Rose's Pledge (9 page)

Assorted night sounds magnified in the fading twilight around the camp, adding to Rose’s heightened anxiety as she tried to dislodge a piece of dried meat from between her teeth with her tongue. Losing a battle with persistent mosquitoes that seemed drawn to the light, she appreciated the swift bats cavorting overhead, making a meal of the loathsome insects. Across the fire from her, Mr. Smith sipped from a tin mug of steaming tea, straight from a beat-up old pot, leaves and all. She ignored his steady perusal of her, unable to envision what tasteless gruel he expected her to concoct next.

He pointed with a grubby finger toward one of the stained tarps now stretched out about three feet above the rocky, leaf-strewn ground. The poorest excuse for a red blanket she had ever seen had been tossed beneath, apparently for her use. “Over there’s where you’ll bed down fer the night.”

Rose slid a troubled glance from the makeshift bed to the Indians crouched around another campfire a scarce stone’s throw away.

Smith gave a snort. “Don’t bother frettin’, little missy. Them redskins know yer my property, an’ they’ll think twice b’fore triflin’ with anything what b’longs to me.”

Thus far the trader had shown no inclinations of a trifling nature either, but Rose dreaded having to attempt sleeping on hard ground that in all likelihood would be damp and lumpy with rocks. Far worse, that disgusting blanket quite possibly housed lice, bedbugs—or some other night-crawling vermin known only to the colonies. A shiver coursed through her at the unwelcome possibility.

Thankful she’d had foresight enough to pack some necessities for the journey from England, Rose got up from the chest she’d used for a seat and dragged it over to the tarp. She’d use the scant bedding she’d brought with her, along with her cloak, to ward off the night chill. Her shawl would do for a pillow, and the trunk itself would provide whatever privacy she could hope for in such a situation. As to whether she’d get a wink of sleep in the company of so many strange men was yet to be determined—especially with unseen forest creatures prowling about. After heading for a nearby bush to answer nature’s call, she returned to her designated sleeping spot, swallowing her fear as the mournful howl of wolves filtered through the trees.

Surely Mr. Smith and the others would keep their weapons at the ready, she assured herself as she tried to ignore the incessant chirping of crickets. The men seemed to be used to making their way through the wilderness. Down on her knees while she created her own small haven in the dark, Rose heard the hobbled horses in the meadow whinny as they’d done that afternoon, when they’d signaled the approach of riders. She paused in her work and peered over her trunk.

Mr. Smith snatched up his musket and stepped out of the glow of the campfire, and the Indians melted silently into the shadows.

Rose’s pulse throbbed in her throat. She’d heard tales of land pirates—and of savage Indians who tortured and murdered unsuspecting folks. Now she could only wait to see what sort of fate awaited this camp in the wilds. The temperature had dipped lower once the sun was no longer dominating the daytime hours, and a cool, pine-scented breeze wafted through the clearing, adding to her shivers.

“Halloo the camp!” came a shout from the direction of approaching horse hooves. “It’s us. Nate Kinyon and Black Horse Bob.”

Releasing a slow breath, Rose eased up in her hiding place behind the trunk as Mr. Smith and the Indians moved back into the firelight, their weapons now lowered. The silhouettes of two riders on horseback, followed by a couple of packhorses, met her eyes. And foolish though she knew it was, Rose had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

Mr. Smith, however, appeared none too pleased to have visitors. His expression in the erratic firelight resembled a scowl as the two riders in fringed buckskin dismounted. Rose couldn’t discern the newcomers’ features in the dark, but she recognized the taller of the pair as Mr. Kinyon. She focused on his familiar form, still appealing and muscular in the brushed leather clothing as he towered over her owner.

“Thought you was headed downriver,” the trader said, his tone somewhat accusing.

Kinyon shrugged, moving closer into the fire glow. “Been gone from home so long I figgered Ma wouldn’t recognize me anyway.”

Rose noticed that the other frontiersman wore dark braids and had a lithe build similar to those of the Indians at the other fire. He gave a hearty whack to Kinyon’s back. “‘Specially in them fancy duds. Ol’ Nate looked like one of them parrots I once saw down in York Town. All bright colored and struttin’ up an’ down on some ol’ sea captain’s shoulder like he was the king of the realm.”

Apparently still put off by their unexpected arrival, Mr. Smith gave a grudging grunt at the man’s levity.

Mr. Kinyon swept a glance around in the darkness, taking measure of the camp. “Where’s our Miss Harwood, Eustice?”

“She ain’t
your
anything,” the trader rasped. “Don’t be gettin’ any notions about her in yer head. But seein’ as how you two are here, yer welcome to stay. The more weapons the better.”

Listening to the exchange, Rose felt silly crouched down in the shadowed confines of the tarp, but she wasn’t certain it would be prudent to stand and present herself.

Mr. Smith made the decision for her. “As fer my cook, my property, she’s already abed.” He didn’t bother to gesture in her direction.

The braided fellow tilted his dark head. “Now that’s a real shame. I was lookin’ forward to seein’ this
property
of yours. Reckon it can wait’ll mornin’. Think I’ll mosey over and see what our Shawnee brothers think of the new gal. That might be pretty interestin’.” He flashed an amused grin.

Rose watched from her haven as the man left his friend and joined the Indians sitting cross-legged around the other campfire. From what she could tell in the limited light, he appeared to have a darker complexion than either Smith or Kinyon. Possibly he was an Indian himself, though the easy way he had of speaking like a white man surprised her. She returned her attention to the trader and their other visitor.

“I drunk up most of the tea, but I believe there’s some dregs left in the pot,” Smith said. “There’s cups in that sack by yer foot.”

Deciding his tone had taken on a smidgen of friendliness, Rose eased down on her makeshift bed and laid her head on her wadded-up shawl. An owl hooted from not far away, and as she leaned out from the tarp toward the sound, her breath caught at the beauty of the night sky. Millions of stars twinkled like diamonds against the cobalt blue, reminding her of the awesome power of God and His tender care for His creation. She hoped He hadn’t forgotten her and her plight. Deep in thought, she breathed in the night air bearing traces of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the ever-present pine.

The firelight reflecting on the tarp was blocked momentarily then reappeared as Mr. Kinyon moved between her sleeping spot and the fire to settle down with her owner. “Don’t s’pose you heard anything new from up New York way while you was down in Baltimore.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’m just wonderin’, since the French sent that large force down from Fort Frontenac on the Ontario. Hear tell they’re plannin’ to build forts down as far as the Ohio. The Federation’s gettin’ real nervous.”

“You talkin’ the Iroquois Federation? What difference would it make to them, I’d like ta know. If anybody should start worryin’, it should be us English traders.”

“The Mohawks especially are concerned about the Senecas. Pretty much all the Seneca villages have pulled up stakes an’ are now hangin’ out at the French posts. Lots of gifts an’ promises have been made to ‘em. The other tribes are afraid the French’ll woo ‘em into attackin’ the English tradin’ posts along the rivers.”

Listening to the news, Rose edged forward a bit and tugged her cloak more closely around herself. She’d hoped the conflict between the Indian tribes and the settlers had eased long ago as the colonies became more populated.

Kinyon continued in his even tone. “Since the Federation chiefs signed agreements to support the English, you’d better believe they ain’t happy. If there’s trouble, they say they won’t attack their Seneca brothers. They figure that’d destroy their own treaties.”

The trader snorted. “Aw, just more of the same ol’ gossip. Most of the Iroquois tribes are partial to our trade goods. They’ll stick with us.

‘Sides, it don’t have nothin’ to do with me. My store’s in a Shawnee town. Way south of all that squabblin’ betwixt the governor of New York an’ the Frenchies.”

Shawnee town? Weren’t the Shawnee a tribe of Indians?
Why, that awful man was carting her off to the wilds to live in an Indian town! Rose’s spirits sank to a new low. Each piece of information she’d heard this day was worse than the one before. She settled into her uncomfortable, lumpy bed, her thoughts awhirl in her head. This whole thing had to be a really bad dream. Soon she’d wake up to find all would be well.

Lord God in heaven, please make this circumstance merely a horrible nightmare. Ever since Mother passed away, I’ve been faithful to do my duty. I took care of my family just as I was supposed to. I ran a fine household. I lived the life You ordained. But now …I feel as if I’ve been thrown out to be devoured by wolves
.

Hot tears trailed down her cheeks, and Rose curled into a ball, pulling her cloak over her head. It was bad enough having had to dispose of treasured family possessions and be forced to leave her beloved homeland to endure endless days of seasickness and weeks on a ship tossed about on angry waves. Then to be humiliated before leering strangers on an auction block and parted from her sisters for an interminable time. But now this! This was far worse. Here she was in the midst of some frightful, unknown wilderness with an uncouth man dragging her off to a village of heathens who spoke a tongue she did not understand—and who might invariably decide to murder her in the end. What had she done to deserve such a horrid fate?

Chapter 6

A
cacophony of birdsong drew Rose out of deep slumber. Surmising she must have left the window open, she snuggled deeper into her warm haven for a few more moments of sleep before rising to prepare breakfast for her family.

The raucous
rat-a-tat-tat
of a woodpecker brought her fully awake, to the realization that there was no window, there was no family. She was in the middle of nowhere, a lone woman in a camp full of men, most of whom were heathen Indians.

As she rolled over to take a look beyond her trunk, every bone in her body ached, and muscles she’d been completely oblivious to all of her life protested. The mere thought of having to get on that blasted mangy horse again made her want to groan aloud. Nevertheless, she managed a painful roll onto her side and raised her head enough to peek out at the camp.

The faint blush of dawn was just beginning to make an appearance through a break in the trees. Rose barely made out two men slumbering beneath furry hides near the dead campfire, likely Mr. Kinyon and his friend. Off to one side of them, loud snoring interspersed with the occasional snort drifted from beneath a strung tarp. She smirked.

Mr. Smith, of course.

A number of yards away, the Indians occupying the other camp also lay sleeping. At least it would allow her time to go down to the creek and make herself more presentable. Perhaps more than presentable. She needed to look as good as humanly possible so Mr. Kinyon would feel compelled to do all in his power to redeem her from Mr. Smith and reunite her with her sisters.

She eased gingerly to her knees and crawled out from under her tarp then forced herself to stand, biting her lip at the aches and pains the slightest movement caused. Cautiously picking up her valise so as not to disturb the others, she tiptoed on stiff legs out of the camp toward the sound of the rushing creek.

But …fifty pounds. That was a fortune indeed, an insurmountable amount of money for someone to acquire.
Father, it cannot be Your will that I be taken into a land of wild savages. The Bible says that nothing is too hard for You. Surely You can get me back to civilization
.

Detecting movement back at the camp, Rose looked over her shoulder and saw one of the Indians beginning to stir. Once again she was reminded of her precarious situation. She hoped the God who made the heavens truly knew about her. And truly cared.