Broken Pledge Page 19

  “Dead, is he? How did he die?” Uriah interrupted, leaning against the wall with his arms folded.

  “Papa, it is impolite...”

  Uriah rolled his eyes. “Oh, let her answer.”

  “If you must know, he died at Blue Licks,” she answered.

  “In the great Indian battle?” Uriah asked, his interest suddenly piqued.

  Emiline was indignant. “Great do you call it? They were murdered where they stood. Mister Boone warned them, you know, but off they went just the same.”

  “Wait,” Uriah said, “don’t say another word until I have returned. My son neglected a stool for me.”

  John watched his father scurry out of the room and then leaned closer. “He’s not so bad when he’s had enough rest. Last night, he couldn’t sleep, and today’s the proof of it.”

  “I see.” She waited until Uriah rushed back, plopped his stool down next to John and quickly sat.

  “Now, where were we? And do begin at the beginning,” Uriah said.

  She looked puzzled. “The beginning?”

  “Aye, the beginning.”

  Emiline thought for a moment and slightly tilted her head to one side. “Well, Mister Puddifoot and I were married in Boston, where we remained most of ten years. Then he made the acquaintance of Judge Henderson, who boasted of buying wondrous land from the Cherokee in a place called Transylvania. Mister Puddifoot, a cobbler by trade, but a farmer at heart, signed us up immediately.”

  “You were among the first settlers?” Uriah asked, his eyes alight with intrigue.

  “That we were. It was true, the judge bought the land from the Cherokee. But the Shawnee, the Miami, the Mohawk, and a host of other tribes said the Cherokee had no right to sell it. ‘Old’ they call it now,” she added, lowering her eyes.

  “Old?” Uriah asked.

  “The fort where we first lived. We were delighted each time more settlers arrived, and Mister Puddifoot used to say, ‘Emiline, there is plenty of land for us all; the Indians included.’ But I’ve yet to meet an Indian who agrees. Then came the three sevens.”

  Uriah crossed his legs, leaned forward and watched her intently. “Three sevens?”

  “Is there an echo in this room?” she asked, staring at Uriah.

  “Mrs. Puddifoot, allow me to get the tea,” John said, standing up.

  “Do call me Emiline. It would be so much more friendly if you did.”

  John politely nodded. “Emiline it is, then,” he said, leaving the room.

  “Do go on, Mrs. Puddifoot,” Uriah said.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t want to repeat myself. We’ll wait for your son.”

  “I see.”

  Again, there was silence. She fiddled with her fingers and looked all around the empty room, while he stared at the floor. Endless minutes ticked by before John came back carrying a makeshift tray with three tin cups of tea, a fourth cup filled with honey, and one bent, slightly twisted spoon. He offered the first cup to Emiline, waited while she added some honey, and then held the tray for his father.

  “I believe you were telling us about the three sevens,” Uriah cautiously said, taking the cup and bypassing the honey.

  “1777—three sevens, you see. It was a frightful year. The war had begun and the British were constantly sending the Indians to attack us. So much so, that Mister Clark decided we should just attack them and get it over with. We did not have enough men, so Mister Clark sent for Virginians and North Carolinians to help. That’s when we won the battle at Vincennes.”

  John set the board down on the floor, took a cup of tea for himself and climbed back on his stool. “We have heard great things about that campaign. Mister Clark saved the Territory. Had he not fought so gloriously, we might have lost the war.”

  “Well, I cannot say about that, but the raids declined...or so it seemed. Finally, the frightful sevens were behind us. That’s when they took him,” she said, pausing to sip her tea.

  “Took who?” Uriah asked.

  “Mister Boone. He and the salt makers were captured at Blue Licks and taken north. He escaped just in time to warn Boonesville of an impending attack. Mister Boone still comes to call occasionally, when he is near, and is saddened over what happened to Mister Puddifoot. Do you intend to get proper furniture?”

  “Of course we do,” Uriah scoffed.

  Emiline did not quite believe him. “When?”

  “When?” Uriah asked.

  “Are you aware you constantly repeat things?” she asked.

  “Not particularly. What does our getting proper furniture have to do with what happened to Mister Puddifoot?”

  “Mister Puddifoot is dead, I’m quite alive, and I’d enjoy a proper chair to sit on when I come to call.”

  Uriah lifted his chin and mockingly wobbled his head. “I will see to it immediately.”

  “Good.”

  John glanced at Emiline and then at his father. Both were staring at the floor. “Shall I get more tea?” he asked at length. Neither of them answered. Again, he glanced at each, and then a mischievous grin crossed his face. “Miss Emiline,” he said, his voice intentionally soft, “I am going to buy a cow, but neither of us knows how to milk one. Would you teach Papa?”

  Uriah instantly glared at his son. “Milking is for girls!”

  “How many girls do you have?” Emiline asked.

  “Unfortunately, none,” Uriah sneered. “Do you have a cow?”

  “I do,” she answered.

  “And do you need all the milk?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Done then. We shall buy our milk from you and save ourselves the trouble.”

  Emiline narrowed her eyes, “Providing I will sell, you mean.”

  John shot his father a warning look. “Papa, she is a guest.”

  “You’re right. I humbly apologize – realizing that if I don’t, I might never hear what happened to Mister Puddifoot.”

  John rolled his eyes and turned back to Emiline. “Tell me, was it you who put up the sign?”

  “It was, and none too soon. When people know they are close to the river, they hurry right along. Fewer muskets are fired in the woods, fewer campfires threaten to burn the forest, and fewer thieves trespass on my land.”

  “Who could possibly care about a bloody sign?” Uriah moaned. “Are you going to tell us what happened to Mister Puddifoot, or not?”

  “They shot him,” she nearly shouted, her glare matching his.

  “Where?”

  “Weren’t you listening, they shot him at the Blue Licks. Not long after, they changed the name of the Territory from Transylvania to Kentucky.”

  “You are clearly the most annoying woman of my acquaintance,” said Uriah, abruptly standing up. He walked to the hearth, plopping one elbow on the mantel and shook his head.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Emiline said, loud enough for Uriah to hear.

  “Well, I like you,” John said. “I say we pretend he’s not here.”

  “The pleasure is all mine. Shall I go on?”

  “Please,” John said.

  “Very well then. It was the month of August in the year 1782. Mister Puddifoot was among the first to volunteer once word came of the attack on Bryan’s Station. I begged him not to go, but...” Her eyes dropped and she took a long breath. “I did not learn his fate until days later when Mister Boone brought him home. Most of the men were buried right where they fell, but Mister Puddifoot and Mister Boone got on famously, so Mister Boone brought him home. We buried him behind the house. He is there still.”

  For a long moment, her words hung in the air. “Emiline, if this is too painful...” John started.

  “He left me all alone, and for that, I have not yet forgiven him.”

  Uriah hadn’t missed a word and his tone was softer when he finally asked, “Did Mister Boone happen to say precisely what happened?”

  “He did,” Emiline answered.

  “Miss Emilin
e, what did happen?” John asked, setting his half-empty tin cup down on the board.

  “Well, Mister Puddifoot and 180 others did not arrive at Bryant’s Station until after the Indians ran away. Colonel Logan was on his way with reinforcements, but Colonel Todd feared the delay might allow the Indians to escape, so off they went. They spotted an Indian disappearing over a hill just beyond the Blue Licks crossing. Some feared an ambush, but men began crossing the river anyway and soon the rest followed. That’s when the Indians—accompanied by the British, I might add – attacked. It was nothing short of a massacre...” Emiline’s voice trailed off again, and she stared at the floor.

  John got up, gently touched her arm and headed back to the kitchen. “I’ll get more tea.”

  “How bloody awful,” Uriah said. “How many tribes are there, do you think?”

  “Thousands,” she answered, taking a deep breath. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told that story before. At the time, everyone knew, and later, no one asked. I believe I feel better for telling it.”

  “Good,” John said, returning with a heavy iron teakettle. Carefully, he refilled their cups.

  “Tell me, where in Virginia are you from?” she asked.

  “How do you know we come from Virginia?” John asked.

  “You dress like a Virginian,” she answered, watching John set the kettle down on the board.

  “Have you been watching us?” Uriah asked.

  Emiline’s ire was instantly aroused. “Do I have a choice? You built this place right across the road. You and your son are always dressed in proper suits – the likes of which I have not seen since last I saw Virginia. Have you no useful clothing?”

  “Of course we...”

  “Mrs. Puddifoot sews,” John interrupted.

  “A clothier? But where do you sell your wares?”

  Emiline calmed herself a little. “In Harrodsburg. I ride there on Saturdays, make my deliveries, collect the money, and stay the night with my sister. Come Sunday, I attend the services of the circuit rider and then come home. It’s a pleasant journey, but I don’t suppose it will be pleasant much longer. With so many people coming, the wilderness will change quickly.”

  John smiled. “For the better, I hope.”

  “They’ll build brothels, you know,” said Emiline.

  “Yes,” John put in, “but Kentucky will become a commonwealth and make its own laws.”

  “Not if General Wilkinson has his way,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” Uriah asked.

  “General Wilkinson thinks we should separate from the Empire completely.”

  Frown lines deepened in Uriah’s forehead. “Become an altogether different country? But why?”

  “Taxes. Why pay taxes to an Empire that refuses to send troops, build roads, or do anything to keep the Spanish from closing New Orleans? General Wilkinson says we should negotiate a treaty with the Spanish ourselves.”

  “I see,” John said. “Do others agree?”

  Emiline handed her tea cup to John and started to rise. “A few. Well, I’d best be going; I’ve got a cow to milk.”

  Uriah stood up and watched as she retrieved her gloves, let John help with her cape, said her good-byes, and walked out the door. He listened to her footsteps across the front verandah and down the steps, and then bolted to the window. He kept his eyes on her until she walked down the lane, crossed the road and headed to her cabin. When he turned, John was watching him.

  “We shall buy our own cow,” Uriah said, returning to the mantel to adjust the placement of the clock.

  “And who did you have in mind to milk it?”

  “We’ll employ someone.”

  “I see.”

  “And when we do the marketing, I will buy a writing slide, or better still, a printing press. The letters to Polly tire my hand.”

  John gathered the cups and the pot, picked up the board and headed for the door. “‘Tis only because you write too much in each letter. Can you not think of something simple to say?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as,” John answered, leaving the room, his voice echoing through the house, “Come home, Polly Lewis, you were not too young!”

  VIRGINIA

  From the Cherokee, Gideon learned to cover the soles of his shoes with soft leather, coat his teeth and the palms of his hands with black bear grease, and safely cross the lands of the Chickamauga into the backwoods of Georgia. Tirelessly, he combed slave huts, terrified slave masters, and avoided sheriffs as he searched for his wife. He worked his way north, darted in and out of the mountains and then finally slipped into the safety of Mahala.

  A week later, Gideon had eaten his fill, was rested and was about to do a favor for Caleb. Cautiously, he slipped into Mahala’s barn, dug into a haystack and pulled out two bottles of rum. But when he turned around, she was right behind him. “Mrs. Carson,” he sputtered, quickly slipping both bottles behind his back.

  “So my husband has you involved in his intrigue too? Daily he reports we have no more rum, but here you are with two bottles hidden behind your back. Gideon Ross, I’ll have your head for this!” she said, her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed. “Where, pray tell, might my husband be at this particular moment?”

  “Well, he...”

  “Go on, he what?”

  “Mrs. Carson, if I tell you, he’ll have my head.”

  Elizabeth slowly came closer, her eyes boring into his. “In that case, tell my husband these words exact—tell him I have an urge to burn the barn.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  The muscles in her jaw had tightened and her fists were clenched. “Wouldn’t I? I suggest you take Miss Daisy with you when you leave.”

  Instantly, Gideon handed both bottles to Elizabeth, opened Miss Daisy’s gate, shooed her out of the stall and ran behind her from the barn. “Massah Caleb!” he shouted. “Massah Caleb!”

  Elizabeth set the bottles down, walked to the saddle closet and began searching the shelves. Finally, she found the matchbox, took one out, grabbed a lantern, and marched back to the haystack.

  “Glory be, it’s hot in here,” she muttered, pulling a kerchief out of her pocket. She dabbed the tiny beads of perspiration off her face and then blotted the back of her neck. She put her kerchief away, struck the match and lit the lantern. Then she carefully lowered the glass and waited for her husband’s arrival.

  KENTUCKY

  Outside the small cabin across the road from John and Uriah, the fall leaves were beginning to pile up. Even so, Emiline hadn’t heard anyone approach and was barely finished dressing when someone knocked loudly on her door. Startled, she quickly grabbed her musket, lifted it to her shoulder and pointed it at the door. “I have nothing to sell and nothing to give away,” she yelled.

  “Not even milk?” a man’s voice asked.

  Slowly, Emiline lowered her musket. “Is it you, Mister Carson?”

  “It is.”

  She set her musket aside, unbolted the door, peeked out, and then opened it. “What are you doing here? The cow is not even awake yet.”

  “I did not think they slept,” Uriah said, a well-worn pitcher in one hand and a lid in the other. “I’ll pay a fair price.”

  “Indeed you will. Come in then. Tell me, did you sleep well last night?”

  Uriah set the pitcher down and removed his hat. “I did. It is kind of you to ask.”

  “Good, perhaps you will not be so unpleasant.”

  “I was no more unpleasant than you, as I recall.”

  “Have you come to argue?”

  “No,” Uriah said, quickly changing his tone to a more pleasant one. “I have come for milk and to ask you a question. May I sit down?”

  Emiline stared at him a moment and then glanced around. She lived in a one-room log cabin with a curtain between the cooking area and her bed. Beside the bed, she kept a weaving loom, a long table on which to cut material and a mountain of sewing supplies. Nails on every wall held pots, tools, utensils,
dresses, hats, coats, and two extra muskets. Her kitchen table was small, her rocking chair old, and a multicolored, hand-woven rug covered her aging wood floor. Finally, she nodded toward the rocking chair.

  “I was wondering,” Uriah began, sitting down, “if you know the Quaker, Polly Lewis.”

  “Does she sing like a choir of angels?”

  “She does.”

  “Then I know her quite well. Polly never let a Sunday pass without singing for us, even though Quakers do not ordinarily approve. But Mister Lewis decided God would not have given her such talent if she weren’t meant to raise her voice in praise.”

  “I quite agree. Tell me, do you know where she’s gone?”

  She watched his eyes a moment and then lowered her voice to a whisper, “Indians took her.”

  “Well, I know that, but she came back. What I meant is, where is she now?”

  “How would I know? She did not know herself when she left.”

  Uriah abruptly stood up, walked to the door and opened it. “I see. In that case, I’ll be off. Good day to you, Mrs. Puddifoot.”

  Emiline did not speak. She watched him cross her porch, descend the short steps and then disappear down the path. He was well out of sight before she said, “You forgot the milk.”

  MARYLAND

  “Polly Lewis, thou are hateful and spiteful,” seven-year old Melba pouted, trying to pull away so Polly couldn’t finish tying her bonnet strings.

  “Nevertheless, thou wilt go to school,” Polly said, grabbing both of Melba’s shoulders. She gave the child a stern look until Melba held still. Polly quickly tied the bow under her sister’s chin and then turned Melba around to inspect the back of her new coat. “Now, thee is not to say of the Indians. Thee can only tell of Laughing Rain.”

  “Why?”

  Polly sat down on a kitchen chair and pulled her sister into her lap. “Some people do not think kindly of women who have lived with Indians. If thou tells, thou wilt bring sadness to this house. Does thee understand?”