Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation (19 page)

SUN IN THE WEST

O
F THE
different stages in the life of Mercy Ross, this was the period of terror; this was the time when she was made and molded of fine metal.

As a child, she had been timid. Perhaps her name, Mercy, had something to do with that, even though she smiled when she remembered her timidity now. A timid woman does not come into a new land, and a timid woman does not live day and night with the wilderness touching her doorstep.

Perrin Ross, her husband, had brought her from Connecticut to the Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania. Perrin had cleared the wilderness, and she had built with him. She had borne Perrin five children, and a sixth lay in her loins. No timidity; she was tall, blue-eyed, sunburned, strong. She walked with the confident stride of a man. She could smile when she heard the wolves howling at night.

Withal, she was Mercy Ross; and she would touch her yellow hair and think of it covered with fine lace, the way ladies wore it in the East. Or dream of neighbors close by in the precise Connecticut countryside. Or dances at night. Or a school for her children. Deep inside of her was a fear of the wild.

That was on a June morning in 1778, when her husband rode up to the farm on a lathered horse. Then, as she had known it would some day, the wild closed down upon her.

When she had awakened that morning, Perrin had already gone. Her brother Jonathan said he would be back soon. “Militia business,” Jonathan said, cleaning and loading his long rifle. Perrin was a lieutenant of militia in the valley. Most of the young men in the valley had gone east to General Washington's army. The married men formed a company of militia. Jonathan was only sixteen—too young for the army, but able to play with the idea of being a militiaman. He cleaned his rifle, loaded it, and looked wise. But not a word more than that would he tell Mercy—that Perrin had gone out on militia business.

Mercy felt it. She felt what was coming, felt the tightening under her heart that was meaning for a woman on the frontier. She was not yet thirty, and she had borne five children to people the frontier; another she had carried for six months. How would it come to life—in a fire of destruction? She was tired; she wanted to be a woman, to rest.

She went out of the house that morning, and the sun was shining. A hot haze lay over the lush green of the valley. It was a land of Canaan, a place of fruitfulness. Drawing water from the well, she noticed a thread of smoke to the north. A house burning? She dismissed the thought and called the children.

How they hated to wash! For once she was glad, and she didn't have the heart to scold them. Things like that were real: the unreality lay in thin, freckled Jonathan, cleaning his rifle.

Patience said, “Mother, you're rare beautiful.” Patience was five years old, with hair and eyes like her mother's. It made Mercy's heart ache to watch her. She told herself
I'm a fool. There's nothing wrong, nothing
.

Jonathan, rifle in hand, walked out to the road, stared at the thread of smoke.

Mercy said, with forced cheerfulness, “Like as not you didn't even wash your neck. Come over here,” thinking that would take him down a peg or two; Jonathan had grown like a reed.

He grinned. Again she told herself that her fears were foolish. Perrin would be back soon, and then all would be well.

The children were making a great fuss, and one of them had overturned the wash water. Cully was stirring it into mud. Mercy could see how that was; they were in their own world. Their world was compact and reasonable, and for them that thread of smoke upon the northern horizon did not exist. Automatically, she scolded the children. Spare the rod and they became a pack of wild Indians.

And then she saw that the children were listening. Jonathan yelled something. She heard the thud of hoofs like the staccato beat of a drum. Drums and men marching, waving their guns the way Jonathan waved his.

Perrin rode up on a lathered horse. Then she knew—as if the thread of smoke were a sign for the future, all the future. The children ran toward Perrin, but she caught up Billy, the youngest, to her breast. Jonathan's face was set seriously; how he wanted to be a man! Inside her, the unborn child was kicking, moving—or was that her imagination?

Perrin dismounted, and then Mercy was listening to his words, words that were an intrusion no sensible woman would bear. What did she have to do with all this? Her busines was to be a mother, to make her children's lives out of peace and out of the fruitfulness of this new land. She shook her head, all the while watching the thread of smoke.

“The Lees' household,” Perrin panted. “Butler burned it, the damn dirty swine!”

She pleaded: “Perrin, the children. Don't swear.” How she wanted to hold onto her way of things.

“He came down from Canada,” Perrin went on. “Butler and his Tory rangers and heaven knows how many Indians—carryin' the war west, so they say. Why? They wear the scalps of women and children, take them with a deceitful cruelty—and that's war. Burned out the Lees, murdered the Filmores, burned the Robertses' farm and killed the two little ones.”

“The children,” Mercy pleaded. Didn't he know of the world of children—to talk like that?

“Let them know; there'll be a reckoning. You ain't staying here. Jonathan'll take you to Forty Fort, and I'll whip up the militia. There'll be a reckoning.”

“But no war, Perrin—no war. Butler's a white man, and he'll not wage war on women and children.”

“He's a devil,” Perrin snapped.

She held him as he surged back onto his lathered horse. She tried to kiss him, but his muscles were tightened like iron, his face a mask. He rode away in a swirl of dust.

She had to right things. Her world had to be a normal world. Men were children. Didn't he know there would be a child soon? Didn't he know what it meant to have babies? She scolded the children, scolded them out of their fear. Cullen was near tears, and she slapped him across his face. That hurt her.

She cried, “Go into the house and put on shoes, coats!”

Jonathan was off to the stable to harness the horses, Jonathan with a new sense of importance. The children filed into the house. Left alone, Mercy pressed her hands to her face. Had the world gone mad? Weak suddenly, she felt like sinking to the ground, lying there for a long, long time.

In the house, she had to decide what to take and what not to take. Whatever could hurriedly be put in the wagon—whatever was precious, where all things showed the loving care of her hands. The house was her refuge, her anchor, her wall against the wild; and they would burn the house. For a moment, her despair took hold of her and she stared helplessly at the array of things. Then the children flooded in, and she was herself again.

This and that—one with a load of pewter plate, Patience struggling with a spinning wheel, Cullen dragging a blanket: “Keep it from the floor; I never saw such a lot of spoilt children!” It made a mound on the grass in front of the house: pewter, blankets, clothes, smoked hams and a fresh baked duck, a box of eggs.

“That's a heap of stuff,” Jonathan said, with judgment. “A heap of stuff.”

“Never mind and get it into the wagon,” Mercy said.

Jonathan would know his place, notwithstanding all this nonsense about war.

Patience had her doll, the only real Eastern doll in the valley, and Mercy had not the heart to tell her to leave it behind. Mercy put the children in the wagon; matter-of-fact—everything had to be matter-of-fact. They were going on a trip to Forty Fort.

“The Injuns comin'?” the children asked her.

“That's nonsense,” Mercy snapped. “We'll be back here tomorrow.” She called: “Jonathan—put the cover on the well.”

He came out of the stable carrying his rifle. “I'd like fine to see an Injun!” he cried, waving the gun.

“You get in the wagon and drive—or I will.”

“I'll drive,” Jonathan nodded.

They came to Forty Fort, and they were not the only ones. Wagons and horses, and women on foot bearing their children in their arms. And immediately Mercy had a sense of kinship, of being no longer alone. They would understand; they would know what it meant to bear a child and to have five others who depended upon you.

Hannah Stevens was there by the gate. Mercy had noticed how few the men were, and she asked Hannah.

“Milishy,” Hannah snorted. “Them an' their fool milishy. They're out gathering an' preparing to make war.”

Mercy shook her head. Jonathan was off already, hobnobbing with a crowd of boys. She lifted the children out of the wagon and let them run free in the common of the stockade. This was a fine treat for them, to meet boys and girls from miles up and down the valley, to be able to play at Indians.

Lucy Free made her sit down. “Rest,” she said. “You leave war to the fool menfolk. How many months is it now?”

“Six,” Mercy answered with pride. She could never get over that feeling of pride. Life out of her.

“A man-child,” Hannah nodded. “You have the look of it.”

“What look?” Mercy smiled. When she smiled, she was young again, lovely—the brown skin like velvet against her yellow hair.

“When it brings a pretty face, it's a man-child.”

“You're poking fun at me,” Mercy protested.

Old Mrs. Kennet brought her a glass of warm milk. “For the child,” she insisted.

Fanny Bullet had her knitting. She was knitting a little thing for the child. “For your man-child,” she told Mercy.

“I'm lacking the patience to knit,” Mercy said.

“I have a rare wonderful recipe to cure morning sickness. Jell a calf's hoof and flavor with mint leaves.” Mrs. Kennet always had recipes, scores of them for everything.

They gossiped until sundown. They talked about everything under the sun, except about the hostile Indians that had come into the valley. In the women, Mercy found refuge.

A messenger came, down from the northern end of the valley, to tell old Mrs. Kennet that her house was burning. It made Mercy's skin crawl to see the old lady's grim smile.

Mrs. Kennet cried, “You go back and tell Butler that I'll burn his some day—lock, stock and barrel, me or mine.”

About an hour after that, the militia assembled. Perrin was there—Perrin, tall and strong and broad, a man to break barriers and to conquer. He folded Mercy in his arms, kissed her, and told her she was beautiful, like a girl. How long since he had told her that?

She saw it in his eyes. “Perrin,” she cried, “they've burned the house!”

He hesitated—then nodded.

“It's all over.”

“No—I'll build another.”

“It's over, Perrin. Don't leave me!”

She saw the hate in his eyes, the deep, burning hatred of a man who has worked hard, and whose work has been for nothing. He attempted to hide it, holding her close, kissing her. But she knew; he was lost, and the wild had claimed him.

Then there was no consolation in the presence of the women. She was alone in a land that was hard and ruthless and inhuman.

She crouched alone near the stockade when the militia marched out of the fort. Perrin was with them—marching out of her life. Jonathan, too, a tall, gawky boy, holding his long rifle.

They marched out, about four hundred of them, men and boys, to do battle with the invaders of their land. Left in the fort were several hundred women and children, and a few old men. They marched out smiling with assurance, and some of the women cried to see them go. But most of the women watched them with stony faces, saying nothing at all.

After they had gone, Mercy fed the children and put them to bed. They were too excited to sleep. Their beds were laid out in the wagon, and for hours they spoke in low, frightened whispers.

There were fires all over the common, women speaking in hoarse, controlled tones, trying to forget that their men were outside—somewhere. Mercy had to be alone. She went into one of the cabins, one that was used as a storehouse. She was trembling now. She remained there for a long time, staring into the dark.

They knew the next day that a battle had been fought. It came as a dread, ominous message on the wind. It came as a rustle of things burning, of destruction.

Dry-eyed, Mercy did things that had to be done. The children were washed, fed. She had no appetite, but she ate. There was life inside her, life that had to be nourished. Five children were a handful, but there were other women who could do almost nothing. Mercy helped them. Some of the women—Hannah Stevens, for instance—took muskets and mounted guard on the firing steps. But Mercy hated the feel of a musket.

The first news of the battle was a boy who stumbled into the stockade, bleeding from a dozen wounds. He died in Mrs. Kennet's arm, while she screamed curses on Butler's head.

The survivors straggled in, wounded, bloodstained, dazed by the horror they had seen. There were precious few of them, less than a dozen, and most of them could only tell with their eyes what had been. What could they say to these women whose men were out there?

Someone crying, “Where are our men? Where are our men?” … “My husband—Jerry Feenin—you saw him? You must have seen him, a great, strong man with red hair.” But they were all strong men.

Bob Passer, the hair on his head gone, whispered, “They're dead—all o' them. They had us two to one, blew us to bits and we noways saw them, fighting from ambush in their Injun way.”

“You fools—fools”

“It was not our fault—we noways saw them.”

Mercy saw faces turn to stone, wondered what her own face was like, felt the steel forming inside of her. What land was this, and what had she to do here?

Pat Kennen came to her. He said, “Mrs. Ross—”

“I know—Perrin's dead.”

“He died easy, a bullet that gave him no pain before he died.”

Strong, beautiful Perrin—Perrin who had defied the wild and taken from the wild. And now it had taken back its own.