The sun warmed the cool morning a little as it streamed through the trees, coming up from the horizon and heading for high above the cabin. Carl looked up to the sky to estimate the time as somewhere around eight. He still felt the bite of the rum the day before, but he was ready to travel out on the hunt, anxious to bag something for the dinner table.
They strolled out into the wooded area just behind the cabin, with guns loaded and plenty of water stored in an animal-hide canteen. A stream ran not far from there which provided many of the wildlife with food and water, a perfect place to possibly find some fine feathered creatures lurking. Carl followed Thomas, staying close while he watched for movement in the bush, with an occasional glance down for crawly things that might come up and bite him in the leg.
Thomas carried a long knife attached to a holder at his leather belt. It bobbed up and down as he walked along the uneven path heading down to the stream. He stood so much taller than Carl, it was difficult to see past him. A big guy, the farmer had a build on him the likes of any great wrestler or prize fighter. Carl pictured him on a football field.
The thick brush on each side of them kept them in line on a clear, well-trampled path. Thomas walked along fast, without hesitation, but kept his movement quiet. He had instructed Carl to make this trip as silent as possible so they could come up on their prey without scaring them off. He seemed to know there would be some game at the stream. Surely he had done this many times in the past and knew just what to expect. The chill of the day didn’t worry him, and neither did the fact they might run into the enemy along the way, but Carl couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if they did. He’d seen what kind of things these bad Indians were capable of.
Why did it have to be so quiet? It gave Carl an eerie feeling to only hear the sound of the wind whisking through the trees. Astonished at how Thomas crept along, making little noise other than an occasional crunch of a small twig under foot, not loud enough to disturb anything, Carl kept in step with his leader.
As the area began to clear of the thick growth, there came the sound of the slow-moving stream just ahead, an almost pleasant symphony of water flowing downstream. It seemed like they had been walking for miles, but it had only been the length of a football field. Thomas slowed his gait while he lowered his upper body to almost kneeling. Carl did the same. They looked out through bushes now emptied of their leaves to see some pheasants near the water. This was it; they now had to be very careful not to move, not to make any noise and wait, wait until one was in range.
Carl’s blood was pumping, his heartbeat hastened as he glared out at those birds so unsuspecting of their presence. Thomas was bent down in a squatting position, his gun held high against his shoulder, his eyes on the site. The little twitching of his beard gave Carl an idea he was ready to fire, but nothing happened yet. He got down beside him and raised his gun in the same fashion as he thought of the last time he’d gone hunting. It had been so long ago, he hardly knew just when, only that he’d been single at the time and still in college. Since then, the only time he had shot a gun was at the local shooting range on the outer part of town where there were no homes or businesses.
The birds fluttered their wings, dipped down into the water for food, and scurried about after a female, who was sought after by three males. How beautiful they are, Carl thought as he watched.
Suddenly a sound from the other side of the stream had the pheasants disrupted, and they hurried to the sky. Thomas stood, aimed, and fired. Carl did the same. Thomas made a hit. Now it was a matter of how they would get the prey out of the water before it drifted away.
Thomas hurried down the banks of the stream until he came right in line with his kill. Without hesitation he ran into the water, fighting the rapid flow, legs lifting high with each step forward. He scooped up the dead bird and held it up in the air as he rushed back to the bank. “Here we are, dinner,” he shouted as he came up to Carl who stood holding his shotgun down at his side. A wide smile on his face, he held the dead pheasant up by its feet to admire it. “This will feed us all tonight. Helen will be pleased.” He tied the feet of the bird to a long leather string connected to his belt. “Let’s be on our way. It will take some time to dress this bird so my wife can make a meal out of it.”
Disappointed his shot missed the one he aimed at, Carl took his place behind Thomas and they started back to the farm. The sky had darkened again with a few drops of rain hitting the hats they wore. Picking up speed, they hurried along to beat the downpour expected to arrive in mere minutes. The wind’s bite stung the flesh of their faces as they made their way through the thick wooded area down the narrow path from which they came.
Carl caught the smell of the kill as Thomas hurried on in front of him, the dead bird swinging back and then forward with his stride. The big farmer knew what he had to do when they arrived back at the farm. Gutting and cleaning game was not something Carl looked forward to and was hopeful his kind host would not ask him to help.
As the fall of rain increased, they progressed to a trot, and then they ran when the farm was in sight. Thomas headed right for the barn. Carl stopped halfway and yelled out: “I’m going inside to let the girls know we’re back, okay?” He’d say anything to get out of helping him dress the bird.
Helen stood at the window watching her husband hurry off to the barn, knowing by the sight of what he carried, there would be a nice meal for her to prepare. When she spotted Carl coming up to the house, she hurried to the door. Beth ran up behind her as she opened it to find a wet hunter ready to get in where it was warm and dry. The rain and wind whipped across the front of the house, slamming the cold, almost freezing downpour into Carl’s face.
He stamped his feet at the door just out of habit as he took the fur hat off. His face red from the cold, he looked like a schoolboy bringing home a good grade on the day’s test. Beth handed him a towel she had in her hand. “Here. Wipe your face; you’re all wet.” Her concern was more for him than what they came home with for dinner, but for Helen it was her opportunity to cook a nice meal, and she was ready to do just that.
“What did you men get for me?” she asked.
As he wiped his face he peeked out from the towel. “A nice pheasant, and it’s a big one. Thomas nailed it. I tried for a second one but missed.”
The excitement in his voice stunned Beth. She had never seen him so energized over something like hunting. “Sounds like you had a great time,” she said as she took the towel from him. “Better get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold or worse.”
Carl went to the open blazing fire and stood close to absorb the heat. “I’m not too wet. My clothes will dry in minutes here by the fire.” He held his hands out to the fire’s dancing and sizzling. It generated warmth not only for him but sent heat out to warm the entire cabin. “It only started to rain when we got here, so we didn’t get soaked. It’s really coming down now, though.” He looked toward the window at the streaks of rain running fast down the pains.
Helen prepared to go for water to heat so she could pull the feathers from the bird to finish dressing it when her husband brought it in. She already had yams out on the counter waiting to go with the dinner and a pot of corn soaking in water on the large wood stove. A red glow seeped from the narrow slits in the heavy oven door as the wood inside burned hot and even.
With her wool shawl on, and a good grip on the handle of the pot needed for the water, Helen went out the door to the well outside.
Thomas met up with her on his way to the house. He held the gutted pheasant up to show her, but she paid him no attention. She just hurried to get under cover from the rain.
A large wooden canopy high above the well kept Helen dry while she filled the pot with water from the bucket beside the well. It was always kept full of water to give them easy access when they needed it.
She held her wool shawl tightly up to her neck as she made her way back to the cabin. The wind blew hard against her as she hurried along the muddy path to the front steps. Beth saw her from the window and hurried to the door to help her in.
“Here, give me the pot of water, and get in here.”
Inside, Helen thanked her then took her shawl off, took the pot from her, and rushed it over to the hot stove. With no time to take her muddy shoes off, a dirty foot print tracked a row of mud spots from the door to the stove. Beth took it upon herself to get an old rag down from the hook by the door to wipe it up. Helen thanked her as she sat on a chair to take her shoes off.
Heavy wool stockings stretched from her ankles up under her skirt. The color was either an off-white or white stained from wear. She held her feet up in the air to let the heat from the fireplace warm them, then she went for a pair of clean shoes by the stove and put them on.
Once the water was very hot, Helen wasted no time to plunge the pheasant into it and begin plucking the feathers by pulling at them hard and fast. She sat cheerfully in a chair away from the table with a large tub in which she dropped the colorful feathers. Beth was sure they would have a use of some kind. Nothing there got thrown away unless it was really something awful with no use whatsoever. Amazing what can be done with things, she thought as she watched Helen conduct this task of these historical times as a normal duty. What was even more amazing was the fact that she stood there watching this in the year 1777—so long ago —live. What could have been a wonderful end of the season weekend at their cottage turned into something no one would ever believe. Would they ever get back? It scared her just to think about it.
It didn’t take Helen long to get dinner going. The smell of the roasting pheasant filled the cabin with a delightful aroma of real food cooking. Yams boiling alongside some beans and cut-up apples for applesauce added a delicious perfume to the meal.
Beth busied herself by setting the table, along with making sure there was enough wood in the stove at all times.
Carl sat at the table, feeling a bit helpless as he watched the women hustle and bustle around the kitchen area—his wife seemed to know what she was doing, and he was surprised at how well she adapted to this kind of life. All well and good, but he still wanted desperately to get them back to the future as soon as possible. The chief they were told of had to come along soon, he hoped. Somehow Carl felt certain the Indian could help them get back. For now there was only one thing to do, and that was to make the best of things.
Little Annie came up to him holding out a homemade wooden doll. She laughed as she turned its head around to face the opposite direction. “See,” she said proudly, as though she performed a great deed. Her bright blue eyes looked up at him, through a strand of blond curl that escaped the traditional white cotton bonnet she wore. Her smile was wide with a deep dimple at the right of her mouth. Carl took the doll and turned its head back around the right way and laughed when the little one broke out in laughter as she grabbed the doll away from him.
“You’re a sweet one,” he said as she waited for something from him. Then she ran off to take a place on a knitted wool rug in front of the fireplace. The bright orange glow from the fire rested on her blonde hair that peeked out from her little bonnet. Sitting there with her legs folded, she hugged her little doll as she rocked back and forth.
Oil lamps instead of candles were lit and placed around the cabin—one large one on the table two by the stove. It was warm and cozy inside while the wind outside whipped through the farm, blowing colorful leaves into the air flying like little planes trying to land.
Carl peered out the window wondering if this time would be for the rest of their lives…this simple, rough way of life, or could they ever get back to where they came from, the future. To be stuck there in a time of history would be unthinkable, even though he found it interesting.
Beth came up behind him. Her hand reached out to his shoulder as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss the side of his face. “Dinner is almost ready. It smells good, doesn’t it?”
He turned to her. “Yes, it does. I only hope they cleaned that bird good. We’re not used to eating prey we had to go out and kill. I wonder about disease.” He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “I know this is the way they all lived back then—huh, listen to me—back then?” He had a deep grin on his face. “Nothing like living the past live and in real time.”
“Oh Carl, I don’t know what we’re going to do if this is it for us. I can’t live like this. What about our families, our jobs, and poor Tabitha?” Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them away with the wipe of the back of her hand. “Will we ever see her again…our families again?”
“We are not going to stay back here in this…” He paused to kiss her forehead as he held her close “We will get back, don’t you worry. There has to be a way.”
Helen’s voice called out to them. “Dinner!” The roasted bird sat on a serving plate in the middle of the table.
Little Annie sat in her high chair up to the table. She clapped her hands together as Helen started to carve into the bird that now looked a lot smaller than it had when Thomas bagged it. With a crafted hand, she made sure each of them had a piece of meat and a healthy serving of the side dishes. Carl and Beth took seats across from little Annie. Their plates were full of the steaming meal Helen prepared.
Thomas set a jug of rum on the table, giving Carl a minute of pause, but when Thomas poured it into his cup, he smiled. His eye caught the nasty glance Beth gave him, so he ignored the cup while he picked up his fork and dug into the food.
Helen stood. “Let’s all give thanks to our Maker,” she said as she held her hands together in prayer. Carl quickly set his fork back down and lowered his head.
After dinner, the men went out to the barn to take care of the animals for the night. Clean straw had to be laid, grain put in the buckets and feeding bins, and the chickens were fed as well. All this took them nearly an hour to complete. With Carl’s help it was only that hour. Thomas was used to being out there for at least two hours in the evening and was glad to have the help.
Helen and Beth had everything cleaned up by the time the men came back to the cabin. A fire blazed in the fireplace with a warming glow. A few flakes of snow flew past the window to let them know just how cold it was out there. Little Annie gazed out the window with joy, just like most kids would even in those days of tough winters. October, though still fall, brought the first signs of the winter now approaching. Beth thought of the holidays coming up—would she be back home by then? Or would she have to spend the best time of the year for her here in the distant past?
“How do you folks celebrate the holidays? You know, Thanksgiving, Christmas…” She paused at Halloween. “Uh, holidays?” What would they know about Halloween? Did they have Thanksgiving during this time? “Do you have a Christmas tree and presents?”
Helen, busy with a book in hand, a knitted blanket folded over her arm, looked at her in surprise. “We have a nice dinner and sing songs. We head out for church and spend time with other families.” She opened the folded blanket and, with the book, sat in the chair by the fireplace. “Right now in the evenings, as you know, after a good meal I read to the family from the Bible. Get a chair, or just curl up by Annie on the rug by the fire, and we can get started.”
Thomas and Carl sat at the table drinking rum but not talking. Thomas knew better than to interrupt his wife while in her nightly visit in Scripture. Carl understood the routine without having to be told.
They had only been there a few days, but they were getting accustomed to the life, the work, a time they had only read about in books. For Carl and Beth, this was almost unbelievable, except they were there, truly living it.
Helen read from the Good Book with deep passion. Even little Annie kept her attention on her mother’s words. The fire danced and crackled with the sound of her voice. All was at peace.