An Uncommon Woman Read online

  Her mind resumed its usual rhythms too, the groove worn by Keturah especially deep. She daren’t speak of it. Ma got that stricken look when she did. As if she feared the same fate would befall Tessa in time. Keturah had been dear to Ma, something of a second daughter. Her wrenching absence struck a lasting lick. Ma had even dreamed of a match between the comely Keturah and one of her sons. There’d been a bit of tomfoolery about it back then. Every one of her brothers was smitten save Ross, too young to go moon-eyed over her. But Keturah was not only lovely. She was good-hearted. Hardworking. Kind.

  And then she was gone.

  Tessa gathered eggs as Ma ground fresh meal in a giant mortar just beyond the front stoop. A glance outside told her Zadock and Cyrus were repairing a plow by the barn. She’d pray Lemuel and Ross home from the river.

  Supper found them all at table, save Jasper, the door barred. Bedtime came early after a sleepless siege. A few unstifled yawns went around.

  Zadock set down his fork. “I’ll finish plowing the flax on the morrow.”

  “I’ll be on the Buckhannon,” Ross told them, always drawn to the river more than the field. “With the spring thaw, more settlers need ferrying.”

  “Pass along a warning.” Zadock lit Pa’s pipe, the fragrant smoke spiraling toward the rafters in aromatic wisps. “And take care to watch your back.”

  Ross simply nodded. Being the youngest, he was the most unguarded. Foolhardy, Jasper called him. Yet he was the handiest with a rifle, fixing anything from a broken stock to a blocked touchhole, his talk full of flints and jaw screws and frizzen springs. He was also a dead aim, much to the chagrin of his brothers. Pa had planned to apprentice Ross to a gunsmith, but all that went awry at his passing.

  “Tessa best keep to home and away from the river lest you truly need another setting pole.” This from Cyrus, ever cautious. “That flaxseed begs to be in the ground, and I sense more rain coming.”

  Though she’d rather be with Ross at the ferry, the flax wouldn’t wait. Tessa sipped her sassafras tea as remarks flew between her brothers, some barbed, some in jest.

  “I hope you put all that foolishness about Tessa forting up to rest.” Zadock aimed his low words their mother’s way.

  Betimes Zadock grew too big for his britches in Jasper’s absence. Tessa gave him a wry smile as Ma pondered her reply.

  “Before your father was cut down, one of the last things he said to me was that he wished to see his only daughter marry well. I’ve not forgotten, and neither has your great-aunt Hester.”

  Her thoughtful words led to a chastised silence. Tessa stared at her mother. ’Twas news to her, Pa’s wish.

  “’Tis hard enough having no daughters-in-law or grandchildren,” Ma finished, eyes a-glitter, as her sons shifted uneasily in their seats.

  This Tessa understood. Other than their shared faith, what joys did they have beyond family? Though the natural world was a wonder, betimes it seemed more foe than friend. Truth be told, Tessa longed for female company near at hand, a bosom friend like Keturah had been. Surely Ma’s need for other daughters, especially grandchildren, went bone deep.

  “There’s not a man hereabouts worthy of Sister’s hand.” ’Twas a rare burst of words from the reserved Lemuel. “If you want better for her, best look elsewhere. Or send her east to our city kin.”

  “Seems like I should have some say in the matter,” Tessa stated, every eye on her.

  “Well, have at it then,” Zadock told her.

  She winked. “What need have I of a husband when I can’t keep track of five brothers?”

  They laughed, easing the tense moment. She stood and began clearing plates, refilling their applejack as needed, occasionally going to a loophole to peer out. In time her brothers finished their evening chores and betook themselves to their blockhouse bunks. Their combined snores were her usual signal to seek her cozy corner behind a quilt strung from a beam near the glow of the hearth.

  Ma slept on the far side of the cabin, her bed open to the room. It had been that way for as long as Tessa could remember. The trundle bed beneath it had been hers in childhood before Ma moved her here.

  Pulling at her petticoat strings, she untied the knot at her waist and shed her garments to her stays, then her shift. Neatly hung on pegs about her bed, the clothing helped block wintry drafts. Since no one came behind the quilt, she had adorned the small corner with the shelf Lemuel had made her, home to a river stone polished smooth, a dried flower and wad of soft moss, and a fetching feather.

  Pressing her knees to the hard floor, she folded her hands and bent her head. So many needs, including Jasper’s safe return any day now. But first, thanks.

  Clay led out, the former captive just behind, followed by Maddie then Jude. The journey from Philadelphia to the Forks of the Ohio had been mostly carefree. Now it turned treacherous. Never again could he let his guard down with Fort Pitt at his back.

  He reckoned on seeing Fort Tygart by week’s end, barring foul weather, illness, or ambush. If they kept to the creeks and streams that first day, they’d avoid leaving too noticeable a trail.

  Miss Braam sat in the saddle like an Indian princess. If it was indeed Miss Braam. What was her Lenape name? Aside from her Dutch paleness, there was little that was white about her. Maddie asked him if she shouldn’t shed her Lenape garments, but Clay urged otherwise. He had an inkling Miss Braam wouldn’t be so obliging about changing clothes.

  “It’ll confuse a war party,” he said, to Maddie’s amusement.

  Glad he was that the Lenape’s former captive was behind him. If she was in his line of sight, he’d be plenty distracted. As they’d readied to head out, he’d discreetly searched for some flaw in her comeliness, aside from the faint pox scars barely visible. Hair too white-gold. Complexion a tad freckled. Eyes too blindingly blue. Waist too willowy. Nay. He’d schooled his surprise at how tall she was. Taller than many men, yet it somehow only lent to her loveliness and set her further apart. An uncommon woman, aye.

  But nary a word did she speak. Not even to refute him when he continued calling her Miss Braam. The Indian agent had shown him an old, weathered notice in the Virginia Gazette that wrenched him in its anguish and seemed to confirm her identity. McKee had thrust it at him at the last as if Clay might balk and leave her at Pitt.

  Taken by the Indians from Augusta County, Keturah Braam, then in her twelfth year, fair-haired, and much freckled. Her father and mother beg that she may, by all good people, be helped on her way to them as they are very desirous of seeing her.

  He blew out an aggravated breath. The Braam woman’s sudden appearance, the plaintive plea of her parents, began chipping away at his shuttered memories with deft, axe-like strokes. The call for his own return years before had seen print in the eastern papers, but he’d had to relearn his letters before he could read the words.

  That night they made a cold camp, Maddie and Miss Braam on their bedding beneath a rock overhang while he and Jude minded the provisions and horses.

  “You’re awful quiet,” Jude said in low tones.

  Clay looked up from his task. Was he? If anyone noticed, Jude would. Sliding his hand down the mare’s fetlock, Clay paused while she picked up her foot. He worked the hoof pick by rote, Jude’s words lodging like a stone in his own moccasin.

  “Many an idle word’s gotten a man ambushed,” Clay answered.

  “A man can ambush his own self.” Jude ran the curry comb over Maddie’s mount in rhythmic strokes. “You seem plumb eat up pondering. Reckon it has to do with Miss Braam unearthing some things best forgot.”

  “Mayhap.”

  “Still sore over that Bouquet business back in ’64, I reckon, when you called the colonel out on account o’ those smallpox blankets.”

  Six years had done little to blunt the worst of the memories. Serving under Bouquet’s command in the Ohio country and at Fort Pitt, Clay had witnessed the forced return of two hundred white captives, the Indians given infected goods from Fort Pitt’s hospita
l in exchange.

  “Heard tell thousands of Indians perished, more from the pox than all the powder and lead in the colonies. That true?”

  Clay gave an aggrieved nod. Had Miss Braam sickened as a result?

  He doubted she was a miss at all. Likely she’d married within the tribe, had children. For all he knew they could have succumbed to the pox or flux or some other pestilence. Like his own Indian kin had.

  Jude straightened. “Then the colonel got cut down himself.”

  A small flicker of triumph overrode Clay’s angst. Shortly after Bouquet’s promotion to commander of British forces in the southern colonies, he’d been struck down by yellow fever.

  Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

  How he wanted to believe that wholeheartedly. But his beliefs were dusty. Rusty as an old iron nail. Doubt called Bouquet’s demise pure happenstance. His own tired faith made a poor defense.

  Finished with hobbling the horses and securing the provisions, they sought the rock overhang. Jude’s snoring soon commenced, then Maddie’s soft, even breathing told him she too slept. But he was unsure of Keturah Braam.

  He finally dozed lightly like he usually did on the trail, not too soundly, one ear cocked, rifle at hand. A wolf’s howling roused him once, then the comely captive herself. Fully awake now, he lay perfectly still. She was an arm’s length from him, her head pillowed on her outflung arm.

  “Kètatamihtit mahtakenk nëwitèch.”

  Though the words were mumbled, they were spoken fervently.

  If they want to have war I will go. Because I do not think about my life.

  She rolled over as if agitated, nearly brushing his arm. Such telling words. War. Life. The Lenape sentences, strung together like beads on a leather string, told a piece of Keturah Braam’s life story.

  He’d not spoken a word to her since they’d first met at the blockhouse. Needs be he would try to converse with her in Lenape. She might have completely forgotten the white talk. Just how many years had she been away? He tensed as she mumbled again, this time indistinctly. If he had his druthers, she’d be gone by first light, fleeing west into the forest, before she reunited with her white kin.

  Betimes the return was as terrifying as the capture.

  6

  Clean tow apron. Piggin in hand. The creak of the cabin door opened onto a dewy, sunlit clearing. Tessa stepped outside in the sleepy haze of first awakening, ears tuned to unbroken birdsong, spirit tuned to the day’s prospects. The cow awaited milking. The butter churning. After that she’d help Ross at the ferry.

  Ma was near, humming softly as she watered the vegetable garden. Together they’d sown the flax yesterday. Lemuel was chopping wood while Zadock and Cyrus took to the fields. No sign of Jasper. With the recent Indian unrest, they all but held their breath till they saw him again.

  A week had passed since they’d forted up. Tessa rued returning to the river and the unsettling memories there, but at noon she took her rifle and a dinner pail to Ross. With the last killing frost far behind them, ’twould soon be strawberry season. Long daylight. Riotous growth. On the heels of that came another unwelcome, stubborn thought.

  ’Twas in June Keturah had been taken. Three Indians had encircled her. Or were there four?

  Keep quiet, Keturah.

  Tessa had only mouthed the words that day, panic choking her. Though she’d screamed at first, Keturah then turned to stone. One painted brave reached out a hand, lifting a strand of her corn-silk hair. Pure Dutch she was, terror in her delft-blue eyes.

  Tessa was struck by a peculiar thought. If the Indians were bestirred by beauty, might it save her lovely friend?

  Ruth had run like a jackrabbit. But Tessa, torn between fleeing or making a stand, hunkered down behind a screen of mountain laurel. Keturah was bound, her wrists knotted with rawhide, and shoved to a start. She’d not walk far before she’d trip in those petticoats. One was singed from the hearth’s fire. Tessa had teased her about it that very morn.

  In moments, Keturah stepped into a thick stand of chestnut and vanished. ’Twas the last memory Tessa had of her beloved friend.

  Ever since, regret had been her bosom companion. What if she’d tried to save her? Would she not have been taken too? What could one have done with only a basketful of berries?

  Sidestepping a mudhole, Tessa tried to banish all dark thoughts. Impossible. A sudden snap of a twig just behind caused her to swirl around so fast her skirts caught on a bramble bush. A timid doe took a step through the leafy undergrowth, a bespeckled fawn not far behind. Jerking her skirts free, Tessa pressed on, gaze swinging wide. The rifle grew cumbersome, the dinner pail a nuisance.

  Ahead of her the trail forked. The path to the ferry was well trammeled while the other was scraggly and overgrown, leading to the Braams’ abandoned homestead. No one had walked that way for years to her knowledge save some animal or passing Indian. Haunted, some said, all much as it had been the day the Braams had left. Mayhap haunted was the reason no one else had claimed it. In a time of land grabbing, ’twas a wonderment it was left alone.

  She veered left toward the river, startled to find a wistful longing pulling her right. Long ago she’d felt that same beguiling pull, a young girl on her way to visit friends. How bright the Braam cabin. How welcoming. Was it because they’d had only daughters?

  Mistress Braam oft made sugar bread, sûkerbôle, its welcoming aroma reaching to the edges of the clearing, warm as an embrace. Mister Braam was always in the fields. Deprived of sons, he did the heavy work. In her mind’s eye he stood tall as his corn, his silhouette against the horizon scarecrowish, he was so lean. Come harvest time, Tessa’s brothers were sent for. With Keturah, the eldest daughter, nearby, getting the Swans to lend a hand had not been hard.

  At last Tessa emerged on the riverbank. Squinting, she adjusted to the water’s glare, glad to the heart to see Ross returning from a ferrying.

  “I was starting to fret,” he called out when he spied her.

  Across the Buckhannon was a large family, the two youngest secured in hampers straddling a packhorse. One was wailing. The older boys herded the few sheep and cows from behind. A chicken squawked in their midst. The clan looked vulnerable. Weary. Her heart squeezed as they struggled up the rocky bank. On the opposite shore, Ross made a smooth landing, leaping from the ferry’s rough edge.

  “Current’s sluggish today.” He poked around in the pail. “Better partake right quick. Look over yonder.”

  Over yonder meant east. Tessa’s eyes widened at the sight of a large party in the distance, two buckskinned men leading. Rarely did such a pack of armed men come to harm. Mayhap the struggling family could travel with these backwoodsmen, who usually swam their horses across if unencumbered by pelts and trapping gear. Not all relied on the ferry.

  “Virginians, likely,” Ross said, biting into his cornbread. “Surveyors. Land stealers.”

  She regarded them with a mix of disdain and fascination. The parceling of western land meant peace, Pa had once said, yet she’d not known a speck of peace in all her hard-won years. Soon these bold men sprawled along the riverbank like they already owned it, burdened with their chains and markers and axes, looking her up and down as if set on surveying her too. Paying them no mind, she took hold of a setting pole, having shut her rifle in the ferry house.

  Ross set his fixings aside. One particular nervy horse needed to be blindfolded, the party ferried in batches. Such a mess of men and baggage! Reeking of spirits and unwashed parts, they were, and she aimed to stay downwind of them if she could, listening as Ross warned of the latest spate of trouble and the coming of the war hero.

  “Wait till Tygart gets here,” one man said, no hint of jesting about him. “A good many redmen stay clear of him. And not only because he fights like the devil.”

  Her ears nearly burned to hear the rest. Other than Boone and Washington, both revered up and down the frontier, few men were worth mentioning. The rest of their blustering was lost to h
er as the man nearest her began to cough and spit tobacco into the muddy water. Such coarseness left her craving the cabin and Ma’s hymn singing.

  By and by, all were ferried to the far shore. They paid in coin. It made a merry jingle when Ross dropped it into a leather pouch. Stepping around a mound of horse leavings, Tessa eyed the trail to the ferry that would soon be a rutted wagon road by midsummer.

  “Take your leave,” Ross urged, likely remembering Cyrus’s caution to keep her home. First he fetched her rifle. His own was near at hand.

  She hesitated, never liking him to be alone, before kissing his sun-browned cheek. It bore a faint, red-tinted stubble. Though the smallest Swan both in stature and by birth, he was fast becoming a man. And he had little need of her with the current so peaceable and the day nearly done.

  Grudgingly, she left him, her bare feet returning her to the forked trail she knew so well. Only this time, borne along by some contrary whim, she took the overgrown path, the one she usually shunned. Maybe she should face the past and thereby shake loose the memories that still dogged her.

  Her steps slowed. She nearly turned back. Her childish heart had long clung to the Braams’ homeplace, but now she hardly knew it. The tumbled-down fences and caved-in well met her first. How often they’d played near the well on hot days, arranging their dolls for tea parties with acorn cups and other forest furniture.

  The log house was much as she recalled with its rare split-shingled roof. How big it had been in childhood. How full of life. Now the woman in her saw it for what it was. Smaller. Faded. A hard beginning. A bitter end. The corncrib and outbuildings all burned and blackened. Weathered farm implements held fast to the ground by a stranglehold of thorny vines and tangled weeds.

  Did the wilderness, all this wildness, only take? Did it give nothing back?

  Her throat clenched and her eyes smarted as she surveyed what was once hard won and well kept. She came closer, mindful of the tall grass and snakes. The smooth door stone, untrod all these years, was green with moss, the thick slab of door leaning open on rusted hinges. A spasm shuddered through her, half sorrow, half fear. But her hankering for this old place, or the way it used to be, pulsed on.