The Colony of Virginia, 1768
Rebecca had never been so frightened in her life. All around the forest seemed to be breathing with feverish, malignant creatures. Even the familiar frogs sounded angry tonight. It was midnight, and there was no friendly moonlight to reveal any of the evil lurking out there. In the heat, mosquitoes whined and landed on any exposed skin, but only a few of the younger children bothered to slap at them.
“Ssssssh …,” Rebecca whispered to Benjamin, her seven-year-old son. “We mustn’t make noise.” She wanted to pinch the child, who had been whining steadily about the heat and mosquitoes and how much he hated being quiet. Rebecca knew that he was terribly frightened also—almost as frightened as she was.
There was something large moving in the bushes beyond their small encampment, and Rebecca knew that it was not likely to be friendly. They had been harassed by barely seen Indians, who stole their livestock and sometimes appeared to frighten the girls when they went into the bushes to pass water. Everyone feared it was only a matter of time before the Indians moved from simply watching to more lethal actions.
They were huddled beneath two wagons in the ominous black night of western Virginia. Bess Witten sat with her feverish, half-delirious husband, Tom, between the wagons, her youngest children sleeping against her skirts. The older girls gossiped in low tones, repeating terrible stories heard along the trail.
Rebecca’s oldest son, William, sat a few feet away from the girls, holding his rifle, wiping his hands on his pants occasionally to remove the sweat, and glancing over at Bess’s daughter, Nancy. Eventually, Nancy crawled over to sit by his side and the two whispered together. Rebecca tossed a pebble at William’s back, and when he turned about with a reflexive jump, she pointed to the woods beyond. Nancy was distracting him. Rebecca though idly that there would soon be need for a marriage between these two even though they were in the godless wilderness. Young blood would not be denied—if they all lived through this night.
Rebecca leaned against a large fallen log beside her wagon. She too held a rifle, one of the new long barrels that Samuel had insisted on purchasing from the German folk during a trip to eastern Pennsylvania. He claimed that it was the most accurate gun he had ever used, and was proven correct when he taught Rebecca to use it and she immediately showed a talent for filling their campfires with game. She was glad of the gun now, although she wondered if she would be using it on one of the savages or on her own children. If the savages came, none of her family would suffer the kind of death that had been so vividly discussed during these months on the road. She also remembered the horror stories that she had heard in Pennsylvania long ago.
She glanced around the perimeter of their small camp, squinting into the darkness, listening for more noise from without. Beside her was her son, John, fifteen this month, eyes shining with both fear and excitement. Beside him crouched their slave, Rafe, with his son, Toby, their dark skin making them almost invisible in the dim starlight. His wife, Juba, slept in the wagon above with their youngest children, Fence and Lacey, and Rebecca’s two young sons.
“Ben, go back up in the wagon and stay with Juba,” whispered Rebecca, trying to pry the youngster’s hands from clutching her skirts. The boy opened his mouth to protest, and she knew that Ben would be crying in a moment. “The mosquitoes will be fewer up there. I know how much you hate them. Besides, Juba and the children need an older boy about,” she continued in a soothing a tone as she could muster. “It will be all right.”
Benjamin looked up at his mother with suspicious eyes. He was not a stupid child; in fact he annoyed his parents much more than his siblings because of that intelligence. His grandmother, Elizabeth Cobham, used to say that he reminded her very much of John Cobham’s departed brother, Philip, with his fair hair, blue eyes, and inquisitive mind. He was also sensitive, inclined to speak his thoughts in a manner entirely unsuitable for a child, and he hated leaving Maryland for this strange life on the road.
“Ben, I said move … now.” Something in his mother’s voice told Benjamin Cobham that she should be obeyed, and he slowly crawled back to the entrance of the wagon and climbed silently beneath the canvas coverings.
Rebecca sighed. The frogs went silent, and the adults on guard tightened their grips on guns and knives, and scanned the overgrown perimeter for signs of movement. In a moment one of their hobbled horses wandered through the small clearing, and a collective sigh of relief filled the camp. She lowered her rifle and rubbed her aching arms. “John, go get that horse and tie it up to the Wittens’ wagon,” she ordered. Her son popped up and ran to grab the grazing animal. When he had secured the horse and taken his watchful position again, Rebecca closed her burning eyes for a brief moment. She was so tired that dying seemed not quite so horrible. It must be a nightmare, a nightmare that began—when?
She had certainly seen new sights and new lands, just as Samuel had once promised her nearly twenty years before. But they had given up so much, especially since Sam’s mother died last year.
The Colony of Maryland, 1767
Elizabeth Cobham died as she had lived, quietly and with full faith that she would join her husband and other loved ones in a better world beyond. They buried her on a warm July morning in the family graveyard with Old William, John Cobham, Emma, and many others of the Cobham clan. Most of the family had dispersed back to their own lands, mindful of the heavy work that awaited them. Samuel and Rebecca, momentarily free of their children and other family members, had sat on the porch of the Cabbin Branch house and watched the pink and crimson sunset.
“It all belongs to Zephaniah now,” Samuel began, idly puffing on his clay pipe. “Some of the animals and slaves go with us, but the land—” He paused, feeling an unexpected grief at the thought of his parents now giving their bodies back to the land on which they had labored so long.
Rebecca fanned herself slowly, blowing the tendrils of hair from her warm, flushed face. “So, husband, where do we go?” Samuel looked over at his wife and smiled. Her eyes were a bit puffed from crying, but she was still the fairest woman in the province to him, and he desired her as much now as he had twenty years ago. She had borne nine children as a result of that passion—but it had never faded. The children, with the exception of baby Susan, flourished remarkably well in this unhealthy world. In this, they had been very, very lucky.
“Tom Witten has come back from the south. He says that there are good lands to be had in the west, near to the mountains. He and his sister’s husband, Greenup, have obtained a tract of land there—some of it can be ours.”
Rebecca frowned. “Yes, and we both know that Tom needs to get out of here quickly if he is to avoid the sheriff and his debts. Bess has been beside herself with worry.”
“Tom is a good man. He thinks that the future for us is in these new lands. God knows, Rebecca, we’ve little future here and none at all for our sons. The rich men have the good land, the political control, and with the situation in England. . .” He paused, thinking of the recent rumors from Philadelphia about the colonists who were refusing to use the new stamps on their documents and the increasing presence of arrogant redcoats in the provinces.
“If we sell what we don’t need here, we’ll have the money to buy wagons and provision for the trip to Virginia, and some to spare. The tract of land is called Crab Apple Orchard. We must do it now, while we are both young.”
Rebecca laughed. “Sam, you are almost fifty years old and I not much younger. We are hardly young.”
“You are ever young,” he said lightly, taking her hand and kissing it with a gaze that she knew well.
She snatched her hand away with a smile. “Nay, no loving now, husband! We grieve for your mother, rest her soul, and there will be no more babies for us again, although God knows that I love every one of the children.” She paused, turning serious. “We’ve no time for fooling about now if we are to pack up and move.” She had always known that they would leave when Samuel’s mother died. Somehow she had known it since that day in the mud when she and Samuel decided to marry. “Crab Apple Orchard? I suppose that we can make jam during our first season …,” she added with a wry smile.
He gazed at her with some surprise. “Damn, Rebecca, but you are a wonder.”
It had taken them some weeks to arrange for the trip. The Samuel Cobhams, the Thomas Wittens, and a few folk from the Greenup and Harman families decided to take a gamble and buy new lands in the south and west of Virginia. Although the English government had treaties with the Indians who lived in the region prohibiting further taking of their lands by the whites, the province of Virginia was anxious to secure this territory on their western borders from intrusions by the French and their Indian allies. Samuel paid much attention to the political implications of his family’s move, but Rebecca cared little as she attended to the endless details of deciding what should be taken, what left, and how best to ignore the anxiety and grief that often threatened to overwhelm her.
When they rode from the lands where they had been born, married, buried loved ones, and brought new children into the world, all were silent. The two-wheeled carts were drawn by patient oxen, and laden packhorses were tied in their wake. Three of the new and ponderous four-wheeled Conestoga wagons trundled behind them, leaving vast amounts of dust in the faces of all who followed. Samuel and Tom Witten rode at the head of the slow procession, followed by the wagons in which their youngest children rode, attended by the older girls, and slaves and bondsmen trod on foot. Rebecca herself rode a bay horse, one of the new “everlasters,” tucking the skirts of her sturdy green linsey dress about her legs and confining her still-bright golden hair beneath a cap. She had made the cap with an extra wide brim to keep the sun from her face, but found that the least breeze blew the soft material back. “We shall have to stiffen these edges with buckram,” Bess Witten said when they stopped to rest on their first evening out.
Rebecca and Bess found that traveling on this Great Wagon Road was even more toilsome than working on their plantations. Meals must be served, children tended, animals fed, watered, and milked as necessary, clothing mended and washed if possible, water drawn—and all of it done without an ordered house to retreat to. They had provisioned themselves with barrels of salted pork, dried corn, rice, flour, molasses, and other staples. As the days of slow, monotonous movement down the road continued, Rebecca would send her sons and older daughters out to pick greens and late berries in the forest. The children rode in clouds of dust and laughter to catch up with the wagons, but even this diversion soon failed them. Most of the resources involving game and foraging had already been exhausted on both sides of the well-traveled road. Firewood was also scarce.
Often they were able to rest at an inn or at farms along the way. They paid for such rest, food, and animal fodder with their precious silver coins and tried to be patient with the accommodations available. After a time, Rebecca came to prefer sleeping out under the sky in her own aired and shaken blankets rather than spend another night scratching fleas and wondering what other dreadful things lurked in strange, rented beds. The food was terrible—unnecessarily, she thought. Even an indifferent cook should be able to produce good corn porridge!
The children had been very excited by the novelty of travel until the monotony dampened even their enthusiasm. The older girls bewailed the sun and dust, which ruined their complexions and made clean clothes impossible. The younger children were restless, tired of riding in a wagon or being pinched by their elder siblings for wandering too far from the campsites. When the sun shone the trail was rutted and dusty, and during the rains the world was cold and muddy beyond anything that the women could imagine. Samuel and Thomas were quite accustomed to traveling in all weathers, but they had never done so with their families complaining, wagons bogging in the muck, and livestock seemingly determined to cause problems for them. Arguments became common, and the children learned many new swear words from their fathers during the first weeks on the road.
During the winter months, they had built a substantial camp on lands belonging to a Farmer Allen. It had been the worst time of Rebecca’s life. They were confined during the bitterly cold weather to small cabins and lost many of the animals. Rebecca herself caught a fever, was ill for many weeks. Malinda and Eleanor, her oldest daughters, were forced to take on heavy responsibilities for her care and that of the younger children. Samuel and Tom were gone for much of the time, seeking to clear title to the lands beyond the mountains with other groups who might claim it. When spring softened the landscape, Rebecca often went out by herself to the edge of the forest and shot at trees, rocks, and birds with Sam’s old rifles. She thought about shooting Sam when he returned—if he returned. She was angry at everything during that time, and the children learned to avoid her whenever they could do so. It was a great relief when the families were reunited and packed up again to travel to their new lands.
The country was very wild after they left the Shenandoah Valley, and turned from the Great Wagon Road to the Wilderness Road. They were forced to abandon one of the wagons when a broken axle proved beyond repair—a terrible process for all concerned as tough decisions had to be made about cherished items that must be left behind. Travel slowed as the men were forced to cut small trees and brush and find a path around large rock outcrops. As the weather warmed, insects came out in force to bedevil both human and animals, and the women searched their stores for pieces of thin fabric to cover the faces of their children. Rebecca herself cut a piece from the very old lace scarf that had been handed down from Grandmother Mary Beall Cobham and sewed it to the front of her bonnet. She almost wept when she sliced through the fragile fabric. The rending of this fabric suddenly seemed a symbol of all the old graces gone from her life and perhaps never to be regained.
The Colony of Virginia, 1768
It seemed that their journey might end soon when the spring rains began. Wagons bogged in the mud, the unseen Shawnee Indians stole their cattle, and Tom Witten was shot in the arm while chasing them. Tom claimed that the Cherokee Indians of the area were dominant, and that he had made friends with them on a prior visit. But he told tales of the Shawnee that kept many of the travelers awake at night. Rebecca had occasionally glimpsed these strange red men talking with Tom and Samuel at the head of the procession, but kept herself and her children well removed.
Tom’s arm had become infected, and his fever had halted the travelers at the edge of this strange river and forest. Sam had taken his sons, Tom and Zachary, to scout the lands ahead of them and seek a settlement where he might replenish their stocks of gunpowder and staples. It was during that time that the Indians had shown up in force around them, lurking in the woods and stealing their stray animals. Rebecca, Bess, the ailing Tom, their grown sons and children, their slaves, and what was left of their belongings had grouped together in a small clearing. Rebecca had given arms to all capable of bearing them, including Rafe, and they maintained a frightened watch for two days.
Rebecca flicked an insect off her forehead and leaned wearily against the log. How far they had come from Maryland and their peaceful lives. She had wished so much to see new lands and leave the monotony of life on their plantations. “Beware of that which you ask,” she whispered. “You might have your wishes answered …”
“Mother?” Her son John tugged at her skirt. “Are you well?”
He sounded anxious, and she almost screamed that she was just as fine as could possibly be imagined out here in the wild dirt, with murderous savages about, hideous insects, and Sam gone again. Instead she patted his hand. “Just praying a bit, Johnny,” she lied.
There was a flash of lightning in the distance, and Rebecca looked up at the sky. Clouds moving in from the east were extinguishing the dim stars. She muttered a few of Samuel’s choicer oaths. It was going to rain, and soon they would all be frightened, tired, dirty, insect-ridden, and sopping wet. She began, in truth, to pray
Rafe never knew the name of his father. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he remembered only his Grandma Emma as kin. She had always advised him to be grateful to the Cobham family for buying him from his owner when he was just a helpless child and of no value to them. He grew up among the Cobham children, doing the same kinds of chores, wearing the same hand-me-down clothes, and eating the same food. But he was not like them, and it became clearer with every month that passed in his youth. The Cobhams were people, but he was property. At first it was simply confusing, and then the total insanity of it troubled his mind. How could a person be property? He ate and pissed and hurt and laughed just as they did. How could they “own” him?
Grandma Emma had come from Africa as a little girl. She told him that they had been captured by some of their own black people and sold to the whites as if they were sheep or cattle. She said that sometimes the whites treated their slaves even worse than they treated their animals, and as the years passed he had seen increasing evidence of that. True, he never saw the Cobhams whip anybody, although he suspected that some of the men folk might be capable of it when they were drunk. Master Samuel had been gone a great deal of the time, and Mistress Rebecca was too busy to worry much with Rafe’s behavior. She treated him with absent kindness as long as he did his work, but he often saw suspicion in her eyes when she looked at him. Suspicion—and puzzlement.
Rafe had been a hard worker all of his life. He had the scars and rheumatism to show for it. He had married a very young slave named Juba, who was fresh from Africa and had spoken little English when they met. She was timid and been poorly used by her former owners. She came to the Cobhams in payment of a debt, and Rafe had been horrified when he first saw the scars on the back of this thin and oddly mature fifteen-year-old. Juba knew more about survival than he ever would, he thought.
He hoped that she was not too afraid on this miserable night in the Virginia forests. Juba was up in the wagon with their two youngest children, Fence and Lacey, along with the Cobhams’ youngest children. He wanted to comfort her, but he didn’t dare leave his lookout spot. He had heard of the horrible things that might happen to them on this journey—and privately thought that the Cobhams had lost their wits. But they were not interested in his thoughts. He was their property and he would go with them to the new lands. Juba and his children would go with them, and she had told him that they were lucky that all of the family was together in this. “Maybe it will be better for us there,” she had whispered when he told her of the impending move. Rafe doubted that it would.
Although the freedom to make a decision about the journey had not been his, he and his family were sharing in the hardships. True, they had not suffered much more than the white folks from the cold, heat, hunger, insects, and daily monotony. But he had heard a great many new things on this trip, including tales of folks down in the Carolinas who did not believe in owning people. He had heard so many tales that he hardly knew what was real anymore.
He was so weary that he failed to be surprised when Mistress. Rebecca handed him one of Master Sam’s old rifles and gave his son Toby the big hunting knife. Blacks were almost never trusted with weapons. She told him that if the savages came, none of the Cobham family was to be captured alive, and that he could make up his own mind about his own family’s fate. It was the first time he had ever been given the power of choice.
He glanced over at where Mistress. Rebecca sat in the mud, scowling at the first of a few raindrops. She was a pretty lady, and usually took some care with her hair and clothes, even on this dusty trail. Rafe knew that she was furious with Master Sam for leaving them. He didn’t want to be nearby when Master Sam returned and Mistress Rebecca unleashed her anger on him. She had a temper, did Mistress Rebecca, and Master Sam was softer to her than most husbands that Rafe had ever observed.
“Do you think that the Indians will attack us if it is pouring rain?” asked Rebecca quietly, trying to find a position to ease her aching back.
“I don’t know, Mistress Rebecca,” he replied. “I hear lots about the Indians … but I don’t know for sure.”
“Tell me, Rafe, one thing I’ve always wondered about …”
Rafe cringed, hoping that she wouldn’t ask him something embarrassing.
“Sam and I have always wondered how you came to name your younger son ‘Fence.’ It is a pretty unusual name, and if you get him baptized, the parson will have a fit.”
Rafe laughed with relief. “Well, Mistress, there was this one day when Juba had caught her skirt climbing over that railing by the salad stuff near the stable. She was real angry because it was her favorite working dress. It was the same day that she told me that we were going to have a child.” Rafe paused, thinking that there was no way he was going to tell Mistress Rebecca any intimate details of his relations with his wife.
“I understand,” she said, finally realizing that he was uncomfortable with this topic. “Well, now I can die with my questions answered.”
“We aren’t going to die, Mistress Rebecca. I ain’t lived enough.”
“Is that so, Rafe? I never thought much about what you black folks—” She stopped suddenly. There were figures emerging from the dim forest.
Rafe, Toby, and William all raised their rifles in the direction of a new voice. “Hey, you folks need help?” A heavily accented male voice called to them from the brush. “We been passing here … thought we’d drop in.”
Rebecca felt great relief and put her rifle down and began to rise. Rafe grabbed her skirt and pulled her back to the ground. She turned to him, angry and astonished that he had dared to do so. A black man would never touch a white woman under any but the most extreme circumstances.
“Don’t listen so quick, Mistress Rebecca,” he said urgently. “Those guys may not be friends to us. I hear that there are some real bad ones out here living with the Indians. They’ll like as not steal us blind and be cruel to you ladies! Juba and the children will be sold down to the cane fields—”
Rebecca tried keep her wits despite the heavy pounding of her heart, and waited for a time before answering. She clutched her gun again and took a deep breath. Rafe backed away from her warily. “Who might you be?” she called into the night.
“We are just passing hunters, lady,” said the same voice, sounding a bit slurred. She couldn’t quite place the accent, but it reminded her of the Ulster Irish that she had known in Philadelphia.
“Well, we thank you for your concern. You must have scared off the savages who were about tonight. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to camp nearby.”
There was a long pause. “You ladies need protection. We can give it you.” There was a muffled laugh from someone in the forest. “Put down your guns and we’ll come into your camp.”
“Our ladies have protection!” It was William, using as manly a voice as he could summon. “We are many and well-armed. We’ll meet you in the morning as men should meet each other on the trail.” A flash of lightning and rumbling thunder seemed to emphasize his words.
The silence from the forest continued. Eventually, they heard sounds of several men moving about. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, but they could not see who was lurking. “When it’s light, I’ll try to scout them out,” said William.
“You’ll do no such thing—” began Rebecca.
“Mama, I’m not a child. Papa taught me what to do and I know how to track. I want to see who these men are. Rafe may be right. I’ve heard about some of these landless renegades. They team up with the Indians and bring out the worst in both races. They steal and assault and are drunk much of the time. Some of the farmers have to form their own regulating groups to fight them since the government don’t care much.”
“I heard about them, too, Mistress Rebecca. Those folks is supposed to be as bad as any of the Indians,” added Rafe.
“All right. We’ll wait—nobody is going anywhere right now anyway,” sighed Rebecca. “Let’s just sit here in the mud and wait.”
Bess Witten, covered with grime and almost unrecognizable, crawled to her side. “Rebecca, Johnny has taken off!” she whispered. Rebecca looked about frantically and saw that her son was indeed missing from the group. She thought that she had been afraid until that moment, but now knew that it was always possible for things to get worse.
“He took off just as soon as Rafe warned you about those men, just took his gun and slunk off through the brush!”
“I am going to whomp the daylights out of that boy when I catch him!” cried Rebecca.
“Mama, he took off to do what I had planned to do at first light. He’s good at tracking,” explained William. “He knew that you’d tell him not to go.”
“Right he was, too!” snapped Rebecca angrily. She pulled off her sodden cap and tossed her braids back from her face. “If anybody hurts him, I’ll shoot their bollocks off myself!”
“Mama!”
“Rebecca!”
“Oh be silent,” she replied. “Go away and get some rest. I suspect that our lurkers are off to dry shelters about now anyway, especially with my fool son John on the heels. I’ll just sit here and pretend that I’m Job on a dunghill.”
Bess shook her head doubtfully, placed a piece of canvas over Rebecca’s shoulders, and crawled back to her own vigil with her fevered husband. William moved back to keep his watch on the far side of the camp. Toby turned to his father to say something, but Rafe shook his head. At the moment, there wasn’t much else to be said.
“Go away!” cried Rebecca into the darkness. “I’m a Christian woman, but we’ll shoot the first man to show his face!” The wind in the trees and a few spatters of rain were the only responses.
The storm was brief but did a thorough job of dampening everybody and everything in the camp. Rebecca silently went through every prayer that she knew and then amused herself by imagining how she would greet Samuel when he returned. It was almost dawn when Johnny returned, pleased with himself and arrogant with achievement.
“Well, I tracked ’em! Mama, those men were with a group of the meanest-looking savages you’ve ever seen!” he announced. “If we had put down our guns and let them near, we’d all be dead by now. The girls would be …”
“That’s enough, Johnny. We can guess what would have happened to us. Are they still waiting?” Rebecca, caught between the desire to slap her son silly and kiss his fuzzy cheek at the same time, seemed suddenly detached.
“I don’t know—don’t think so. I heard them talking, but they’re getting pretty drunk and it was hard to understand. They decided that there’s a lot more of us than they bargained for. They ain’t sure.”
“Back to sit on your dunghills, everybody,” laughed William. “Mama, you have to get some rest. Your baby John’s back.”
John took a mock swing at his brother. “Yeah, Mama … I’m here now and Will can go off and bird dog those raiders. Let the men take over.”
She looked around at the weary faces of the men in her life. They were there—except the most important one. “You’re right. I need to get some rest because when your father returns, I’m going to kill him.”
She awoke hours later, covered with mud and insect bites, aching in every muscle. Something was tugging at the canvas draped over the bushes where she had made her bed the night before. Startled, she pulled the canvas quickly aside and found that one of their dairy cows was trying to get at the shrubbery. Standing behind the cow was Samuel. He was as filthy as she, covered with dirt and red-eyed. His doublet was torn, and he held his hat in his hands.
“I heard you had some trouble,” he began. She stood up, shaking her skirts and brushing the dried grime from her arms. He continued speaking rapidly. “I guess that the boys took care of things. They told me that you were a bit upset.”
His wife’s blue eyes, bright between their red rims, were glittering with anger. He continued his explanations quickly. “Zachary and Tom are back, too. Tom Witten’s much better this morning. They’re all packing up to move. So, you’ve got no reason to be upset.”
“Upset? Am I upset?” she said slowly, her mouth dry. “I guess one might say that. I’ve spent two days not knowing if we were living or dying. The boys wouldn’t know danger if it bit them on the big toe. The girls were terrified. I was afraid that Tom was dying, and I finally found out why Rafe named his son ‘Fence.’ So, Master Cobham, how was your trip?”
“I got the gunpowder and cornmeal …,” he began, stepping toward her cautiously. “Best of all, the trail is clear from here on, and Crab Apple Orchard is as pretty a spot as you’d wish. The trees are blooming, and there’s a fresh spring just waiting. Looks like the Indians cleared some land for us. We can do some planting right away without having to gird a bunch of trees.” She still said nothing and adjusted the laces on her linen bodice.
“Rebecca—I have seen it! Just around that hill is a view you won’t ever forget. There are ridges of the biggest mountains you’ve ever seen—all blue in the distance, and smoky in the valleys. It is a land made for us,” he continued enthusiastically.
“I don’t care if it is heaven on earth. I’m going to shoot you as soon as I find my rifle, and then they’re going to hang me. Why should I care what Crab Apple Orchard is like?” Her voice was rising steadily.
“Rebecca—” He reached out for her hand.
“Do not touch me, Sam. I could rip your heart out with my own fingers right now!” She jerked back from him, her foot sliding in the mud. In a moment she landed flat on her back by her makeshift bed, then rolled over and began to cry.
“My dear, you had my heart on the first day that I saw you standing by the church in Maryland. You’ve held it ever since.” Samuel knelt down by his wife, but she still moved away when he tried to touch her.
Samuel moved from kneeling to sitting. “We have our best conversations in the mud, Rebecca. Remember that day when I promised you new lands and adventures? It was then that you agreed to be with me and bear all the burdens of life as my wife.”
“And many they have been!” she snapped through her tears. Finally she allowed him to help her to a sitting position, and she wiped her face on a dry corner of his dirty shirt.
“We’re only a few hours from our new home. There’s room for us and our children and their children. We’ll rule ourselves,” he promised.
She placed her head wearily on his shoulder. “Tom and I will build us a place where we can have a fort and feel safe for a while. It is drier there—and our bones won’t ache so much in our old age,” explained Samuel quietly.
She still said nothing but had stopped weeping. The tears had left clean tracks down her soiled face.
“The red makes your eyes look bluer, wife. Shall we be up and gone?” She allowed him to kiss her forehead. “I think that you are not fond of this place,” he added with a grin.
She pushed him away and stood up. “How wise of you to notice!” Then she stretched and looked about her. In the morning light, the forest looked almost beautiful. The foliage was brilliant in shades of green and birds sang with abandon. She sniffed.
“It was Rafe who saved us, Samuel. He warned me not to let those men come into camp.”
“William told me. Rafe was wise and so were you. Some might not have heeded his warnings … him being a black and all.”
“He deserves a reward,” said Rebecca slowly. “What might we give him?”
“Freedom?” asked Samuel. “Nay, he’d never leave his family, and we can’t afford to send them all away. They would have to leave Virginia and go north.”
“Would Rafe want to be free?” she asked, frowning. “I’d never thought he would want to go off with no prospects and no protection.”
“All men want to be free. But then none of us really are, especially around a pretty lady.” Samuel’s tone became lighter. “I’ll talk to Rafe. We can decide later when we’ve more time. C’mon, fair wife. We must be away. I had a bit of a chat with those men who bothered you last night,” he added. “A pair of the Gowans from over in Augusta County. They’re friendly with the natives hereabouts. They won’t bother us again.”
She looked at him with surprised eyes. “You didn’t—”
“Not needed. Rode over there at daybreak and scared them a bit. Of course, they are mighty hungover this morning, and not much interested in arguing,” he said quietly. “They like to run furs and corn liquor down to the coast. May be a bit of profit in it.”
Rebecca did not reply. He was still an enigma at times. “Now don’t you think about going into that business, husband! We’ll have enough work to do in this godforsaken wilderness! Besides, they might have killed you, you fool!”
He said nothing, but put his hat back on. “Just one more set of mountains, wife. We’ll be home.”
“For how long?” she asked
“Until we want to move again,” he said, giving her the same grin that she remembered from that first day when they couldn’t keep their eyes off of each other at the Queen Anne’s Chapel. She had never been able to resist it, even when it led her to dangerous childbed, forgiving his long absences, or setting off on this infernal journey into the wilderness.
“Ah Samuel, we are a pair. Let’s be away.”
She took his hand and they walked slowly back toward the wagons. She hummed the old refrain under her breath:
Come away, come away, my darling.