By the forenoon, they’d left Philadelphia far behind. Farms and fences spread on both sides, but only occasionally did they have to maneuver around a fence line. ’Twas like a long march, a drill he knew by heart. The Forbes Road, cut into the lush Pennsylvania landscape by General Braddock, led west to Fort Pitt. But first countless waters to cross, mountain ranges that tested stamina and sanity, signs of life diminishing as the wilderness opened up, crowned by the magnificent Alleghenies.
His stallion, Bolt, settled into a steady rhythm once they were free of the city. Clay couldn’t deny the stirring in his own blood the closer they came to the borderlands, the farthest reaches. No matter the wood gnats or the spiking heat or the prospect of eating pemmican for endless days and nights, the wilderness was in his marrow, pure and simple. Bone deep.
Maddie yawned an hour past dusk, drawing Clay’s notice. “Look to make camp,” he said.
Men had little care for where they bedded down, at least in warm weather and free of danger. Maddie had a gift for choosing a winsome spot. They spent a good quarter hour unpacking what was needed for the night, the hiss of a kettle and sizzle of a frying pan accompanied by the spring chorus of tree frogs.
Feet to the fire as spring’s chill crept in, Clay cleaned his rifle, thoughts adrift till Jude said, “Been a while since we saw Fort Pitt. Wonder if it’s as wild and raw as ever, what with the Indian traders and the like.”
“No doubt,” Clay said.
“We best lodge at Semple’s.” Maddie stirred the meat and potatoes with a long wooden spoon. “Respectable and tidy.”
Nodding, Jude reached into the skillet for a pinch of supper and earned a rap on the hand. After a wink at his wife, he glanced at Clay. “Who’s the commandant at Pitt here lately?”
“Captain Edmonstone of the 18th Royal Regiment.”
“Reckon the fort that bears your name along the Buckhannon River is big as Pitt?”
“Reckon not.” Clay cracked a smile and put away his rifle. “More the size of a privy.” At their amusement, he added, “No reason to name a fort Tygart. Better to call it after some fallen hero.”
“I’d rather honor the living than the dead,” Maddie said matter-of-factly.
Jude nodded his agreement as they commenced eating. “So, Colonel Tygart, what sense do you make of the colonial government opening a land office at Pitt? Ain’t that in violation of the Indians’ treaty rights and the king’s proclamation that forbids all settlers west of the Appalachian Mountains?”
“Forbids? Rather, ‘at least for the present, and until our further pleasure be known.’” Clay echoed the oft-repeated phrase of the king’s men. “The boundary lines are pushed further and further west treaty by treaty. ’Tis a twisted business.”
Jude rolled his eyes. “Your red blood is plenty affronted, I reckon. I seen how your hackles rose at the sight of that newly plowed field which used to be the grandest forest we ever saw. The land grabbers keep moving west. Ain’t hard to understand why those settlers tomahawked along the New River not long ago got their mouths shoved full of dirt.”
Clay said nothing to this. ’Twas a sore subject he didn’t tarry on long.
Maddie’s voice raised a notch. “Let bygones be bygones, aye, gentlemen?”
The steady chirrup of crickets replaced conversation. Rolling up in a saddle blanket to keep off the damp, Clay listened for Jude’s sawlike snoring and Maddie’s soft snuffling before an uneasy sleep claimed him.
3
By dusk Tessa and nearly everyone she knew had forted up within the walls of an unfinished defense that crowned the Buckhannon River bluff like a rude castle awaiting its lord and master. Settlement spies were sent out to determine the whereabouts of the warriors, settlers within Fort Tygart praying any hostiles had left the country. But where one settlement was spared, another was assaulted. Soon they’d hear of other raids, captives, stock stolen, if not their own. Such was the weft and warp of everyday life.
“Could be worse,” Ruth Schoolcraft said as they kept to a stockade corner. Her gaze rose to the high pickets before falling to the wood shavings at their feet. “’Tis so new a structure ’tis not yet rank. And I’ve not seen you since Christmastide.”
Had it been so long? Tessa marked time by chores and seasons. Being penned up in this place kept her from sowing the needed seed, accomplishing the next pressing task. The Indians, ever clever, understood that too. Masterful observers and raiders, they knew a bountiful corn crop carried settlers and their livestock through another winter. Flax kept them clothed, firewood warm. Nuts and berries were an added boon at table. The Indians did everything they could to disrupt that circle of survival.
Ruth touched the faded ribbon of her cap. “Times like these make me remember things I’d rather forget. We’re nearing June . . .”
“June, aye. You’re pondering Keturah,” Tessa murmured. “As am I.”
Was it guilt that shadowed them? The fact that she and Ruth had been spared that long-ago spring day?
Ruth shivered. “Seems like Keturah’s kinfolk should have stayed on here, not gone back overmountain. Their leaving seemed to say they’d lost hope she’d ever come back.”
“I suspect their cabin was too empty without her.” Was it not the same with Pa gone, every glance about their homeplace bringing a barbed memory? His clothes. His tools. His pipe and tobacco pouch. How they’d grieved then and grieved still. Nothing felt safe. All seemed haunted. Keturah seemed but a haint too.
“We were but twelve.” Tessa took her place at a loophole, tamping down the memory much as she tamped down the powder in her gun. “And now four and twenty.”
So many years had passed. Would they always wrestle with the day’s details? If they’d stayed close to home, might Keturah still be with them? Once they’d seen the full strawberry moon, off they went berry picking, chasing after the first succulent fruit in the thaw of a lean winter. Giddy, mouths stained scarlet, they’d lost track of time and then one another, determined to fill their baskets the fullest. A foolish, hapless task.
How quiet it had been that day. How innocent. Till the warm air was slashed open by a high-pitched, panther-like scream. Standing on a little knoll, Tessa saw Keturah’s basket tumble, berries spilling like red hearts every which way. If she’d but toted her gun that day, Keturah might be here now.
“Sister, need any bullet lead?” Lemuel’s voice yanked her back to the present.
She stared at him absently. “Nay.”
Reaching out, he yanked Ruth’s dangling braid in passing. Ruth’s answering giggle grated. It seemed wrong somehow to make merry with such a dark memory hovering. Betimes her patience wore out with Ruth, moonstruck by anyone in britches. She dallied with all the unmarried men but never settled on one, earning her the reputation of fort flirt.
As if sensing Tessa’s tetchy mood, Ruth moved on to help with the children now making a commotion in a near cabin, as eager to be penned up as their parents were opposed. With their lighthearted laughter in her ears, Tessa tried to make peace with her surroundings.
By day’s end there’d be noise, stink, gossip aplenty. Nary a speck of lonesomeness or a quiet corner to be had.