Rose's Pledge (23 page)

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Fawn Woman coming her way.

The squaw didn’t bother with any sort of greeting. “You. Go. Me gown.” Rose sighed and went to fetch her sewing, which had been interrupted by the men’s departure. Nate had divulged a second reason why the Indian woman was so adamant about a new gown. Shawnee women didn’t have the fine thread or needles Rose possessed. Instead, they used leather thongs and reed strands, along with what looked like hair or whiskers from animals. The clothing they made appeared sturdy, but they were also coarse. Mrs. Smith would be quite the envy of the others in the village, having not one, but two cloth gowns.

Rose briefly considered selling two of her own better gowns out of the mere four she had brought from England. If what Mr. Smith predicted turned out to be true and Nate came up short of pelts even after several trips, the money her gowns might bring in could help out. Once the other squaws caught sight of Fawn Woman’s gown, they’d probably be willing to pay for one of their own.

Sinking down onto a log, Rose opened her sewing basket. Her thread supply was shrinking fast. She wished she’d had the foresight to bring much more along. Picking up the partially sewn gown, she set to work.

Her thoughts drifted to the possibility of leaving Mr. Smith’s protection and riding off with Nate Kinyon. Could that actually happen? And if so, would it be a wise choice? What exactly were Nate’s plans for her? Did he truly intend merely to return her to her sisters after everything he’d have to do to earn four hundred pounds? That was hard to believe. And he’d never even hinted at marriage.
Dear Lord, this is such a dilemma. I need Your wisdom to show me what to do
.

Just then a shadow moved across her basket, and Rose looked up.

Her heart froze.

Chapter 19

R
ose’s mouth dropped open in shock. A pitiful-looking white woman stood before her in a filthy, ragged daygown. Her puffy blue eyes were rimmed with red, her skin sallow and blotchy, and hair that once might have been the soft gold of a wheat field hung in matted strings. But far worse, cuts and bruises covered her face and all exposed skin. A whimpering infant was slung behind her slumped back.

Setting her work aside, Rose placed her sewing basket on the ground and stood, trying to compose herself. “What can I do for you?”

“Milk.” The word came out in a croak. “For my baby. I dried up.” With effort she drew a ragged breath. “I’m …dyin’.”

“That cannot be.” Rose glanced out across the village, but no one was paying them any mind, as if a woman so obviously suffering didn’t merit the slightest consideration. Swallowing her abhorrence, Rose motioned toward the sitting log. “Please, sit down. I’ll get milk for both of you.”

Trembling, the woman dropped down with a gasp.

Her heart crimping, Rose moistened her lips. “I’ll take the baby for you.” She lifted the infant out of the ragged sling, noticing that though the baby was thin and dirty, it seemed unhurt. She estimated its age to be four or five months at most. The little one gazed up with wide blue eyes, hungry eyes that made her wonder when it had last eaten.

Leaving the child’s mother, Rose hurried down to the brook, where she kept a pail of milk cool in the water’s flow, and fetched it back. She shifted the baby to one hip then plucked a couple of dipping gourds from her wigwam, along with one of the few small metal spoons Mr. Smith possessed and returned to the slumped woman. Setting down the pail, she quickly dipped some milk for her. “Here. This may make you feel a bit better.”

She raised a discolored arm and pushed the gourd away. Her hand burned with fever. “Jenny needs it more.”

Rose shook her head and thrust the milk back to her. “I’ve plenty for your baby girl. This is for you. Please drink it.” Satisfied when the woman acquiesced and raised it shakily to her lips, Rose dipped the second gourd into the pail and took a seat on a nearby fur blanket within eyesight of the baby’s mother. She began spoon-feeding the infant. The poor little thing slurped at it so greedily, Rose’s eyes swam. She could hardly get it to her fast enough.

The mother looked longingly at the baby devouring the milk, and she tried to smile. “My name …is Hannah Wright.” The strangled whisper seemed to sap much of her strength, but she took a sharp breath and went on. “I come from a homestead up near …the west fork of the Susquehanna.” A pause. “My husband’s name was Adam.”

As Hannah Wright drew another breath, Rose felt a sudden ache in her throat.
Past tense. He must be dead
. The baby squawked and kicked its tiny feet, and Rose resumed feeding it.

“Adam’s folks live east of there …near the main branch. Names are Edith and Chadwick Wright. Take Jenny Ann to them. Please.” She coughed. “You …only hope.”

“But you’re a hostage, are you not? Will the Indians allow me to take the baby?”

The still half-full gourd slipped from the feverish hand, and Hannah moaned, rocking back and forth as if consumed by pain.

Seeing the poor woman’s struggle to speak further, Rose propped the fur securely around the baby and stood to her feet. “We can talk later. First we need to take care of you. My name is Rose.”

Hannah held up a hand and wagged her head. “It’s …too late.” Moving aside her ragged skirt, she exposed a swollen leg that looked as if it had been hacked at with a tomahawk. Discolored and covered with dried blood and oozing pus, it smelled like rotting fish.

The hideous sight almost caused Rose’s stomach to heave. Unable to fathom such vile cruelty, she quickly inhaled to keep from fainting.

Mr. Smith ambled up to them. He stared at the woman but did not appear surprised or appalled upon seeing her. “Who’s this?”

His indifference angered Rose. “We must get this poor woman out of this place.”

“Too late,” Hannah whispered again. She tried to raise a hand but barely succeeded. It fell back onto her lap. “Take my Jenny.”

Furious now, Rose swept Hannah’s skirt aside, displaying the putrid injury the unfortunate young woman had suffered. “Look at this, Mr. Smith. Have you medicine at the store that might help her?”

He took one look then shrugged and shook his shaggy head. Bending over, he gave the woman’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Sorry as I can be, missy. It’s past any helpin’ at this point. Should’a been tended days ago.”

Her reddened eyes filled with tears.

Rose stared at him in dismay. “But we
must
do something.”

“Fawn Woman!” Smith hollered, straightening up.

The squaw looked over at him with a sour face as she sat stringing some shiny beads near their wigwam. She grudgingly got to her feet and came to join him.

He glared at her. “When was this gal brought here? Why weren’t her wounds tended to?”

The baby began to fuss, so Rose stooped down and fed her a little more milk while Fawn Woman rattled off an explanation in her language. Then, as if Hannah didn’t exist, she turned around and sauntered off to her beads again, obviously devoid of interest in the matter.

Such heartlessness and savage inhumanity revolted Rose. So the stories she’d heard about the hellish treatment whites received from Indians were true, after all. Hannah Wright was proof. The possibility that such vicious cruelty could one day be inflicted upon her, but for the trader’s presence, made Rose’s blood turn cold.

Mr. Smith turned to her. “This is how it is. The woman an’ babe were brought here as slaves by the son-in-law of an old woman. He was replacin’ his wife an’ son, who both died during the birthin’. The brave’s not real fond of his wife’s mother, an’ he decided to rid himself of havin’ to care fer the ol’ gal. Problem is, the girl was hurt pretty bad when she ran the gauntlet. Worse, the baby’s not a boy, so the mother-in-law says she’s been cheated. She threw this one an’ her babe out an’ is refusin’ to claim them. Nobody else wants a dyin’ woman, an’ nobody wants the babe, either, ‘cause there’s already a lot more women than men in the village, what with all the warrin’ betwixt the tribes. She’s been draggin’ herself around fer days, fightin’ the dogs fer scraps to eat.”

It was hard for Rose to get words past the clog in her throat. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she went to Hannah and wrapped her arms around the poor woman.

Hannah made an effort to stand, finally managing with Rose’s help. She gasped for breath. “Now
I
understand.”

Rose struggled to support the weakened girl’s nearly dead weight. “Mr. Smith, help me to get her to my bed. I’ll do what I can.”

She began to cry. “Thank you, Rose,” she whispered between gulps. “God bless you.”

Giving little thought to her clean bedding, Rose and Mr. Smith lay Hannah gently down onto her pallet. Filth could be washed away. Help could not wait. Rose touched the burning brow. “I’ll get some cool water and a washing cloth. We’ll have you clean and comfortable soon.”

“My baby.”

“Don’t you worry about Jenny. We shall tend her as well.” She slanted a pointed look at Mr. Smith and arched a brow. “Will we not?” “Aye.” He grimaced. “Fawn Woman’ll see to her right away.” Moments later, Rose brought some washrags and a bucket of water into the wigwam. Hannah appeared to be fast asleep but startled when Rose ran a cool cloth gently over one of her arms. She closed her bruised fingers around Rose’s hand. “My name is Hannah Wright. My …husband’s folks are near—”

“Shh,” Rose crooned. “I remember. The Susquehanna. Rest now. You and your baby are safe here.” But a new worry assailed Rose. Wasn’t the Susquehanna the river up which Lily had been taken? Was any white person truly safe in this wild land? She breathed another swift prayer for God to watch over her little sister.

“Jesus promised …to send someone,” Hannah whispered. “And He sent you.” She closed her eyes, and the slightest smile played over her cracked lips.

The sentiment stunned Rose.
Me, sent by God?
Had God planned months ago, before she’d ever left England and sailed to America, that she would be here at this very place to help Hannah Wright? Freshening the rag in the cool water again, she felt renewed hope spring to life in her heart. God truly did have a purpose for bringing her here.

Hannah mumbled something unintelligible just then.

“What did you say, dear?”

Her eyes still closed, she drew a labored breath. “I don’t mind dyin’. I’m goin’ to my Adam. He’s …waitin’ for me.” She smiled again, a real smile this time.

Blinded by her own tears now, Rose continued to wash the precious woman. She needed to be beautiful for her husband.

Chapter 20

R
ose felt the little warm baby stir beside her as it breathed in soft content. Having gotten only snatches of sleep, she opened her eyes to the pitch-dark night and listened once again for Hannah’s raspy breathing. Ominous silence filled the air.

Pulling back the light cover over her and Jenny, Rose crawled across to where the child’s mother lay. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she reached out and found Hannah’s face. Where there had been a raging fever, the skin was cool to the touch, and no breath issued from Hannah’s lungs. Already on her knees, Rose sank the rest of the way down onto her folded legs with the realization that Jenny’s mother had died. She’d put up a valiant struggle to stay alive until she knew her little one was safe, and once she had that assurance, she’d let herself go.

Tears Rose had banked earlier that day broke through her resolve and streamed down her cheeks. Hannah was the second young mother whose untimely death she had witnessed. Rose’s own mother had been only a few years older than Rose was now and had been in the process of giving birth to a new babe when the angel of death had paid a visit. It seemed so senseless at the time—just as Hannah’s dying seemed senseless now. And it, too, had left Rose in mourning and burdened with the responsibility of a baby.

She crept back to the slumbering little one and snuggled close to her softness, breathing in her little clean smell and seeking comfort for herself and for the tiny orphan.

Then terrible doubt surfaced.
Father God, the Bible says our times are in Your hand, but I cannot understand how You could allow such a tragic thing to happen to someone so undeserving of this horrid fate as Hannah Wright. She was Your child. Surely she must have cried out to You to save her. But You did not. Are You really there? Do You really care?