Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (9 page)

More likely than not she would see worse if she stayed in Indian country, he thought grimly. Without a doubt war would be breaking out soon. All along the frontier there had been acts of violence. British agents were providing the Indians with arms and ammunition. Tenskwatawa, the Shawnee chief known as the Prophet, was stirring up superstitions among all the tribes, and his brother, Tecumseh, was calling for a military alliance among the tribes, urging them to stop giving up their land and drive the white settlers out of the country.

Farr was eager to get home so he could start building a stockade at his station to protect the settlers in his area. It would take several months of hard work even with the help of a man from each family. Governor Harrison had confided to him that the settlers all along the Wabash were in danger from Tecumseh’s warriors and from the British to the north. Harrison was careful to explain that no soldiers would be garrisoned at Quill’s Station. It was up to the settlers to band together and prepare to protect themselves from an all out Indian attack. But for now he had to concentrate on getting Liberty and the children to the station.

It was painful to admit it, but when he held her soft body in his arms he had felt a surge of longing for a woman’s love. Maybe he just needed a woman, he thought bitterly, a woman’s body, not her love. It was purely a physical interest he felt for her and that was all. The night her husband died she had seemed small and defenseless with the firelight shining on her light hair, her eyes large and sad. Yet she couldn’t have loved the man as he had loved Fawnella. Suddenly he saw the image of Fawnella’s young, sweet face, and he ground his teeth against the pain that filled him.
Fawnella.
He couldn’t seem to get used to being without her. With an effort he shifted his thoughts back to Liberty.

She would probably marry her brother-in-law, Hammond Perry, he mused. He was ambitious, and a woman as pretty and smart as Liberty would be an asset to one who so desperately wanted to be the governor’s right hand man. The thought of Liberty and Hammond Perry together was not a pleasant one and brought a scowl to his face. Hammond was not only ambitious, he was domineering, and if Liberty wanted a man who would let her have her say, Hammond Perry was not the man. Farr shrugged. Liberty’s choice of a husband was her affair.

His immediate problem was what to do about Mercy if Liberty wouldn’t keep her. And there was the boy, Daniel. Farr doubted he would be able to find Daniel’s kin, if he had any, so he had to find a home for him too. He tried to think of a family near his station (other than one of the Sufferites, a religious sect) who might take on an extra mouth to feed, and he couldn’t think of any who would even consider it. If the children were old enough to work they would be welcomed into a number of homes. He himself had been lucky to have his grandfather when his folks were taken with the fever. Then he had had the Carrolls, and True and Juicy, who had treated him as if he were their own son.

The thought entered his mind that if no one had moved into the cabin old Shellenberger had left behind when he moved on west, Liberty might stay there with the children until he could make other arrangements for them. Of course, he would help feed them. He’d send down one of his two cows, and either he or young Rain Tallman would do their hunting so they’d have meat.

Liberty’s father would be little use to her, other than to supply fish, he thought with a tinge of impatience. Elija had just given up. Suddenly remembering the man, he looked back to see him slouched in the saddle. It wasn’t the first time Farr had seen men lose their spirit and whine their lives away. If the sight of the massacred settlers the day before hadn’t shocked him out of his self-pity, nothing would.

Farr knew he would have to send word to Vincennes about the massacre with the first boat upriver, but he had little hope that the murderers would be brought to justice. In a week’s time they would have taken the stock downriver and sold it to some unsuspecting traveler going into Missouri or Arkansas. Hull Dexter would have his own story to tell, but Farr would deal with that bastard if he ever got his hands on him.

As soon as he got Liberty and the children to the station, he’d go back for her wagon and the oxen if they were still there. She had hated leaving her possessions behind, but she hadn’t complained about it. A gentle smile softened Farr’s usually grim mouth, taking years from his face and leaving him looking as vulnerable as a callow lad.

*  *  *

By the time full daylight arrived, Liberty was desperately in need of going to the bushes. Daniel had slept so soundly that he had wet, soaking the front of her dress. Poor little tyke. He had been in such a state and had clung to her all night long. He was a big, sturdy child and at least a couple of years older than Mercy. Liberty remembered his running and playing and chattering happily. She wondered if the sight of his mother, her skirts around her waist, lying spread-eagled on the ground, would stay in his memory forever. She hoped and prayed he wasn’t aware of the indignities she suffered before she died.

They stopped beside another stream, and Farr came to lift Amy down. He tried to take Daniel from Liberty’s arms, but the child shrieked with terror and clung to Liberty, hiding his face against her.

“It’s all right, Daniel. Mr. Quill won’t hurt you. He’s the man who found you. He just wants to hold you so I can get down.” Liberty held him and pressed kisses to his wet cheeks. “Don’t cry, lovey. It’s going to be all right. Soon it’ll not hurt so much.”

“Mama. I want Ma . . . ma.”

“Oh, sweet little boy . . .” Liberty felt hot tears behind her eyelids and closed them to trap them there, but they spilled over and ran down her cheeks. “You’re tired and hungry. I bet Mr. Quill has some more sugarhards. Let him hold you so I can get down.”

Farr lifted the boy from her arms, and Liberty quickly got off the horse, then reached for him. The small arms circled her neck, his legs her waist, and held onto her fiercely. Her wet dress no longer mattered. Her heart ached for a little boy whose world had been torn apart.

Amy tried to get his attention. “Daniel, remember me? Amy. I played a game with you and gave you a whistle. Oh, shoot, Libby, I shouldn’t have said that. His pa wouldn’t let him have it.”

Farr set Mercy on her feet and Amy took her hand.

“Come on, Amy,” Liberty said, keeping her face turned away from the tall, silent man who stood watching. “The children need to . . . we’ll take them over there.” She headed for a clump of tall weeds with a heavy purple flower topping the slender stems.

“Not there, Liberty,” Farr called. “Those are nettle weeds.”

“Well, for goodness sake! Why didn’t you say so sooner?” She carefully backed away from the thorny branches that grabbed at her skirts. “Pick up Mercy, Amy. She’ll get stickers in her feet.” She walked quickly back along the narrow animal path, then turned into the woods where interlaced fallen timber offered endless opportunities for cover. “This is a good place for you and Mercy,” she said, stopping beside a large tree that had been uprooted by a storm. “I’ll take Daniel to the other side and you wait for us out in the path.”

On the other side of the tree she pried the boy’s arms from around her neck and lowered him to the ground. He wrapped his arms around her legs and hid his face in her skirt. She gently pushed the small body away so she could bend down.

“Are you hungry, Daniel? Make water and we’ll go back and get something to eat.” She put her fingers beneath his chin, and gently turned his face toward her. It was dirt-streaked and scratched; his large, brown eyes were swollen from crying, and the pleading look in them tore at Liberty’s heart.

“Mama?” he said in a small frightened voice.

“Oh, Daniel. I wish I could tell you she’s coming back, but I can’t. Your mama and your papa have gone away. They’re up in heaven—”

“They . . . hurt Mama.” His lips quivered and he tried hard not to cry.

“I know they did, darling. But God took her to heaven so she wouldn’t hurt any more.”

“I want to go with Mama.”

“You can’t, darling. Not now. Someday . . .” A wave of pity shook Liberty, forcing a flood of tears to her eyes. She fought against weeping as she remembered her own fear of being alone when her mother died.

“I . . . want . . . Mama.”

“You’ll see her someday. My mama is up there too, Daniel. She left me a long time ago. I know how lost and lonely you feel. You’re not alone. You’ve got me and Amy and Mr. Quill—”

“I’ll kill the mean man.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Try not to think about it, honey. Think about how glad your mama would be to know that you didn’t get hurt, and that Mr. Quill came to find you. She would want you to be brave and to grow up to be a big man she’d be proud of.”

“But where’ll I . . . sleep?” He leaned against her and she folded him in her arms.

“Don’t worry about that, darling.” She kissed his wet cheeks and smoothed his hair. “You’ll be taken care of. Mercy doesn’t have a mama either. Maybe you can help me and Amy take care of Mercy. You like Amy, don’t you?”

“Uh huh . . .”

“She likes you too. Can you make water, so we can go back?”

“I . . . did.” He cowered at her side, covering his face with his hands.

“Oh, that’s all right, it happens sometimes. You were tired and sleeping soundly.”

“Papa’d whup me.”

“Then he’d have to whup me too. Look, I’m all wet.” She stood and gently pushed him from her, hoping her pretense would ease his guilty feeling. “You go over there and I’ll go here. Keep your back turned until I say you can look.” He moved away, looking back to be sure she was still there. “I’ll not leave. When you finish we’ll go back to Amy and Mercy.”

When they returned to the trail, Amy was holding a huge butterfly in her cupped hands for Mercy to see. Liberty suddenly noticed how tall Amy was. It seemed she had grown inches since they left Middlecrossing. The hem of her dress was above her shoe tops, and the bodice of her dress strained against her budding young breasts. Her sister was growing up. In just a year or two she would be marriageable age. Many girls were married and had babies by the time they were fourteen. The thought alarmed Liberty. What if her father got it into his head to marry Amy off to someone like Stith Lenning so he could live a life of ease? Again the fear that Stith would follow washed over her, and unconsciously she glanced back down the trail.

Dear God, she prayed, help her keep Amy safe until she was ready to choose her own man.

*  *  *

A few hours later they arrived at the bank of the Wabash River. The path to the river wound through the tall meadow grass. There were no cultivated fields or orchards, no roads filled with moving wagons or carriages to stir up dust to fill the eyes and clog the nose. Twice since the morning stop they had flushed deer from their beds, and while they were crossing a marshy section, a flock of teal took to the air with a loud beat of wings.

All along the riverbank the sycamores, walnut and cottonwood trees attained an enormous size. Beneath the trees and skirting the river, rushes and nettles and briers grew in matted profusion. Raucous clouds of waterfowl swarmed up as they approached the river. Liberty cherished the wildness. A woman, she thought, should have the right to decide on the kind of life she wanted, and this was what she had yearned for since she was a small child listening to stories about the frontier, new lands, and rugged living away from all the hypocrisy of towns. This was where she would spend the rest of her life, she vowed.

Farr led them along the river path to a place where the bank had been cut away and a log ramp had been laid. A thick rope running through a pulley lashed to a sycamore tree ran to the other side of the river. Farr emitted a shrill, intermittent whistle, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked across the expanse of slowly moving water. A loud whoop came from the other side. A man came down to the river and jumped onto a raft that bobbled and bumped against a log mooring. Soon the rope began to move through the pulley and a wide log raft with pole handrails came toward them from the far side.

A gigantic young Negro, stripped to the waist, was turning a windlass on the raft. He was black as midnight. As the craft neared the shore, Liberty could see that he was tall, lean, straight and wide-shouldered. Thick muscles corded his shoulders and his bare chest glistened with sweat. His head was shaved except for a topknot. A large silver ring swung from each earlobe and from his nostrils. His mouth was wide, a deep, red chasm lined with large white teeth.

“How do, Mista Farr?”

“How do, Mr. Washington?”

“It purely is a fine day.” The huge black threw a loop over a thick post to hold the raft and leaped to shore. He held out his hand and Farr shook it warmly.

“It purely is. Is the world treating you all right, Mr. Washington?”

“Jist fair to middlin’, Mistah Farr. Jist fair to middlin’.”

“This is Mrs. Perry, and her father Mr. Carroll.”

“How do, ma’am?” The Negro made an elaborate bow.

“How do?” Liberty nodded.

“And you, suh? It’s a mighty fine, showy day.” Mr. Washington faced Elija squarely with his hands on his hips.

“Gawd!” Elija snorted, turned his back and began fiddling with a strap on his saddle.

With a tight, expressionless face, Mr. Washington looked long and hard at Elija’s back while Liberty waited in an agony of suspense, hoping and praying that for once her father would keep his mouth shut. When the young giant swung around, his face was split by a huge smile.

“You ’n the folks wantin’ to cross of my ferry, Mistah Farr?”

“We’d be obliged. What’s the price today?”

The black put his fingers to his chin, looked up and down the river, walked around the horses, stood back and studied Elija, then turned his attention to Liberty and the children, all the time fingering his chin.

“You knows I like chillin’s, Mistah Farr. I ain’t never take no coin to take chillin’s on my ferry, ’n they gots to have their mama come, so I don’t take no coin for her. And I owes you a ride fer a sack a salt.” He eyed Elija for a full minute, then threw out his hands as if he had come to a hard decision. “Fer the horses ’n the gent, I gots to have a bucket a clabber milk and a shillin’. You can take it or not, Mistah Farr.”