Stars shone and the moon shed its soft light through the shielding row of sycamores. Pierce had miraculously silenced the infant, who now slept on folded blankets near the fire. Trella hadn’t moved since she’d fallen on her pallet two hours earlier.
Breaking camp and going on ahead had been discussed, but Pierce didn’t favor the move. He almost seemed inclined to let Walt catch up. “Your uncle knows we wouldn’t risk camping in the same place, so we’ll use his miscalculations to our advantage,” he told Beth when she questioned his motives. “We’ll get a good night’s sleep and then move on early in the morning.” His eyes had fixed on Gray Eagle. “Agreed?”
The scout nodded. Beth noticed that, though he didn’t speak often, he spoke precise English and his eyes and ears appeared tuned to every snap of a twig or rustling thicket.
The night before last Pierce had given Beth his bedroll, and tonight he said he and the other men would be just as happy sleeping again on the hard ground again. She might have wished she’d been able to wash the captain’s bedding, but she was too weary to mind the musty smell. Her head touched the blanket and her lids closed, but before she fell fully asleep, Trella’s infant made a whimpering sound—the sound a child makes moments before it’s about to burst into full-blown tears.
Trella sat up and received the baby from Pierce, holding her against her shoulder, whispering soft words. Beth watched her. She had a natural way with the child. Other pickers said the infant’s father was one of the field bosses. Unwedded mothers abounded on the plantation. Uncle Walt loved to brag about growing his help. Children were sent to the fields at a young age to spend sixteen hours in the blistering heat. When the sun sank, they lugged bulging sacks to the cotton shed, where a stern taskmaster would weigh the day’s work. If the child produced his quota, he would eat supper. If he fell short, he would be sent to bed with only a dipper of tepid water in his aching stomach.
Beth suspected that Trella’s infant was sired by Toole Madison, a giant of a man who oversaw the black workers. Like Bear and Walt, Toole ruled with a whip. Scarred backs glistened in the hot sun as the pickers dutifully tried to please his heartless soul, and many of the women had fallen victim to his wicked desires at night.
The newborn’s cries grew louder. Beth heard the men on the other side of the fire tossing and turning.
The moon crept higher in the sky. Beth dozed fitfully, awakened every few minutes by the baby’s shrieks. Trella now paced back in forth in front of the fire, trying to hush the fussy infant.
“What’s wrong with her?” Joanie asked. The effort to speak brought on another coughing spasm.
“Maybe’s she’s hungry.”
“Trella nurses her every two hours. The baby acts as though her tiny belly cramps with hunger pangs.”
Another five minutes passed. Joanie’s cough persisted, and the baby’s cries mingled with the sound of croaking frogs. Finally Beth rolled to her feet.
Pierce did the same. They met up by the fire. A tearful, exhausted Trella said to them, “Maybe she’s takin’ sick. I can’t get her to stop crying.”
Beth reached for the infant. “I’ll see if I can pacify her.” She accepted the small bundle and began to softly coo. The newborn’s hysterical cries grew even more insistent.
For the next few minutes, Beth and Pierce passed the infant back and forth, trying to appease the child.
“That’s a hungry cry,” Preach noted.
“I feed her constantly,” Trella said. “She nurses, but she seems hungry minutes later.”
Gray Eagle stepped from the shadows. “Your milk does not console the baby.”
“I don’t know what more I can do.” Trella swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks. The new mother’s pain and exhaustion reflected in her tone. Beth’s heart went out to her.
Gray Eagle turned and walked away. Beth watched him, wondering what he was up to.
Pierce carried the baby to the stream bank, bouncing the infant on his shoulder. Everyone was wide awake now. Beth knew they were making enough noise to wake the dead. If Walt and Bear were in the vicinity, there was no doubt they would find them.
Gray Eagle reappeared and walked directly to the baby, inserting the tip of a small bag into her mouth. The infant suckled hungrily.
Joanie coughed.
Turning on his heel, Gray Eagle went to the young woman, knelt, and held a cup of lobelia tea to her lips. Within minutes the camp was filled with only the sounds of nature’s soothing tones. Frogs croaked. Cicadas sang.
Dropping to her pallet, Beth absorbed the heavenly reprieve.
Pierce passed by her after handing the baby back to her mother. “What…” Beth caught herself. She shouldn’t be asking questions, but curiosity got the best of her. “What did he do?”
“What I should have done hours ago. He made the baby sugar water.”
Beth’s cheeks warmed. Why hadn’t she thought of that? The field workers often wrapped sugar in small cloths to quiet their babies.
Exhaustion overtook her, and she lay back down as Gray Eagle moved around the fire to his blanket. She noted the look of satisfaction on his face as if he were pleased to have helped the infant and mother and soothed her sister’s cough yet again.
For a brief moment Beth wondered if she could be wrong about men.