Patrick Henry and the Frigate’s Keel: And Other Stories of a Young Nation (26 page)

She took the candle in her hand and stood by Jemmy's bed. He had thrown off his covers, and when she drew them back he opened his eyes and looked straight at her without seeing her.

She wiped the beads of sweat from his face.

“The road to the west is a way of darkness,” he whispered. “God help me for going where no man stepped before.”

“Sleep, Jemmy,” she begged him.

He grasped for her hand. “There's no way out of this. I'm awful hot!” He had hesitated, closed his eyes for a while. She still stood by the bed.

“Where's Josh?” he asked her.

“Sleeping.”

“I had a dream that he went. I heard a shot fired. Let me up!” He struggled erect, clawed his way from the bed and sprawled on the floor. She had a time getting him back into the bed. His body had relaxed, and he was whimpering like a child.

After that, she sat by the table for a long time, just sat and stared straight in front of her.

She was very, very tired, and she was priming herself for an effort that would keep her awake through the night. Somehow, she had to manage to remain awake.

When she went to Jemmy's bed again, he was sleeping. She took the candle and looked at the children. Josh was sprawled the way a child sleeps in hot weather, arms and legs flung out, his face buried in the pillow. She bent over Josh, made as if to touch him, and then drew back her hand. Susie lay on her back, her soft hair like silk over her face. Sarah put the hair away, strand by strand.

Back at the table, she might have dozed for a moment or an hour. She didn't know, started awake in the dark. The candle had burnt out, and something was scratching at the door.

At first, the darkness frightened and stifled her. She had a sensation of being alone in a world of mystery, in a black world that stretched north and south and east and west for more miles than a man could count. Then, in that moment—fearfully—she lived over the great distance they had come from the east, the mountain passes, the gorges, the mysterious forest that stretched on and on, the sense of going into the wild, where man's law and man's mercy stopped.

She had somehow stumbled across the room and found the musket. She stood in the corner, holding it before her, feeling for the trigger. She felt that when she pulled the trigger, the crash of the gun would mark the end of all that had been for them. That way she waited, her eyes fixed on the place where the door was.

The scratching continued, and once she imagined that she heard steps outside. And then she felt that someone out there was listening.

It required all her courage to clink the gun metal against the stone of the fireplace. That was what they were listening for, and she'd let them hear it. Then she raised the lock of the gun. In the night, the noise was magnified—unmistakably the sound of a musket being cocked.

And after that, for a long time, silence.

She was wet all over; drops of water running down her face splashed onto her hands. When she put the musket away, it was with a distinct effort that she unclasped her hands from the moist stock and barrel.

At the table, she found a candle, flint and steel, and tried to make a light. Her hands trembled, and again and again she dropped the flint or the steel. Finally, she had the tinder glowing, and the candlewick flickered into life. The light was a benediction and a caress.

The baby was crying. Sarah took her up in her arms, soothed her, and began to nurse. A wind had raised itself outside, and the sound of it reminded Sarah of a lullaby her own mother had sung. That was in another world. Perhaps this child would go on that way, westward, as she had gone.

She nursed until the girl slept, and then she sat there with the child in her arms. Jemmy awakened; she didn't notice at first, until she saw him sitting up in bed, looking at her.

He said: “Sarah, it's morning?”

“Soon, Jemmy.”

“Why don't you get some sleep?”

“I slept a spell before. I'm all right, Jemmy.” She knew that he wanted her to come to him and she put the child back in her crib. Next to Jemmy, she passed her hand over his face; it was cooler now.

“I woke up before,” he whispered; “it was dark. I thought—”

“No, the candle went out, Jemmy.”

“I been thinkin',” he said.

“Rest, Jemmy.”

He said: “I been thinkin' for you to slip out—find Boone. They won't leave the cabin, an' tomorrow they'll close in. Take the kids.”

“Leave you here?”

“I'm a man shot through; I ain't no good. You're a strong woman an' you need a strong man. Find Boone, an' find a man to marry an' fetch you food—”

“You'll be better, Jemmy.”

He turned over with his face to the wall. She felt under the blanket, found his hand and held it. He had large hands, hard and broken with callus. She tried to understand how the hand could be shorn of strength; everything had come with his hands, even the house they lived in.

She left the bed, sat down at the table again, staring at the candle and wondering idly whether it would burn until morning. She watched it until it had flickered out. Through the crevices in the windows, a gray harbinger of dawn filtered in.

She was filled with an almost childish amazement at the fact that another day had come. It was not yet light enough in the cabin to see anything else than vague shapes.

From bed to bed she looked at each of her children. She bent low over Jemmy, the two-year-old, saw that there was a sort of smile on his face; she kissed him and said to herself:

“He'll have schoolin' anyhow. Seems there's bound to be a day when the school'll come away out here. I'd like a school and a church and a preacher. It don't seem right a boy should grow to man's age without listening to a preacher.”

Then she sat herself in a chair and prayed, silently. Even with the others sleeping, her reserve was too much for her to pray aloud.

After that, when the noise came at the door again, she didn't care so much, nor was she frightened, the way she had been before. With the dawn, a strange peace had come over her.

She took up the baby in her arms and stood waiting. Someone was pounding at the door.

A white man's voice cried: “Halloo in there!”

She was sobbing, not tears but a heaving inside of her which she felt would rack her apart. She had only enough strength to unbolt the door; and then she dropped into a chair and watched them flood into the room with the gray light of dawn, many tall men in long homespun shirts, carrying rifles.

They filled the cabin, full and overflowing. They were big men and the cabin was small. They spoke in full, throaty voices, grinned at her and petted the baby.

Josh and Susie woke, frightened at first; but in a little while Josh was telling them how the water bucket had been shot out of his hand.

The man they called Dan'l spoke to her, a stocky man who was not very tall, yet gave an impression of great size and easy strength.

He said: “My name's Boone, ma'am—I'm mighty proud to meet you.” He took up the baby, fondled it with hands that were wonderfully gentle. “It's a fine girl,” he said.

She was holding Susie, touching her hair and explaining: “My man was shot—down in the creek bottom, an Indian. There's a doctor with you?”

“I have a way in healing—a small way.”

Jemmy was awake, staring at them. Sarah was thinking, “He's like them, tall and strong. He will be.”

They gave her water, while Boone bent over Jemmy. She let the children drink first, slapped Josh for gulping. The taste of water on her own lips was like a dream.

Then she went to Boone, stood by his side while he dressed her husband's wound.

“He's hurt bad?” she whispered.

Boone held the bullet between his fingers. “He'll mend soon enough. He'll be a strong man, walking and providing.”

She dropped down on the bed, put her face in her hands. Jemmy's hand went out, found her arm and caressed it, the callus rough on her skin.

Boone said: “We'll bide here for a spell, until he's up and around. It's a hard task for a woman, minding a family and a sick man. Some of us will bide with you for a spell.”

She looked at him, wide eyes in a hard face, but eyes that were soft with knowing.

“Not too hard—” she said. “Forgive me, I'll sleep a little. I'm fair tired now.” Then she lay down by her husband and closed her eyes.

BIOGRAPHY

Howard Fast (1914-2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast's commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast's mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London's
The Iron Heel
, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.

Fast began his writing career early, leaving high school to finish his first novel,
Two Valleys
(1933). His next novels, including
Conceived in Liberty
(1939) and
Citizen Tom Paine
(1943), explored the American Revolution and the progressive values that Fast saw as essential to the American experiment. In 1943 Fast joined the American Communist Party, an alliance that came to define—and often encumber—much of his career. His novels during this period advocated freedom against tyranny, bigotry, and oppression by exploring essential moments in American history, as in
The American
(1946). During this time Fast also started a family of his own. He married Bette Cohen in 1937 and the couple had two children.

Congressional action against the Communist Party began in 1948, and in 1950, Fast, an outspoken opponent of McCarthyism, was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Because he refused to provide the names of other members of the Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee, Fast was issued a three-month prison sentence for contempt of Congress. While in prison, he was inspired to write
Spartacus
(1951), his iconic retelling of a slave revolt during the Roman Empire, and did much of his research for the book during his incarceration. Fast's appearance before Congress also earned him a blacklisting by all major publishers, so he started his own press, Blue Heron, in order to release Spartacus. Other novels published by Blue Heron, including
Silas Timberman
(1954), directly addressed the persecution of Communists and others during the ongoing Red Scare. Fast continued to associate with the Communist Party until the horrors of Stalin's purges of dissidents and political enemies came to light in the mid-1950s. He left the Party in 1956.

Fast's career changed course in 1960, when he began publishing suspense-mysteries under the pseudonym E. V. Cunningham. He published nineteen books as Cunningham, including the seven-book Masao Masuto mystery series. Also, Spartacus was made into a major film in 1960, breaking the Hollywood blacklist once and for all. The success of
Spartacus
inspired large publishers to pay renewed attention to Fast's books, and in 1961 he published
April Morning
, a novel about the battle of Lexington and Concord during the American Revolution. The book became a national bestseller and remains a staple of many literature classes. From 1960 onward Fast produced books at an astonishing pace—almost one book per year—while also contributing to screen adaptations of many of his books. His later works included the autobiography
Being Red
(1990) and the
New York Times
bestseller
The Immigrants
(1977).

Fast died in 2003 at his home in Greenwich, Connecticut.