Susan never regained consciousness. Approaching the midnight hour, she drew one last, gurgling gasp, and her soul took flight. The features so recently pinched with suffering relaxed, and an almost-smile settled over her lips. The death watch had finally, mercifully, come to an end.
Silver-haired Eva Shepard’s generous bosom rose and fell as her faded blue eyes darted from Lily to Margaret; then she got up from her chair and drew the sheet over Susan’s face.
Lily’s own heart seemed to stop as she swallowed a huge lump in her throat and stared at the still form beneath the quilt.
With a sigh, Margaret reached out and touched her arm. “Go fetch the family Bible, child. You need to write down the date of her passing.”
“Oh. Of course.” Walking out into the cabin’s darkened main room, Lily lit a table lamp, then collected a quill and ink jar and brought them to the dining table. The Bible still lay open to 1 Corinthians, where she’d been reading earlier. She flipped to the beginning of the volume, to the page where family records were listed.
Scanning down the contents, she sank onto the nearest chair. The facts of the Waldons’ life together were all there—their births, the date of their marriage, the day each child had been born. Now Lily would make this unhappy recording. She dipped the quill into the ink and tried to steady her hand as she wrote: Susan Gilford Waldon died on Sunday, the tenth day of July, 1757.
Finished scribing the words, she closed her eyes against stinging tears. Dear, sweet Susan had died at such a young age. She’d lived a scant thirty-one years, five months, and two days, far too many of which had been spent under unspeakable suffering. It was so unfair. So senseless.
Lily blew on the wet ink. Oh, Lord, please don’t let this cup of suffering visit our little Emmy, too…. I beg of You.
Closing the Bible, she glanced up at the loft, where the boys lay sleeping. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to tell them about their loss.
By the time the sun passed its zenith, much had been accomplished. Ian MacBride had come by shortly after dawn to check on Susan’s condition. Upon hearing the sad news, he rode across the creek and asked Richard Shaw to build a coffin; then he rode on to inform the rest of the families in the cove. Because of the hot, sultry weather, he scheduled the funeral service for the following evening, figuring that if Cal Patterson didn’t run into trouble, he’d be back with John by tomorrow afternoon.
John…here…tomorrow. Try as she might, Lily couldn’t keep the thought out of her mind. How would he deal with having missed his wife’s final moments?
Washing the dishes after the noon meal, she noticed that the pounding of hammers in the workshop had become sporadic. She looked across to the squat building. Mr. Shaw and the boys must be almost finished with their task. The boys. As before, they wanted to keep busy away from the house while Lily helped the older women prepare their mother’s body for burial.
The dog started barking, and a different sort of pounding drifted her way now—but not from the shop. She pushed the window open wider. Hoofbeats. Someone was coming. Fast. Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried out the open door. It couldn’t possibly be John coming so soon.
She reached the edge of the porch just as the rider rounded the building. Ian MacBride. The older man’s mount skidded to a stop before her, lathered and panting hard.
Ian swung a frantic glance about. “Richard! Where’s Richard?”
“In the shop.”
Having heard the commotion, Mr. Shaw, Matt, and Luke exited the building with weapons in hand and approached Ian with questioning frowns.
“Matt!” Ian ordered. “Ride over to the Shaws’ and on to my place. Tell the women to bring the children here to the blockhouse while we’re gone. You, too, Lily. Richard, mount up. We’ve no time to spare!”
Lily’s heartbeat quickened. Something was amiss. “Where are you going?”
Even as Mr. Shaw bolted for the hitching rail and his horse, Lily leaped from the porch and captured Ian’s mount’s bridle. “What’s happened?”
His wife echoed Lily’s question from the porch. “Yes, Ian. What’s wrong? Are we bein’ attacked? We need to know.”
“We didn’t hear no warnin’ shots,” frizzy-haired Eva piped in as she came alongside Margaret.
“There weren’t any.” Ian stared at them momentarily, then dismounted. He stepped up to Lily and took her by the shoulders, his demeanor grave.
A dreadful foreboding tightened her chest. Whatever the trouble was, it couldn’t be good.
The old man’s eyes softened as he gazed down at her. “Now, I dunna’ want ye to be frettin’, lass. There was only three of ’em, near as we could tell.”
“Three of whom?” Lily felt her panic rising.
“We’re thinkin’ Indians. They was most likely sent ahead to scout out the cove. When Mary and Emma dinna’ come back from takin’ leftovers to the springhouse, Nancy sent her Henry to fetch them. He come runnin’ back alone, just as I rode in.”
Lily clutched his arms. “Are you telling me Indians took Emma and Mary?”
He gave a guilty shrug. “Dunna’ be worryin’. They’re afoot and canna’ have much of a lead. That’s why I dinna shoot off a warnin’. Dinna want ’em knowin’ we was onto ’em so quick.”
“Quick!” Lily all but spat. “Why on earth did you ride all the way back here?”
“I come for Richard. With most our men gone, there’s only me, Toby, and Richard. Robby’ll come with us, but he’s young.” Ian swung up into his saddle. “That’s why we want you womenfolk to go the blockhouse, just in case.”
Eva fisted her plump hands on her hips and leveled a stern glare. “You’re sayin’ they might be usin’ this to pull you men away from the cove.”
Before he offered a response, Lily saw that Mr. Shaw had mounted and started toward them, but in his own good-natured time. She whacked Ian’s horse on the rump. “Go! Now! Both of you. Get those little girls back!” Her knees almost gave way as she imagined her sweet angel in peril.
As the pair galloped off, Matt and Luke raced out of the stable, dragging unsaddled Smokey by the reins. “The Indians have Emma?” Matt yelled. “Luke, run in and get the musket.”
His brother sprinted for the house.
“No!” Lily shouted. “You were given another important job. Go tell Ruthie and Agnes. Now. And hurry back. Bring Davy with you.”
“Wait, Matt,” Luke called from the porch. “I’m goin’, too.”
The older lad held up a hand, taking charge as he scrambled up on the big-footed farm horse. “You’re needed here. Help Lily carry food and supplies to the blockhouse.” Ramming his heels into the horse’s flanks, he galloped toward the creek and the Shaw place a quarter mile away.
As Lily watched Matt ride confidently away, past the springhouse and beyond, the possibility of what could happen to poor little Emma flooded her mind…the tortures…the unspeakable horrors. Her little girl was so young, so tender.
’Tis my fault. I was the one who insisted she go to the Pattersons’.
Only the night before, Lily had pleaded with God for Emma. Surely the Lord would not answer her prayer in such a cruel, heartless way!
She started for the porch steps, but her shaking legs would not cooperate. She collapsed onto the bottom one, all pretense of control gone. Burying her face in her hands, she convulsed into wracking sobs. How much could a person bear? Susan lay dead in the house, and Emma— “Emma!”
John readjusted the knapsack strap gouging his shoulder and trudged with his scouting party through the gates of the stone fort. Weary after having searched the far side of the river as far as the Tuscarora Indian Path for the past three days, he was gratified there’d been no sign of the French. He shrugged off his gear and leaned his musket against the inside wall, then strode toward headquarters to report. As he walked, he pulled a rag from his belt to wipe the sweat and grime from his face.
“Waldon! Wait up!” Pat MacBride cut across the parade ground toward him.
John paused long enough for his neighbor to fall into step with him.
“How’d it go out there?” Pat asked.
“We didn’t see a sign of danger. What about the Juniata Path? Spot anything suspicious along there?”
“Nope, nary a thing. Who knows? Maybe the French are gettin’ stopped by our boys up north.”
“Or better yet, pushed all the way back to Canada. Wouldn’t that be great?” Swiping again at his damp forehead, John hiked a brow. “Any dispatch riders come in from up New York way while we were out?”
Pat wagged his head. “Just one checkin’ in from Fort Augusta. Here it is already July, an’ we’re still just hangin’ around, waitin’.”
“Yeah.” John clenched his teeth as he and his friend neared headquarters. He could’ve been to Beaver Cove and back half-a-dozen times by now, spent time with Susan and the rest of the family, checked on how Lily was coping with things….
“Rider comin’!” The shout came from the south watchtower.
Captain Busse and his orderly stepped outside headquarters and focused their attention on the gate. Then the commander spotted John and came down the steps. “Corporal Waldon. See any movement between the river and the Tuscarora Path?”
Stiffening his posture, John saluted his superior. “No, sir. Not a sign.”
The captain grunted and returned his attention to the gate as the rapid thud of hoofbeats grew nearer.
John also turned toward the sound as a rider came through the gate.
Slowing his mount to a walk, the newcomer whipped off his hat.
Cal! Recognizing his neighbor, John wondered if the man had decided to reenlist even with his bad knee.
Cal rode straight for headquarters and reined in, but without bothering to greet the captain, he lowered his gaze to John. “Thank the good Lord you’re here an’ not out on patrol.”
Dread gripped John. Only one thing could have brought his friend here right now. Susan.
“I rode hard to get here, John. Your wife took a turn for the worse.” He moistened his lips and averted his eyes to the ground. “She’s been real bad. I hate to say this, but it wouldn’t surprise me none if she already passed on.”
Before John could process the information, Busse stepped around him. “You’re Private Patterson, aren’t you?”
A frown drew his bushy eyebrows together. “I was, sir.”
“Which way did you come, perchance?”
Hearing their voices as if from far away, John gaped at the commander’s audacity to butt in where he wasn’t wanted. Still, stunned by the dire news Cal had delivered, he stood silently by while his friend answered.
“I cut across from Beaver Cove to the Susquehanna, an’ took the trace north from there.”
“Did you see any sign of the French? Any scouting parties?”
“Just some of your men, sir.”
Having had quite enough of Busse’s questions, John spoke up forcefully. “Captain. Permission to speak, sir.”
The commander reluctantly shifted his gaze. “Permission granted.”
“I’m sure you heard Patterson’s news. I must go home. If not for my wife,” he railed bitterly, “I have four young children there and must see to their welfare.”
The captain had the grace to look a bit guilty as he inhaled a deep breath and shifted his stance. “I…uh…am sorry about your wife, Waldon. Go see to your family. I’ll give you five days to take care of things. Take extra mounts so you’ll get there faster. But go home by the Tulpehocken Path and watch for Indian sign along the way.”
John couldn’t believe the man’s gall—expecting him to take time to scout on the way home to his dying wife!
Busse edged closer to John and spoke for his ears only. “A large war party has been sighted north of Fort Augusta. Godspeed.”
The frogs and insects along the creek kept up a steady racket punctuated by the occasional hoot of an owl. This long night refused to end. Too stressed to sleep, Lily shared sentinel duty on the top floor of the blockhouse with Cal’s grief-stricken wife. Nancy Patterson, known as the cove’s most fervent worrier, idly twisted a strand of her light blond hair within an inch of its life as she and Lily slowly, silently circled opposite sides of the perimeter, staring beyond the moonlit clearing into the inky blackness of the woods. As they watched and waited, they prayed fervently, ceaselessly, for the men to return with their girls…their little girls who’d been dragged off, frightened, helpless in the foul hands of savages.
“Think they’ll be all right?” Nancy’s whisper barely broke the silence as she turned her swollen blue eyes to Lily.
I don’t know! How could I know? Lily wanted to wail. But she forced herself to remain calm, recalling how her sister Rose might answer a senseless question. “We must trust the Lord,” she finally murmured. “Little ones are very precious to Him. I’m sure He’ll send angels to protect them. We have to believe that.”
“I know. I do. But it shore is a hard thing.” Nancy drew a ragged breath and turned her attention outward once again, her slender profile gilded by moonlight.
It was a hard thing for Lily, too. She’d had no words of comfort for the boys, especially Davy. She wondered if she truly had the kind of faith it took to trust God’s providence when it came to someone she loved so dearly. Her faith had done precious little for Susan Waldon. Even now the young woman’s ravaged body lay inside the cabin, waiting its final commitment to the earth. At least she would never know her little daughter had been captured and perhaps—
Unable to finish the unthinkable possibility, Lily struggled against feeling resentment against Nancy for allowing the little girls to go down to that creek alone. She should have kept them inside, safe. The Patterson farmstead was the farthest one upstream. Nancy had to know her place was the most vulnerable to attack. Why hadn’t she worried about that when it mattered?
The bouts of anger inevitably gave way to self-condemnation. Lily knew she should have had the foresight to send Emma home with the Shaws to play with their Lizzie. But the Shaws lived no more than a quarter mile away, and she feared Emma might take the notion to run home if she were that close.
Utterly spent, Lily sighed. It was no one’s fault…. It was everyone’s fault. Why on earth are any of us still here? We should have left a year and a half ago.
Coming again to the side of the structure facing her farm, Lily paused as she’d done every circuit since climbing the ladder from the windowless room below. The cabin’s outline was barely discernable through the growth along the creek. And over there, Susan lay in her room in the inky darkness, still in death, all alone.
Would this night never end?
Steps sounded on the ladder. Lily moved to the hatch to assist the person up onto the deck.
“Sure is stuffy down there.” Patrick’s wife, short, plump Agnes MacBride, took in a deep breath. “Thank goodness, the children are all finally sleepin’ sound.” She tipped her auburn head as her small hazel eyes met Lily’s gaze.
“Even Davy?” Lily asked.
“Aye. He’s sleepin’ betwixt his brothers.”
Nancy came to join them. “What about mine?” Worry drew her golden eyebrows into a V above her pert nose.
“Your boys was real good about playin’ with li’l Sally till she drifted off.”
A sudden twinge of envy gripped Lily. Even if Mary were never found, Nancy would still have baby Sally to love and cuddle. Emma was the only little girl Lily had. The only one. She ground her teeth and glanced up-creek again. “Where are those men? Ian said the Indians didn’t have much of a lead. Where are they? What’s taking them so long?”