In The Face Of Death (24 page)

There was a new box of books waiting for me. Mister Harris has finally caught up with me again. He was good enough to enclose some recent newspapers from Philadelphia and New York, and one from London as well. It seems that King Oskar of Sweden died last year and his son Charles is now reigning. The rulers have changed in the Two Sicilies, and King “Bomba” is no longer alive to harass his own people, though Garibaldi and his Redshirts may become a force to deal with before long. . . . Tecumseh must be pleased with the discovery of silver in Washoe, Nevada, for it must increase the likelihood of the rail link of east and west which he thought so necessary. With the pony express started, at least mail is moving between St. Louis and Sacramento in rapid order, much faster than by sea. Ten days to cross two thousand miles is an enviable performance. . . . The papers are all several weeks old now, but I was pleased to have a glimpse of the cosmopolitan world again, and read accounts of developments, editorial opinions, and commentary on the political climate. . . . Who knows, in a year or two, I will probably miss that world enough to return to it. . . .

One of the books sent by Mister Harris is Charles Dickens’ new novel,
A Tale of Two Cities,
which I have found unreadable. Such deliberate sentimentalizing of so unsentimental an event as the French Revolution, and a heroine with no sense about anything, a perfectly mawkish creature. Her only accomplishment, it seems, is fainting, and as for her taste in men. . . . I know Tecumseh admires Dickens, but I cannot fathom what he likes in this ill-conceived drivel. . . .

I have sent on to Amsterdam another portion of my manuscript on the Choctaw, about two hundred pages of material this time, on the subject of the lives of the Choctaw who remain in these isolated places on their traditional lands. I do not know if Saint-Germain will want to publish it separately now, or wait until I have finished the thing and bring out a large, single volume. . . .

I am always shocked at how much I miss him, as if I had suddenly remembered I had lost a hand. It might not be so acute if I had a knowing lover now, but lacking one brings my love of Saint-Germain into sharp relief and I cannot put him wholly from my mind. . . . I find myself wishing to see Tecumseh again, and though I know it is folly, I want to embrace him again. But I have no strong idea where he is, though I sense he is nearer to me than he was a few years ago. . . .

Gregory Holt regarded Madelaine askance as she picked up another of her huge boxes of books. Beyond the windows of his general store, Aurora looked lost in faded and blurred images as rain turned the street to mud and colored all the houses a uniform shade of dun. “You going to carry that back with you?” he asked as Madelaine, to his astonishment, hefted the box in her arms. A little thing like her, slinging about a box he had had trouble lifting. . . . He looked to where her horses were tied. “You’ll get wet, trying to get that onto the pack saddle. Or are your Indians here to do it for you?”

“Luke Greentree is not my Indian, but, yes, he and his friends are escorting me, as you say.” She had warned Holt before that she disliked his way of referring to the Choctaw men, and so had no hesitation in speaking sharply now.

“But they’re not here, are they?” asked Holt.

“No. They have skins to sell at the tannery. I will meet them there.” The tannery was two miles outside of town so that its stench would not overwhelm the residents of Aurora.

“But what about these boxes?” Holt inquired.

“They’re no problem, Mister Holt, but thank you for your concern,” said Madelaine, then recognized the unvoiced suspicions behind his solicitous manner. “But it would be useful if you will have the two boxes of provisions loaded onto my pack saddle?”

“Jimmy’ll see to it,” said Holt, and called sharply to his slave. “Put those two boxes on the lady’s pack horse.” He glanced at Madelaine again. “And the box she’s carrying. Put that on the pack saddle, too. Let him have the books, Ma’am.”

“Very well,” said Madelaine, who realized that her ability to handle such weights might bring undue attention on her. “How kind of you. I will. It is . . . heavy.” Making it appear an effort, she lowered the box to the floor. “And thank you, Jimmy,” she added to the middle-aged black man, reaching to hand him a coin for his trouble.

“No call to do that, Ma’am. Just gives him ideas,” said Holt, and signaled Jimmy to go on about his work. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he went on once Jimmy had stepped outside, “but isn’t it kind of dangerous staying with an Indian woman now that there’s been more fighting? I don’t know if you heard, but the Indians attacked Fort Defiance in New Mexico Territory. Shows how risky it is, being around Indians. You wait until John Breckenridge is President. He’ll know what to do about the Indians.”

“Mary Fox,” said Madelaine, using Fox Woman’s name among the whites, “is a Choctaw, not a Navajo, and unlike the Navajo, she is not being denied food by the army.” She had read about the incident in the St. Louis paper and had thought that the army had bungled the whole of their dealings with the Navajo. “The army ought never to have shot the Navajos’ sheep.”

Gregory Holt scoffed. “You got to keep the Indians in line, Ma’am. Look what happened during the Seminole Wars.”

Madelaine recalled Tecumseh’s tales of fighting the Seminoles; even the Choctaw had little good to say about the aggressive Floridian people. “I don’t know that the situations are similar. The Navajo did not attack the fort until the army killed their sheep. The Seminole have a long tradition of war for war’s sake, or so the Choctaw have told me.” She drew on her gloves and pulled her cloak around her in preparation for stepping out into the rain. “Oh, and I trust all is well with your family, Mister Holt.” This was an afterthought, for she realized she had not seen Amanda Holt in the rear of the store today or the month before. “Will you give Missus Holt my regards? And all your children?” She had only met four of them, but was aware of another two at least.

“My wife’s doing poorly, thank you for asking, Ma’am, and stays to home, most days. She’s of an age when women take up humors; you know how it can be for some women when they come to that time in life.” He shrugged, slightly embarrassed that he should mention so delicate a matter to this stranger. “Doctor put her on beef-broth-and-cream for a month. We’ll see how she does.”

Against her better judgment, Madelaine said, “I have a nostrum with me that might ease her condition, if you would like me to send some to her. It is not unpleasant, I assure you, and I have seen it do good many times. Luke Greentree will bring it, if you will allow
. . .
.”

The marked distress with which Gregory Holt met this offer would have been comical if he were not so clearly frightened. “Ma’am, it wouldn’t be right, taking anything from Indians. Best not.”

“Not from Indians, Mister Holt, from me,” said Madelaine patiently, watching Jimmy put the last of the three large boxes onto the pack saddle of her second horse and went to work securing it in place with wide leather straps. “Or are you worried that because I am French, there might be Papist contamination in the remedy? I can promise you that—”

“I don’t think about those things, Ma’am. I leave it to Preacher Johnson. He knows what to do.” He looked around uneasily. “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s right kindly of you to want to help my Missus. Not saying anything against you, but everyone knows you’re staying with Mary Fox, and she’s one of those Indian women who make potions. I don’t reckon my wife would be willing to take a chance on something you gave her. No offence. Sorry, Ma’am.” He indicated the messy street, and said, “Jimmy’s holding your horse.”

“Thank you, Mister Holt,” said Madelaine, saddened that she would not be allowed to aid the man’s wife. “I will see you in a month, if the road is passable.”

“You got enough food to keep you for two months, it looks like,” he said, trying to make polite conversation once more.

Madelaine smiled distantly. “Yes. I suppose I do,” she said, and went out into the storm.

With Fox Woman, near Aurora, Alabama, Christmas Day, 1860

We have kept a special fire burning for the last two weeks, made of dried blossoms and fragrant wood. We will keep it lit for another six days, to ensure the return of the sun and the reawakening of the earth. How strange that so many people throughout the world should light fires at the Winter Solstice to bring back the sun. Or perhaps it is not strange at all, only a human wish to influence things beyond their powers to affect. . . .

I have been reading
On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection
by Charles Darwin, and I certainly understand why the book has been considered so controversial. I must write to Saint-Germain to find out what he thinks of this theory; I am much persuaded by the arguments presented in the work. Surely, if what Darwin is saying is valid, Saint-Germain, with his four thousand years, will have seen much the same thing as the adaptations described in these pages. . . . I mentioned the thrust of the work to Fox Woman, but she is not interested in speculations of this sort. For her, the First Ancestor is responsible for all life, and there is no reason to look further for explanations. . . .

The people in Aurora are outraged at the election of Abraham Lincoln to be President of the United States. When I visited the town yesterday, there was a general air of angry unrest that is troublesome. . . . They say Lincoln is a dangerous, untrustworthy lawyer who will bring shame on the country. Most of them would have preferred John C. Breckenridge, or even the more radical Stephen A. Douglas, Lincoln’s long-time political rival, to Lincoln. All the town is alive with rumors, though there is no reliable news as the roads to Blountsville, Gasden, Murphree’s Valley, Guntersville, and Lebanon are nearly impassable, and those are the only places where real news may be had. . . . There is talk of secession in the town, and the belief that a challenge to the North must come soon, before the Abolitionists bring ruin on the South. Some of the men are saying that the slaves will be encouraged by Lincoln to rise against their masters and make the masters the slaves. . . .

With so much excitement, I have found it more difficult to visit men in their dreams. Most are easily roused now, and their sleep is restless, no matter how carefully I lull them into that profound slumber. Twice I have almost been discovered. . . .

Frost hung on the leaves and glittered on the path to Fox Woman’s door; it was early on an icy February morning, and Luke Greentree’s breath ghosted his face. “I wish you would reconsider,” he said to Madelaine. “There is still time to get you to the Choctaw Nation and away from any chance of fighting.”

“I doubt a place like Aurora is going to be under fire, even if war does break out,” said Madelaine as she wrapped her thick woolen shawl more tightly around her. “I think it would be best to remain here until the trouble is resolved. This place is isolated, and I don’t think we’ll have much to worry about. If there is fighting, everyone says it will be over quickly.”

Luke Greentree coughed once. “We will have to leave you here alone, Madame. It is not what we promised to do.”

“I realize that,” said Madelaine, and determined to provide him some respite from his own demanding conscience. “And when you made me your promise, neither you nor I could have anticipated that secession would come so quickly, or spread as far as it has. You cannot hold yourself responsible for what has happened.”

“Still, I do not want to leave you here,” he said slowly. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to return.” He looked up into the brightening dawn. “What will I tell my brother?”

“You may tell him that you did your best to convince me to leave before secession began, and I did not heed you; it is my fault that you are not able to fulfill your promise.” she said, pleased that it was the truth. “I will not hold you accountable for what may happen now. It is beyond anything you or I might do. Your honor is not in question, Luke Greentree, not by me, and not by your brother, I am certain of it.”

“I am not so certain,” said Luke Greentree, his face revealing little of the anxiety that colored his voice. “My brother placed you in my care.”

“But he had no reason to think that war would break out,” said Madelaine reasonably. “And he cannot hold you accountable for it.” Had he been European, she would have rested her hand on his arm, but she knew this familiarity would not be welcome to him, so she deliberately spoke more softly, leaning slightly toward him. “You have a right to do as you think best in this matter without regard to my situation. If you truly support the union, then it is best that you should go with your friends and volunteer for the army in the North. You need not remain here on my account, when so many of your Choctaw men are determined to support states’ rights and the secession.”

“It is a bitter thing when a nation is divided,” said Luke Greentree.

“Yes, it is,” Madelaine agreed, thinking back to the days of the Revolution in France, and recalling how deeply the wounds of that event had struck. She did not like to think of the United States being similarly torn.

“I do not know when the Choctaw Nation will be whole again.” He fell silent.

Madelaine tried again. “Listen to me, Luke Greentree. You cannot remain here, no matter what I do, so let me urge you to do as your honor requires, and act with the forces you favor. I will manage well enough. I have come this far without serious mishap.” She added inwardly that the only exception to that was Tecumseh, and he had nothing to do with the conflict. “And when it is over, you may return and give me the escort you promised. Will that do?”

He almost shrugged, and allowed her to convince him. “After the war. If all goes well, by this time next year, I will return and take you to Charleston, or all the way to Baltimore, if that is your wish.”

“I hope to see you by the end of summer, in happier times,” said Madelaine, and held out her hand to him. “I wish you good fortune in your battles, Luke Greentree.”