loved her. But it was over and she was unattainable.

Maldowney
came beside him. The fire played over his face and heightened his red hair and
beard. “You miss the lass, don’t you?”

“Yes,
but I need to forget.”

“Maybe
if you married…”

Nash
shrugged. “I’ll remain unwrung.”

“Life
is too short to pine away for a lost love.”

“Or
be bound to a second choice.”

The
rain lessened. The thunder rumbled no more. Sunbeams shot through the clouds
and Nash watched them from the entrance of the cave.

“The
storm has passed. Let’s head back to town.”  

He
stepped away from the fire out into the coolness. The elms and evergreens
sagged with rain. Mist streamed down upon the land and bathed the flora in
white veils. Ribbons of fog lay in the glades, and a hungry hawk flew above the
treetops.

From
where he stood, Nash looked down into the valley. The air smelled sweet and he
was reminded of the way her hair smelled. It had been so fresh and clean, and
felt like silk when he ran his fingers through it.

Leaning
against a pine, he cradled his musket. The breeze rustled his hair. And as much
as he tried not to, he thought about Rebecah with a wounded heart. Was she with
Lanley, in his house, in his bed, with his ring upon her finger? Then the
memory of her rejection, her believing he sentenced her father to an untimely
death pressed on his mind.

He
turned and rested his forehead against the rough bark, balled his fist and
struck the tree. A moment later, the men emerged from the cave. They took the
old trail down the mountain into the gorge. His heart pounded as he kept pace
with the others, and he ignored the pain in his leg. He had not brought Meteor this
time, thinking the exertion would do him good. Now he regretted it.

Rounding
a bend, they came upon an Indian village nestled amid trees. Nash stepped up to
Black Hawk. “Go ahead of us. Speak to the elders.”

As
soon as Black Hawk’s moccasins touched inside the village, old men came out to
meet him. Between them a council fire smoked and hissed. Black Hawk raised his
hands and spoke, and Nash stood several yards behind him.

“I
am Black Hawk, son of Running Fox, chief of my village to the north among the
Nations. My fathers have no reason to fear. We come in peace. Tell me, fathers,
why do you mourn?”

An
aged chief moved through the people and stood before Black Hawk. His face was
wrinkled in ashy seams.

“My
eyes saw General Braddock fall in battle,” he said in an oratory discourse. “My
eyes saw the young Washington, tall and lean upon a great horse, dodge French
bullets and escape the Indian arrow. Now, my eyes are old and I am weary of
war. You are a warrior. Are you among those who kill all in their path for
pleasure?”

Black
Hawk frowned. “I am with the rangers as their scout.” He turned and pointed at
Nash. “This man waits to speak to you.”

The
chief raised his face to the sky. “The time of peace is past, my son. The moon
is red with blood and the sun with smoke. Enemies are on every side. Who can my
people trust?”

“You
can trust Logan’s friend. He is my brother. Hear his words. Tell him what has
happened to your people.”

The
old chief nodded. “We will meet with him. I had a dream two nights ago. A white
man came to our village. Upon him lay a wolf’s skin. The head of the wolf was
upon his head. Its teeth were large. Its eyes were black and angry. He was sent
to hunt the bear. Perhaps your brother is that man.”

“Black
Hawk, tell the chief we will not harm his people.” Nash spoke softly, so not to
cause alarm. “Tell him the women and children have no reason to fear us. I give
him my solemn oath.”

The
chief pulled his blanket further over his shoulders. His eyes showed signs of
cataracts and peered at Nash through the smoke. “I understand the white man’s
tongue.”

The
chief sat, motioned for the others to do likewise. “Many moons ago white
missionaries came up the river. I believed their words. I began to think white
men were good. But when the crazy fox came, he proved to me there is evil in
the heart of every race.” 

Something
lurched inside Nash, for he wondered if it were LaRoux the old man spoke of.
“Tell me what he has done to your people.”

“He
has shot arrows into our hearts that will last forever.”

“Where
are your young men?”

“Many
have joined Logan.”

“And
the rest?”

“The
women mourn for their husbands, the children for their fathers.” The old chief
hung his head. “They fought the crazy fox and died.”

“Who
is this crazy fox?”

“He
is a man both white and Indian. His hair is black as the crow. But his eyes are
not Indian eyes.”

Nash
twisted his mouth. “LaRoux.”

Two
women helped the old man rise and he walked on. The sun filtered through the
trees and bathed the forest in a veil of eerie light. Blue jays darted ahead
and made wild calls that echoed through the forest. 

They
came to a clearing, a circle of grass beneath a lodge made of deerskin. The
bodies of the fallen lay side by side. Steams of blood crept through the
blankets beneath them. Women knelt and wept.

Nash walked over to look at the
dead. He stood silent a moment, his emotions troubled and growing. Then he turned
away. From the campfire, he scooped up ash, rubbed it onto his face as a sign
of mutual mourning. Maldowney and Black Hawk followed Nash’s lead. But Andrew Clarke
stood at a cool distance. He watched them with anger brimming in his eyes and
his hand grasping hard his musket.

Sunlight
touched Rebecah’s face. She opened her eyes, pulled herself up, and stretched
out her legs. They were stiff, and her body ached all over. A raindrop sparkled
with sunshine, dangled in the window casement. She watched it lengthen and fall
like a diamond, splash upon her dress. It made a dark round stain.

She
tried to open the door. But it was jammed. The horses whinnied and the coach
rocked as they pawed the ground. She called for help. No answer. She shook the
brass handle and pushed.

Then
a hand with nails blackened along the rims, thrust through the window. A face
appeared, and she shrank back.

Yanking
the door open, he reached for her. “Take my hand and I’ll pull you out. It is
useless for you to sit there.”

She
looked at him guarded. “Where is the coachman?”

“Out
here. He is unharmed.” He shook his hand at her. “Come, take it.”

“But…who
are you?”

“My
name is Jean LaRoux. Give me your hand.”

Though
reluctant to accept his help, she grasped his hand and he lifted her out. There
were two other men standing in the road, their hair long to their shoulders,
their faces tanned and beardless, their eyes dark like their comrade’s. He wore
dirty buckskins and a string of beads around his throat. She thought perhaps he
were a backwoodsman or trapper.

The
soles of Rebecah’s shoes touched the ground and the man let her go. She turned
and saw George Mac standing stark still, his back up against a tree, a musket aimed
at his chest.

“Mr.
Mac!”

LaRoux
grabbed her arm and held her back.

“Leave
the lady alone,” Mac dared to shout.

LaRoux
nodded to one of his men, and Mac was struck across the face. Rebecah gasped
and hurried forward. Somehow, she wanted to help him, wipe the blood from his
lip, and stay close to him. LaRoux swung her around.

 “Where
is the other?” he charged. “Tell me!”

He
meant Mr. Stone. She glanced at the woods and back down the road. He was nowhere
in sight. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The
footman
I think you call him.”

She
set her mouth and looked away.

LaRoux
shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” His hand eased off her arm. “Tell me your name.”

Rebecah
gave no reply.

“Where
do you come from?”

Still
she did not reply. LaRoux leaned forward. “You will not answer?”

“I
won’t.”

He
seized her hair. She let out a cry. He twisted the locks between his fingers
and came within inches of her face. “Are you saving this hair for a man?”

“Let
go of me, you blackguard.” Her teeth clenched. “Let go or I’ll—”

A musket
ball whizzed past LaRoux’s head and smacked the tree beside him. Rebecah
screamed and ducked. She looked up, saw George Mac wrestle the musket from his
captor’s hand and take aim. He cocked the hammer back, and LaRoux’s men
sprinted away. Grunting in defeat, LaRoux held up his hands, spun around and
made for the woods. Mac fired but missed his mark.

Jebediah
Stone ran forward. “Mr. Stone!” Rebecah cried as he came out of hiding.

“Laud,
I wish I had hit that rascal. Are you alright?”

“A
little bruised…and shaken.” She gave him a weak smile, forcing back tears. She wiped
her eyes, her hand trembling. “Are you hurt?”

“Not
a scratch on me. I was tossed off the coach, as you can see by my torn and
muddy clothing, but not a bone broken. What about you?”

 “If
it hadn’t been for your quick thinking and keen shot, Mr. Stone, I fear what
would have happened. And you Mr. Mac, you were so brave. Thank you both.”

Stone
tipped his hat. Mac smiled. He lumbered into the ditch and grabbed hold of the
horses. “We best get this coach out of this gully and hurry away. Those
scoundrels might change their minds and head back.”

“Right,”
said Stone.

Soon
the coach was back on the road with Rebecah safely inside. The men climbed to
their seats, and the horses pulled forward down the muddy path into the valley.

John Nash
stood in front of the Courthouse window watching passersbys move along the
street. His face was shaved, his hair clean and tied in a broad black ribbon,
his coat and breeches fresh, and his boots polished.

It was a hot
day, and all the windows stood open, the breeze wafting inside. People nodded
and tipped their hats to one another. Smiles were on their faces, but not his. He
wished he could shake off the sick feeling in his stomach. He was a brave man
able to bear much, a courageous man. But bravery and courage were not enough to
remove the gruesome pictures in his mind of burning homesteads, butchered
settlers, and of the fallen warriors.

A blood red sunset
sparkled in the windows across the way. The clock struck and at the last
stroke, Clarke walked in.

“Word’s come.
The forts are filling up with refugees from the frontier, and the militia under
Cresap has left to scout the Monongahela.”

“I’m not
surprised people are fleeing.” Nash turned sideways in the window and leaned
against the frame.

While
he spoke, a postrider rode into town. Dust whirled beneath his mount’s hooves as
he passed out handbills marked with skull and crossbones, mourning wreaths and
liberty caps.