Rose's Pledge (8 page)

In the shadowed foliage, the mounted Indian appeared darker than ever as a sly, unpleasant smirk brought a sinister glint to his coal-black eyes.

Rose pretended not to notice and gazed beyond him to the rest of the pack train traversing along a path so narrow it could accommodate only a single horse at a time. Each of the five Indian riders trailed a string of four loaded animals behind them. Taking up the rear, another whip-wielding Indian, this one in buckskin trousers and an open buckskin vest, drove a bull, two cows, and a calf. Feathers adorned his braided hair, also. For such a ragtag, motley party of travelers, they made quite an impressive assemblage, Rose decided. Perhaps Mr. Smith’s establishment was not nearly so primitive as he and his native helpers appeared.

The Indian at the rear gave a smart crack of his whip, and Rose jumped at the unexpected sound. The rider behind her chuckled under his breath, adding to her already strained nerves. She sat up straighter, determined not to appear like some weak, simpering female as they forged ever deeper into woods so thick with growth hardly a breath of wind stirred through the treetops.

A spot on one of her thinly pantalooned legs began to chafe. Not wanting to draw undue attention, she casually tucked a bit of petticoat between the hard leather saddle and her knee. Traveling at this slow pace had enabled her to adjust quickly enough to riding horseback, but she feared the animal’s swaying and bumping would inevitably take its own toll.

Suddenly from off to the side, wild snapping and cracking echoed through the dense brush. Rose’s heart pounded, and she tightened her grip on the saddle’s pommel. A doe plunged out of the growth in a blur of brown, missing her by mere inches as it leaped across the trail and clattered into the undergrowth on the other side.

Some other wild creature must be chasing after it!
Rose held her breath, waiting, listening, but when she heard nothing but the blowing and
clop-clop
of the horses, the straining of leather, and an occasional birdcall or tree toad, her panic eased. Ahead of her, Mr. Smith continued on as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, while she still trembled from head to foot—and this journey into the notorious unknown had only just begun.

A familiar phrase popped into her mind.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …”

That’s where I’m going, dear Lord
. As she felt herself losing the last shred of control, she recalled the rest of the verse:
“I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.”

Are You with me, Father? Will You come with me into this dark, mysterious land? Please don’t forsake me, Lord. I’m so alone
.

Chapter 5

T
he woodland trail made a gradual ascent to higher ground as the afternoon slipped away. Now and then an occasional break in the dense forest growth provided Rose with a brief glimpse of a nearby stream paralleling the trail. Occasionally she heard disturbing and unfamiliar wild cries emanating from deep in the forest on either side. Determined not to let them affect her, she governed her emotions and watched Mr. Smith for his reaction. Nothing seemed to disturb him.

His horse whinnied then, as did the others. The trader reined his animal to a stop and pulled a pistol out of his belt.

Rose’s horse came automatically to a stop behind Mr. Smith’s, its ears perked and flicking from side to side. Rose tensed, wishing she had a firearm of her own for protection. She detected the sound of hooves coming toward them from the opposite direction and turned to glance at the Indian in back of her.

He, too, had drawn a weapon. A big, long musket.

From around a curve rode two bearded, scraggly, lean men attired in the fringed garb Rose had become used to seeing since her arrival in the backcountry. They also held weapons at the ready.

“That you, Smith?” the lead rider hollered. “Thought fer sure the buzzards had picked them bones o’ yers clean by now.”

“It’s me, all right. An’ still in the flesh, to boot.” He tucked away his pistol. “You boys headed in to spend yer money?”

The man in front grinned, drawing up alongside Mr. Smith. “That’s the plan. Gonna have me a high ol’ time with—” Catching sight of Rose, his mouth gaped open. “Horsefeathers, Eustice. You got yerself a young white woman there!”

He straightened in the saddle and lifted his bearded chin. “No. What I got me is a cook there. An’ don’t none of you yahoos forget it.”

Dragging his eyes off Rose, the man swung around to the rider in back of him. “You see that? Smith’s got hisself a—a cook!” Turning again to the trader, his mouth went into a slack grin. “If ‘n you say so.”

“I do.” His tone took on a defensive edge, and no smile softened his demeanor. “The gal’s me bondservant, bought an’ paid for with hard cash.”

“Well, I’ll be dogged.” The newcomer’s eyes raked over Rose in a slow survey. “Where ‘bouts could a body find a cook like that, I’d like ta know.”

“On the docks in Baltimore. That’s where.” The trader nudged his mount into motion and maneuvered it around the first rider. “Don’t have no time to chew the fat with you boys. We’re losin’ daylight. See y’all later.”

Rose’s horse started dutifully behind him. As she passed the riders, she was extremely conscious of the way they filled their eyes with her as if they hadn’t seen a female in years. But then, all she’d seen for the past several days was men. The sight of another woman would be just as welcome to her. She’d be glad to reach Mr. Smith’s store and meet his wife. She was in dire need of feminine companionship herself at this point.

In the waning daylight, Mr. Smith guided his mount off the path and into a small, level clearing, where he came to a stop. He swung down and approached Rose. “We’ll make camp here fer the night. My stomach’s not farin’ so good. I’ll have the boys get a fire started fer ya an’ fetch the fixin’s fer some mush whilst you go milk the fresh cow.”

Still perched on her horse, Rose swept a glance around. “I’m sorry. I don’t see a place to cook in.”

With an incredulous grimace that scrunched up one side of his scruffy face, he shrugged. “Place! There ain’t no place. Just pick a spot.” He shook his head in disgust.

She stared dumbly down at the man. “Surely you’re not saying we’ll be staying here! On the ground!”

“That’s right, missy. Right here on the ground. Now get yerself down. I’m hungry.” He started to walk away.

“Wait!” Rose tried to come up with some graceful way of getting off her mount while renewed panic filled her. “I’m not sure I know what mush is, and I’ve never milked a cow before in my life.”

Smith stopped in his tracks and turned to gawk at her then narrowed his eyes. “Ya said ya was a cook. Were ya gullin’ me?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Then it’s best ya get busy, ain’t it?” He reached up without so much as a by-your-leave and hauled her right off the horse.

It was most fortunate that he kept hold of her momentarily, because her legs felt really strange after riding on a saddle all afternoon. It was all she could do not to sink to the ground in a graceless heap. Doing what she could to gather herself together, she gave him her most forthright look. “I daresay I’m considered quite a fine cook …in an actual kitchen …with milk already waiting in a pail. And what, might I ask, is mush?” She waved aside a pesky fly.

The trader rolled his eyes and muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he wagged his head in scorn—actions he repeated numerous times over the course of the next quarter hour while he demonstrated how to dispense milk from a cow’s udder.

Rose found the squeeze-and-pull chore a touch more difficult than it looked—especially with so many muscles in her lower regions aching while she stooped. And the fact that her Indian audience grinned and snickered at her clumsy efforts didn’t make it any easier. Apparently they considered her as inept as Mr. Smith did—these Indians who were supposed to be so dangerous. Though she still felt a bit ill at ease in their presence, they had yet to do anything threatening other than leer in her direction from time to time. Again she concluded that their exploits must have been exaggerated back in England. She purposely disregarded them and continued doing her best while they unloaded several items from the packhorses. She was glad to have a bit of space between her and them. Whenever they were near, she detected a stench she couldn’t identify.

After she’d managed to acquire a reasonable amount of milk from the soft-eyed cow, Mr. Smith directed Rose to a blazing campfire, where a tripod fashioned from sturdy sticks held a blackened pot suspended above the heat.

“Watch.” If he’d said that once during the last half hour, he’d said it a dozen times. He poured water from his flask into the kettle then opened a gunnysack slumped nearby along with several others. More than a little exasperated, he rammed his filthy hand into the bag and pulled out a fistful of gritty yellow powder. “Cornmeal.” Eyeing her pointedly, he tossed the grain into the pot then added a second handful.

It took all of Rose’s fortitude to restrain herself from giving the man a piece of her mind, but knowing it would be wiser to hold her tongue, she clamped her lips together. After all, she needed no reminder that she was in the middle of nowhere—a lone female with seven men—a precarious situation if ever there was one.

The trader grabbed a stick from a pile of kindling off to the side and rubbed it across his grubby pants as if that would do more to clean it than recent rains could have done, then used it to stir the contents of the pot. After that, she surmised, he no doubt expected her to eat the nasty mess.

“See?” Straightening from the fire, he turned to her with a smug grimace. “Nothin’ to it. Course it’ll need a pinch o’ salt, an’ I’m partial to some sweetenin’. After the water boils down some, pour in some o’ that rich milk. That’s all there is to it. Mush.” He handed Rose the stir stick. “Just don’t let it get lumpy.”

Determined to remain in the man’s good graces, Rose spoke in a casual tone. “I’ll do my best. But where might I find the salt and sugar?”

He squinted as if his patience had reached the painful limit and stepped directly in front of her, his foul breath almost smothering her. She held her ground despite the inclination to step back from the stench. “Don’t try playin’ dumb with me so’s I’ll send ya back, gal. It ain’t gonna happen.” He kicked at another large sack. “Salt.” And the one next to it. “Sugar.” With a “humph” of disgust, he stomped away to where the Indians were rigging tarps between trees.

Despite her intentions not to upset the trader any more than necessary, Rose gulped in dismay. Surely those flimsy bits of cloth would not constitute their only shelter for the night! The very thought made her ill. Mosquitoes had voracious appetites after dark, and already she had more bites than she could count. Each evening during the trip upriver, the trader had managed to secure food and lodging for the party at various villages along the way, so they’d been protected from insects. Tonight would be different.

How many more nights in the open lay ahead? Small wonder that when she questioned him about their destination he’d been so vague. The man was scarcely more than a sneaky weasel. But then she was probably every bit as stupid as he thought she was. Hadn’t she gotten herself in this untenable predicament in the first place? Even convicts balked at being sent to America as indentured servants to pay their sentences. She should have thought of that before undertaking such a rash course of action. Had she saved her father from prison only to condemn herself to an even worse fate?

As another mosquito sang in her ear, she swatted it away.

Observing her action, the trader chuckled. “If ya ask one o’ them Injuns fer some o’ that bear grease they smear on their bodies, ya won’t have none o’ them bugs botherin’ ya.”

Bear grease. So that accounted for the stench around them
. Rose didn’t respond.