Broken Pledge Page 25

“Why do you not yell at them?”

  The parson rolled down his other pant leg, “I don’t have the constitution for it. Why do you hesitate to be baptized?”

  “I cannot say precisely,” Uriah answered, his brow deeply wrinkled.

  “Well then, allow me to ask a few simple questions. Were I to baptize you, how long should I hold you under?”

  Uriah’s eyes widened. “How long?”

  “Uh huh, have you a lot of sins to wash away, or just a few?”

  “Well, I...”

  The parson quickly interrupted, “Do you lust after women, sir?”

  “Never,” Uriah answered, raising his chin a little.

  John and the parson exchanged quick glances. “Never?” both asked at the same time.

  “Well, perhaps once,” Uriah admitted, turning to glare at John. “But it was before I married your mother. In fact, it was your mother.”

  “Papa,” John said, rolling his eyes.

  Parson Sax brushed the dirt off his foot and pulled on a sock. “Tell me, do you steal, tell lies, or think to kill other men?”

  “I do not steal. I tell lies only when necessary and just now I think to kill only one man.”

  “Who?” John asked.

  “Thomas Rodes, naturally. And must I make confession in front of my son?”

  “Certainly not, sir,” the parson answered.

  “Good.”

  “And,” the parson went on, “do you harbor ill will against a neighbor?”

  “Met the Widow Puddifoot, have you? In that case, I think to kill one man and one woman.”

  “Papa, I thought you and Emiline were getting along.”

  “We were...until she called me a feeble-minded, short-sighted nanny goat, merely because I declined an invitation to tea at her sister’s in Harrodsburg. I tell you, the woman is intolerable.”

  “I believe five minutes should do it,” Parson Sax said, pulling on his other sock.

  Uriah’s mouth dropped. “You cannot mean you think to hold me under water for five whole minutes.”

  “My dear sir, the idea of baptism is to convince a man he reeks with sin and is in need of a bath. Simply put, you require more convincing than most.”

  “But what of the good I have done? Can you not lessen my time for that?”

  “If you had a house made of pure white satin, would you allow a man with muddy feet to enter...even if his hands were clean? You would not, sir, and neither would God. What about love?”

  “What do you mean, love?” Uriah asked.

  Parson Sax worked his feet into his shoes. “Men fill their homes with those who love them and so does God. Baptism not only washes our wretched sins, it announces our love for the Father.”

  A perplexed look crossed Uriah’s face. “God is in need of love? I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

  “Without love, we suffer intolerable loneliness,” the parson went on, “A God who loves us requires our love in return.”

  “I see,” Uriah said, thoughtfully rubbing his forehead.

  “Now, if I might be excused,” the parson said, standing up. “I have not eaten all day and I mean to catch a few fish.”

  Uriah quickly got to their feet. “In that case, my son and I would be pleased if you would dine with us.”

  “Am I to believe this is your son?” the parson asked, picking up a fishing pole made of two sticks crudely tied together. Abruptly, he headed up the riverbank.

  Uriah stared after him for a long moment before he turned to John. “The man’s not got the wits I thought he had. Can’t he see the resemblance?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Why indeed,” Uriah said, hurrying after the parson.

  Parson Sax stopped, drew his pole back, cast his line into the river, and waited for the Carsons to catch up. Again, he cast his line before he finally turned to Uriah. “I, sir, am the son of a slave.”

  “But you cannot be, your skin is as white as mine.”

  “Nevertheless, my mother is a slave just as her mother was—each woman’s blood mingling with that of their white masters. But to believe it, you must accept my word. So it is with God. His word is in a book and it is the only proof we have that Jesus was His son. We either believe it or we don’t. But I ask you, would you spend the evening with a man who refused to acknowledge your son?”

  “I’d not let him in the house,” Uriah answered.

  The parson slowly pulled his fishing line to shore. Again, he drew back the rod and cast his hook into the water. “Nor would God.”

  “Parson, you have no bait,” John said. “You’d best dine with us before you starve.”

  “I accept,” the parson happily said, quickly hiding his pole in the bushes.

  John walked the parson back toward the horses, leaving his father just standing there. “I was wondering. If we build a church, will you stay?”

  “I will, but I’ll not deny my mother,” the parson answered. “If they ask, I will tell the truth.”

  “Aye, but who would think to ask,” said John, casually glancing back. “In fact, we have a secret or two of our own. I think you’ll find it interesting to know...”

  “Wait!” Uriah shouted. “You’ve not yet baptized me.”

  Parson Sax slowly turned around. “Is he always this slow?”

  “He gets worse every day,” John admitted.

  FARMING ON A HILLSIDE meant carrying buckets and buckets of water up, pouring the water on the ground and then letting it run down the furrowed rows. Still, three African men familiar only with growing tobacco, and two white men not familiar with growing anything at all, somehow managed. They grew carrots, beans, squash, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, and six long rows of tall, healthy corn. Then came the harvest.

  Using leather pads to protect her hands, Lilly carried a large pot of hot stew to the long table in the back yard. “Dinner!” she shouted, setting the pot down. Then she turned to the black woman behind her carrying plates and spoons. “Isabelle, you be hum’n dat same tune all day long.”

  Isabelle was still much too thin...proof of years of hard work with little food. Yet, even after the hard journey over the mountains with Gideon, Isabelle beamed. “I’s be happy. I’s be free!”

  “I’s be happy too. But I’s be happier if’n you’d stop hum’n,” Lilly said, swatting the flies away while Isabelle dished up plates for the children.

  Whistler was the first to arrive at the table. “We got’s a good crop,” he grinned, pecking Lilly on the cheek. He grabbed an empty plate and held it out to Isabelle.

  Just then, Seth poked his head out of the corn and yelled, “Rider com’n.” Instantly, Whistler handed the plate to his wife and rushed into the house.

  He scurried through the kitchen, down the hall and to the front door. Lilly quickly followed, pretending to set the master’s more festive dinner on the dining room table. Staying outside, Isabelle and Harry hushed the children and put on their faces of misery.

  Uriah watched from the side of the house as the rider came up the lane, “Well, fancy that, it’s La Rue. We’ve not seen him since the wedding.”

  John pulled his work gloves off and headed up the back steps. “He’s no doubt come to hang you, Papa.”

  Whistler waited, but La Rue did not come to the front door. Instead, he rode around the house and halted his horse just short of the back verandah.

  “I say, Mister La Rue, you look positively splendid,” Uriah said, climbing the steps to join his son. “Are those new clothing? Or is it marriage to our beloved Eleanor that puts a twinkle in your eyes?”

  La Rue glared at Uriah for a moment and then turned a critical eye on each of the slaves. “Madame Eleanor demands I buy for her Gideon,” he said finally.

  John rolled his eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Monsieur, I am most serious,” La Rue said, watching Whistler quietly come out and stand in front of the backdoor.

  “Tell Eleanor Gideon is not for sale.”

 
La Rue turned in his saddle and looked Whistler over carefully. “Then you will sell another, no?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Uriah said.

  “I pay thirty pounds sterling.”

  “Thirty pounds? I’d not sell the dog for...”

  “Maryridge has no slaves for sale,” John interrupted.

  “Forty, Monsieur John.”

  John’s eyes turned cold and unfeeling. “No.”

  “What he means is,” Uriah quickly put in, “we simply cannot spare them. We’ve a harvest, you see.”

  La Rue shifted in his saddle. “Fifty pounds for Gideon.”

  “Mister La Rue, Gideon is not here,” Uriah said.

  “Even if he were, he is not for sale at any price,” John added. “Nor are the rest of them.”

  “Monsieur, be reasonable, Madam Eleanor is...how you say...”

  “Insistent?” Uriah asked.

  “Oui, most insistent.”

  “Has she taken to throwing things?” Uriah asked. When La Rue hesitated, Uriah went on. “I once had an acquaintance, whose wife threw things, and he handled the situation quite eloquently – he handed her more to break. When she had destroyed all she owned, he then refused to replace even the simplest item. After three months without a plate to eat from, she begged his forgiveness.”

  “Can this be so, monsieur?”

  “I was witness to it myself. In the wilderness, a man cannot easily replace things even if he is tempted. Besides, I am not inclined to indulge Eleanor, now that she has...you know.”

  “She has what?” John asked.

  “John, do go in to dinner. Mister La Rue, we have plenty, will you join us?” La Rue looked at Uriah suspiciously. “I’ve a wife, no?”

  “Indeed you do. The most handsome wife in the whole territory, I sadly say. Another time perhaps.”

  La Rue tipped his hat, turned his horse and rode away. As soon as he was out of sight, Whistler went back to his dinner. Lilly came back out, Harry and Isabelle smiled, the children renewed their laughter and Uriah tossed his hat at a nail. He missed.

  “Papa, is there something you’ve not told me?” John asked, picking up his father’s hat and handing it back to him. “What has Eleanor done?”

  Uriah took the short round hat and carefully examined the inside rim. “I cannot think what you mean.”

  “Papa?”

  “Oh well, if you must know. La Rue somehow thinks you...well, you fancied Eleanor.”

  “What? Papa, you did not?”

  “Why do you always assume I have done something wrong?” Uriah asked, tossing his hat at the nail, watching it catch, swing back and forth and then fall off.

  John swooped up the hat, hung it on the nail and opened the back door. “You need a wife.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To keep you under careful regulation.”

  Suddenly, Whistler drew in a sharp breath, “Massah John, Indians!”

  “Where?”

  “On de ridge,” Whistler answered, pointing above the bunkhouse.

  The Indians were clothed in nothing more than deer skin flaps over their loins and beaded bands around their heads. Long black streaks of charcoal marked their bare chests, and all three rode bareback on horses with feathers woven into the manes.

  “Laughing Rain?” Uriah muttered, a look of concern on his face. He watched John run across the backyard and head up the path. Then he walked down the steps until he stood next to Whistler. “It’s Laughing Rain... Something is very wrong. He would never come this near the settlements dressed like that. It is too dangerous.”

  John hurried up the hillside, burst through the last of the trees and searched Laughing Rain’s expressionless face. “Shining Woman?”

  “She hides in the forest. The baby has not yet come.”

  “And Brave Hunter?”

  Laughing Rain looked away, seeking instead the eyes of Uriah, who stood watching from below. He nudged his horse forward, went around John and started down the path. “Brave Hunter is dead. We are forty-seven Cherokee.”

  Stunned, John froze for a second and then finally moved aside to let the others pass. “Only forty-seven?”

  By the time the Cherokee descended the ridge, Uriah had closed the shutters in the sitting room and stood waiting. Outside, Whistler was ready to cut the feathers out of the manes and put the horses in the corral. Seth and Harry were upstairs foraging for spare clothing and Lilly had carried the pot back in the kitchen and started three more plates. Isabelle took the children to the bunkhouse.

  Uriah had just finished lighting two candles when Laughing Rain and John came in the room. Laughing Rain quickly walked to Uriah and grasped both of his arms. Then, unable to fight back the tears, he slumped to his knees.

  “They have murdered my son.”

  “Dear God in heaven,” Uriah muttered. He helped Laughing Rain to the davenport and sat down beside him. John hurried to the desk, yanked open a lower door and pulled out a jug of whiskey.

  Laughing Rain drew in huge breaths and tried to blink away his pain. “My parents are dead.”

  “But your parents live in Virginia,” Uriah said.

  “Whites mocked them, so I burned their house and took them to the village. I took them to their deaths.”

  Uriah bowed his head. “I cannot think what to say,” he whispered.

  “Here,” John said, handing Laughing Rain a cup. He waited until the Cherokee drank and then refilled the cup.

  “Is Shining Woman alive?” Uriah asked.

  “Yes, but the village is burned. We have no food and nothing to trade.”

  “Then you did well coming to us,” John said. “The Spanish have closed the Mississippi river, and our Kentucky crops are destined to rot in the fields. Is there nothing left of the village?”

  “They came in the night with torches. They burned everything, even the church.”

  John set the jug down on a nearby table and hung his head. “I must know, is Gideon dead?”

  “He went south three days before.”

  “I’LL BE BACK BEFORE the full moon, Papa,” John said, tipping his hat. Seated on his horse, he followed the Cherokee and six fully loaded packhorses up the path to the ridge. When he reached the top, he paused to look back. Then he turned south and disappeared into the forest.

  “God speed, my son,” Uriah muttered.

  In silence, John and the others followed the narrow warrior’s path, winding their way through trees and bushes, up one side of the foothills and down the other. At night, they slept in bedrolls and then continued on the next day, until they came to the place where the mountains spew forth their thousands on the Wilderness Road.

  “Can we cross, do you think?” John whispered, crouching next to Laughing Rain. He carefully parted a thick fern and peeked through. Several yards away, scores of settlers had begun making camp for the night. The men were building fires and laying out thin blankets, while the women prepared what little food they had.

  “Once I pitied them,” Laughing Rain said, “now, my heart cries out with hate.”

  John let go of the fern and sat down on the ground. “In the war, I hated the British. When whole American families were needlessly tortured and killed, I hated the Tories. And when Hester died, I found my heart filled with hatred for a cold, unfeeling river. But in England, I found the British delightful, the Tories remarkably common and I cannot imagine a world without rivers. Besides, just now, we have no time for hate, we have forty seven Cherokee to feed. Tell me, how do we get fresh food through hungry settlers without them noticing?”

  Long after midnight, John and Laughing Rain were still slipping through the forest looking for a break in the endless string of campfires and bedrolls. Finally, they found a gap of nearly fifty feet with only one man on guard. The Cherokee covered the horses’ hooves with buckskin and watched as John crept to the edge of the road with a full sack of food thrown over his shoulder. He waited until the man, dressed in ragged clothing, turned his direction.<
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  Slowly, John stood up and raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he whispered.

  “What are you sneaking round for, Mister?” the guard asked, quickly pointing his musket at John.

  “Shhhh,” John cautioned. He stepped out and then paused as a woman stirred, turned over, and went back to sleep. “I mean you no harm, I’ve come to make a trade,” he went on, cautiously moving closer.

  “What sort of trade?” he asked too loudly.

  “Safe passage for my friends in exchange for breakfast and dinner for your family.”

  “Food?” the man whispered, finally becoming worried that others might hear.

  “Aye, potatoes, carrots and corn.”

  The man slowly gulped and lowered his musket. “We have not seen corn in four months. I’ll trade, mister, I’ll trade anything you want.”

  “All I want is safe passage and your pledge that you will not wake the others.”

  “You have my solemn vow. Quiet as a mouse.”

  John opened the sack just enough to let the man peak in, “Quiet as...”

  “...a mouse,” the man said, licking his lips.

  “Good.” Before the man could react, John grabbed the barrel of his musket. “I’ll give it back once they’re away.”

  Reluctantly, the man yielded the gun and watched as John motioned toward the bushes. Suddenly, his eyes grew large and his mouth dropped. “Indians?”

  “Peaceful Indians, they’ll not harm you,” John said, quickly handing him the sack of food. He watched as Laughing Rain led the others across the road and into the forest on the other side. As soon as they were safely across, John handed back the musket, tipped his hat and hurried after them.

  “Well, I’ll be,” the man muttered.

  THE MOUNTAINS SEEMED endless, the nights too short and the days too long. Their bodies ached from riding, but still, the Cherokee pushed on until at last, they crested the final mountain, descended into the valley and crossed the Tennessee River. Slowly and reverently, they made their way through the charred rubble. Not far from where the Quaker church once stood, freshly dug graves were marked with make-do Christian crosses. They turned east, passed the place where Laughing Rain’s house had been, and did not stop until they reached the edge of the partially burned forest.