Thorns in Eden and the Everlasting Mountains (47 page)

“Yes.”
Rebecah ran her hands over her belly. The babe moved from her touch. “My time
is soon, and I’m frightened.  You will help me, won’t you?”

Maddie
closed her hand over Rebecah’s. “I’ve birthed lots of babies, Miss Rebecah, and
you is a strong woman. It’ll be fine.”

Theresa
handed Rebecah a wooden bowl filled with water.  How different she looked. The
sun had turned her skin tawny and bleached her blonde hair almost white.
Rebecah too had changed. Her creamy skin was darker now, her hair sun-streaked
with gold.

“I’ve
been thinking,” she said, taking the water from Theresa with a grateful nod. “We
should try to escape while the men are gone. I heard Grey Wolf speak of it. God
have mercy on those they may meet.”

Theresa
sat beside her. “I’ve been hoping we all would go. But Maddie is old, Rebecah.
She may not make it.”

Maddie
cackled. “I’m old but strong.” She scooted the child out the opening. “I got to
go with you, to bring Miss Rebecah and her baby through the birthin’.” 

“And
what about you, Rebecah?” Theresa said. “Perhaps we should wait until after the
child has come. It would be too difficult for you to travel.”

“My
child is safer in my womb, then in this village.”

“But
there’s no telling how long it will take us. What if you have the child on the
way? Oh, Rebecah, you’re certain?”

“More
certain than anything. We must try.”

Theresa
bit her lower lip. “It will be dangerous.”

“I
know. But I’m willing to take that risk.”

“We’ll
make it if we trust that God will show us the way, and not fear our going,”
said Maddie.

Theresa
laid he head across her drawn knees. “I miss home. I miss my father.”

 Rebecah
grasped her friend’s hand. “I know, for I ache sore for my husband. All this
time I’ve believed he is searching for us. If we try to follow the river, we
may meet up with him. There is no other thing for us to do but to go home.”

The
three women put their arms around each other. Tears slipped from their eyes
when they recited a Psalm together.  

The
Lord is my shepherd I shall not want…He leadeth me beside still waters.  .  . 
.”

Nash
searched the old hunting trails for any imprint of moccasin or boot. He looked
for signs, but found none save what animals had left. Above the Potomac were
the oldest trails used long before the white man stepped foot there or whose
eye had seen the ridge of mountains.

The
heat was high, and the leaves on the trees curled. Locusts and cicadas whirled in
the forests. By dusk, the river reflected the colors of the setting sun. The horizon
filled with thunderheads. Deep rumbling rolled and in the distance, he saw
lightning streak across the sky.

In
a clearing stood Fort Frederick. A sentry standing on the wall saw Nash walking
toward the gate. “Who goes there?”

“John
Nash of the Catoctin Rangers. God bless our country and hang King George!”

A
moment later, the heavy door opened. A troop of patriots greeted him as he
ducked through the opening.

“I’m
searching for my wife.” He addressed the corporal in charge. “She and two other
women were taken captive by the Indians.”

“There
are others looking for them as well.” The corporal turned, his bayonet catching
the glow of sunset. He motioned for Nash to follow him toward the barracks. From
out of a doorway came Robert Maldowney. He threw up his arms and shouted to his
comrades when he saw Nash.

“From
the mouth of the lion! Praise be to God, Jack. They slew you not.”

He
ran forward, threw his arms around Nash and hugged him. Nash asked about the
women, and Maldowney shook his head. 

“Thank
the Lord, there’s Mr. John.” Joab approached him with tears in his eyes. “I’m
so sorry, Mr. John. I tried…”

Nash
laid his hand on Joab’s shoulder. “Not another word. I know you would have laid
your life down for them. I don’t blame you for what happened.”

Mr.
Boyd and Dr. Pierce rushed out in urgency.

“We
gave you up for dead,” said Boyd. “Thank God you’re alive. Any news on the
women? Is there anything you can tell us?”

 “My
pains have been rewarded like yours.”

 “Come,
we must talk,” said Mr. Boyd.

“We
are all anxious to hear of the journey that led Captain Nash back to us, Mr.
Boyd,” Dr. Pierce interrupted.  “But he must have food and rest.”

Nash
halted his steps and looked to the well-meaning doctor.  “Dr. Pierce. It’s good
to see you.”

“And
you. It appears you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Where is your horse?”

“He
now carries Chief Logan on his back as a gift for saving my life.”

On
the barracks porch sat Black Hawk. He looked up at Nash as he approached. Nash
smiled at him. “Black Hawk, my heart cannot say how glad I am to see you.”

“You
fought bravely, I can tell.”

“But
with fear racing through my veins.”

Inside
the barracks, room was made for Nash with much excitement. Ale brimmed over his
pewter cup and the helping of venison stew steamed from a wooden bowl. 

Resting
there to eat and drink, Nash looked at his comrades in arms. There was Robert
Maldowney, preacher and protector, a giant of a man in buckskins, with a shock
of red hair and a tartan baldric over his shoulder. Beside him sat Mr. Boyd, a
man unaccustomed to the wilderness and its hardships. It showed in his face,
that and the anxiety for his daughter. His hands rested on the table,
fingertips touching fingertips, his pensive gray eyes never leaving Nash’s
face.

Nash
would not have recognized the good doctor if it had not been for the fact he
recalled his identity. A serene man, in a hunting shirt, leggings and cap, had
cast off the finer black attire of a physician for the fashion of the
backwoodsman.  Joab sat beside him, his hair a little grayer.

And
then there was Black Hawk. Nash knew a change had come over him. Had Theresa
Boyd’s capture brought on the melancholy showing in his face? He had shaved the
sides of his head, and his tuft of hair was fastened with feathers. Upon his
face, he wore war paint. No doubt, this was a sign he had declared a personal
war upon her captor.

“We
found Clarke in the woods dead,” said Maldowney. “A brave man and a loyal
friend lost to all those who knew him.” 

Nash’s
heart was sore because of Clarke. He looked into his mug of ale as the others
spoke about him. Each man spoke in turn, then Nash. He told them about his
capture, Logan, and Angry Bear.

“My
word, Nash. You came so close to them killing you,” said Boyd. “What you must
have suffered.”

“It’s
nothing compared to losing my wife to LaRoux.”

Maldowney
patted Nash’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. We will not rest until we find
her and the others.”

They
huddled around the table and laid out their plans. They would travel over the
Allegheny west. Black Hawk would scout ahead, and they would search every
village, every settlement no matter how long it would take.  

Black
Hawk stood. “If the women escape, they will travel toward the east, over the
mountains along the great river. We must watch for them in the forests, listen
for their voices on the wind, wait for the sounds of the jays calling. The deer
will roam ahead of them. These are the signs we must wait for.” 

Nash’s
heart quivered. It was agony to think of her struggling through the wilderness
in search of home. How could she and his unborn child survive? It made his
search for her even more desperate.

* * *

Dawn
rose with the heat of summer. Nash dashed cold water on his face as the others
stirred awake. Wiping his jaw with a towel, he went to the window and looked
out. The light from the campfire outside the barracks danced in eerie yellow
shadows against the stone walls of the fortress.

Atop
the parapet stood a sentry, his musket poised in his hand, his eyes fastened on
the woods. Then came the alert, the call to arms. Men rushed out, pulling on
boots and strapping on powder horns and pouches.  

Climbing
the parapet, Nash looked over the side. Within the trees, Indians advanced. The
men fired and showered the woods with bullets. The parapet filled with smoke
and the smell of sulfur. A second rank of men fired as a flood of warriors
rushed toward the fort. Several fell under the volley. Tree limbs snapped and
bark splintered from the hail of bullets. The crack of muskets echoed across the
clearing. The quivering flames of torches weakened against the smoke.

“Handle.
Cartridge. Prime!” shouted the officer in charge. Captain Sparks who was
destined to be among the Maryland musketmen under Colonel Cresap’s command in
the coming year looked glorious among his men, dressed in a dark navy coat,
white breeches, and jack boots. His men were few in number, but were holding
their own. 

“May
God help us!” he said, standing beside Nash.  “Look at the number of savages.”

“We
outnumber them three to one. They’ll not get over the wall as long as we are
alert.” Nash took aim, fired, and the bullet made its mark. He reloaded his
musket and fired again. An arrow whizzed past his head and struck the man
behind him in the shoulder.

The
Indians fell back into the thick of the forest. Nash crouched on the parapet
with his back to the wall, pushing the ramrod through the barrel of his musket.
Maldowney panted up to him with a fist full of arrows.

Sparks
grabbed the arrows and handed them to Nash. “You know the Indians better than
any man among us, having lived out here in this God forsaken wilderness. What
arrows are these? Can you read what tribe they belong to?”

“These
are Cayuga war arrows, and this is a Shawnee hunting shaft. I can tell by the
markings.” Nash ran his fingers through the quills. 

“I
thought those tribes were in the north to make war,” said Sparks astonished. 

“Apparently
a few have stayed behind,” said Nash. “I’m not surprised.”

Then
the scene darkened. Through the haze, a sorry figure ran toward the fort. In
ragged buckskins, a man tripped and fell over a stone, then struggled to get
up. Once on his feet, he hastened on. The warriors yelled and shot arrows at the
fleeing form, hitting the ground near the poor wretch’s feet. 

“The
poor soul,” groaned Maldowney. “No doubt a prisoner they’ve let free to torment
us. God help him.”

“I
know that man!” shouted a fellow soldier.

“Aye,
‘tis Adam Lee, the trapper,” yelled another, over the din.

Limping
and crying out, Adam Lee rushed toward the gate. Sparks ordered the men to fire
into the line of Indians, hoping somehow to save the hapless man.

Again,
Adam Lee stumbled and struggled to pull himself up. But this time an arrow
penetrated his arm. He cried out and tried to move forward. Another arrow sunk
into his leg and he fell upon his right knee. He crawled forward, crying out
for help.

“In
the name of God, open the gate and get that man.” Nash started down the ladder.

Sparks
yanked him back.

“Do
you want that flood of vipers to come into the fort?  If that gate is opened,
they will kill any man who rushes out.”

“We
cannot let them murder that man in cold blood.” Nash jerked his arm away. “I
won’t stand here and watch.”

“It’s
too late.”

“It
isn’t. Let me go out and get him.”

“They’ve
killed him. Don’t you see the trap?”

Nash
pressed his lips. He rushed back to the edge of the parapet and saw Adam Lee on
the ground. An Indian ran over and pulled out his hunting knife. The Indian grabbed
Lee’s hair. With a triumphant yell, the Indian retreated to the line of trees,
shaking the blood-soaked scalp at the fort. The soldiers and frontiersmen shot
at him in one barrage. They cursed the warrior to hell and back, some shooting while
others reloaded.

Nash
fixed his eyes on the warrior. He raised his musket and took aim. He cocked the
hammer. He squeezed the trigger and fired. His bullet struck a tree and missed.
The Indians embarked across the Potomac into Virginia and were gone. Outside
the fortress walls, the grassy plane was strewn with a half dozen dead warriors
and one poor frontier settler. Not a man inside the fort was killed, but six
were wounded.

The
sun rose higher drenching the land. Black Hawk met Nash and the others at the
gate of the fort. Sunlight touched upon his bronze armbands, and the feathers
in his hair waved in the breeze.

And so an hour
later, they left Fort Frederick in search of the women they loved, and the man
who had stolen them away.

Rebecah
lay awake listening to the tree frogs and the crickets. A hoot owl in the
forest called. The three were a strange mixture. The sounds were soothing. But the
owl’s incessant screech seemed ominous in its measure. It was not superstition that
attacked her. But the idea of how wild and dangerous the frontier was. The
darts of doubt pricked. Fear stabbed. Her soul moaned. All she knew to do was
to obey what stirred in her mind and entreat Heaven for herself and the others.

Strengthened,
she rose and woke Theresa. Maddie was wide-awake shoving things into a buckskin
bag. They had been saving and hiding dried venison, suet, nuts, and maize cakes
for days.

Rebecah
slipped on her moccasins and drew up the laces. She went to the opening and
peered out. The village was asleep. The fire in the center smoldered with red
coals. She turned to the others and whispered, “Come. Do not make a sound.”

The
moon sprayed the forest in a soft misty glow that would light the way. Stars
stood out against the black sky.  The breeze blew warm against the women’s
faces and the pines scented the air.