Somerset (15 page)

F
rom the first night the wagon train formed a circle for shelter and a corral for the animals, Jessica learned that nothing was expected of her. The other women were hardly out of their wagons before they set about preparations to get their families fed and bedded down for the night. Jessica watched the organized industry in awed dismay, feeling helpless and totally useless as mothers sent their smaller children off to gather firewood and fetch water, the older ones to dig a fire pit while the men unhitched, hobbled, and fed the animals. Dutch ovens and roasting spits, frying pans and eating utensils appeared, and in no time at all, pots were simmering and coffee brewing. A slave couple named Jeremiah and Maddie whom Silas had brought along in lieu of Lazarus and Cassandra were assigned to take care of camp duties for the Toliver family.

Watching the activities wrapped in her fashionable blue cloak of merino wool, Jessica said to Silas, who had drawn to her side for the first time that day, “I feel rather…pointless.”

“No need to. You were such a help with Joshua today. You kept him occupied.”

“Keeping him engaged is a pleasure. What are my duties?”

“None, except to stay well.”

“Ah, yes, we can't have me dying on you before you build your plantation.”

Silas looked ready to explain that she'd once again misinterpreted his meaning but thought better of the effort and said, “Tell Tippy that in the future she's to set up your washstand in the light of the campfire. The shadows are private but dangerous—a good place for a silent abduction with no one the wiser until you've been discovered missing.”

“Me? Why—why would anybody want to abduct me?”

“Perhaps your imagination can assist you in taking my word for it, Miss Wyndham.”

Jeremy had drawn up to their campfire. “Ransom, Jess,” he explained quietly, addressing her by the shortened, friendly version of her name he'd elected to call her, “or a Creek warrior desiring a white squaw.”

“Or worse,” Silas added, an eyebrow arched meaningfully.

“You—you're trying to frighten me.”

“No, Miss Wyndham,” Silas said. “We're trying to protect you. Stay in the light of the fire.”

Jessica did not dare dispute the order and washed in the Conestoga, keeping ears and eyes open for strange sounds and shadows outside the wagon. With Tippy sleeping on a pallet beside her, she hardly closed her eyes for two weeks because of watching for a skulking figure or the feathered headdress of an Indian warrior outlined against the canvas.

From the outset, Jessica realized the privileged daughter of Carson Wyndham was not to be invited into the close-knit community of the wagon train. Besides her dubious standing as Silas Toliver's wife, she treated her black driver and maid as equals, confirming gossip of her anti-slavery leanings that had leaked to the cavalcade before it pulled out. Members of slave-owning families, especially the men, gave her wary looks and, Jessica was certain, discouraged their wives from mingling with her, “quite as if they expect me to unlock their slaves' shackles and set them free,” she told Tippy. The others did not seek to befriend her simply because of the great distance between her status and theirs, and Jessica was at a loss how to bridge the barrier of their social differences.

She would have liked to discuss the matter with Silas, for she was willing to enter into the activities of the community, do her share, but she rarely saw him except in the evenings when they gathered for supper around their campfire, and then not for long. His council and attention were in constant demand. When he could take time to enjoy a meal, Joshua was the main focus of conversation between them. Jessica had reluctantly granted Tippy's request that she and Jasper eat later with Jeremiah and Maddie—“It looks better that way, Miss Jessie”—but often Jeremy and Tomahawk joined their group, and her hope to have Silas's attention was disappointed. Jessica came to resent the intrusion on her only opportunity to speak to her husband.

To occupy her time, she would keep a journal—a type of
logbook
—of their migration, Jessica decided. One day she might write a book of her experiences for posterity.

“What will you name it?” Tippy asked.

“I don't know yet. I expect inspiration will come.”

Writing the journal was the ideal solution to fill the empty hours of bouncing along on the seat of the Conestoga behind
Sila
s's wagon while Tippy was busy under the canvas sewing a buckskin jacket like Silas's to present Joshua on his fifth birthday in May. Tippy had made the request for the skin from Jeremy, who had procured it from only the wind knew where, and the secrecy with which the four of them—Jeremy, Jasper, Jessica, and Tippy—kept the garment concealed from the little boy and his father lent a little air of mystery and excitement to the long days.

Silas did not drive his Conestoga, since he was at the head of the wagon train with Jeremy. He had put a longtime slave of Queenscrown in charge of it, and when the wagon's back flap was open, Jessica could see the woody branches of roses the driver was to mind carefully. Jeremy had also brought along burlap-wrapped root balls of roses from his garden. Tippy had told him and Silas to have them mounded with used coffee grounds to keep them strong. Since wagon space was so valuable, Jessica had been surprised that the men had allotted some of theirs to roses.

“What is their importance?” she had asked Jeremy.

“They are symbols of our family lines that began in England,” he told her, and explained their significance. “Silas brought his Lancasters along in honor of his heritage.”

“And you? Why did you bring along your White Rose of York?”

“In memory of my mother.”

Against her husband's better judgment, thin, spindly Jasper drove Jessica's spirited four-horse team, a present from her father. Silas would have preferred the gift had been oxen. They were slower, but more manageable and made better farm animals.

“The first bobble, Jasper, and you're out of that seat and on foot, understand? I'll have somebody else take over the reins.”

“Yes suh, Mister Silas.”

“Did you hear that?” Tippy said to Jessica. “Your husband is concerned for his wife's safety.”

“My husband is concerned for the safety of his bankroll.”

There was much to record, and Jessica was discovering she had a flair for narrative beyond reporting mundane particulars like road conditions, weather, and features of the terrain, usually the sole details found in travel journals and logs. She included such information only if it affected life on the trail, which it often did, sprinkling her accounts with personal reflections and impressions of people and places and items of interest so that within days she realized her journal was taking on the tone of a diary.

B
y the time they reached Georgia, Jessica had exchanged her corset for one petticoat and her fashionable day gowns with their down-filled sleeves and full conical skirts for simpler cotton dresses. She had now joined the sparrows if not their nest. The importance of preserving the “empire silhouette,” so flattering to her figure, her only asset, seemed ridiculous when attempting to walk beside a mud-slinging wagon in pouring rain to lighten the load or to maintain a seat while driving on a washboard road or navigating forests, rivers, and swamps. The large brim of a calico bonnet she'd purchased from a general store in a small town before leaving South Carolina sheltered her freckled face, and Silas had surprised her with a sturdy pair of women's work boots he'd seen in a store window. “I hope they are not too big, he'd said. “You have such dainty feet.”

Jessica had been overcome by the compliment. The boots were the ugliest looking footgear she'd ever seen, and indeed too big, but thick stockings would fill them up, and they were so much more practical and comfortable than her lightweight kid leather slippers.

“Thank you,” she'd said shyly.

He seemed pleased that he had pleased her. “You're welcome.”

“Of course I will pay you for them,” she said.

His face showed an instant's disappointment, then hardened. “They were meant as a gift from my own pocket, but if you prefer, you may consider them purchased by your father, who has already paid for them.” His tone had been clipped, and he'd stalked away before he could see her bite her lip in self-reproach.

Why, Jessica had wondered, did she persist in slamming doors in the man's face he seemed to want to open to her? Was she afraid he might see the truth of her feelings for him, whatever that truth was? The day would come when he would no longer bother, and she could not blame him. Indeed, as she noted in her diary a week later, the exchange marked his last attempt to win her friendship, but by then, his days were too busy and fraught with anxiety to try. Their last encounter had happened on the eve of the dreadful news that reached them the next day.

The almost certain possibility of an Indian attack necessitated halting the wagon train for a day so that everyone—men, women, and children—could learn and practice defense and protection procedures. The wagon leaders and Tomahawk addressed the large congregation with information on what to expect if attacked and gave instructions and demonstrations on techniques to stay alive and preserve their property and livestock. For practice sessions, the members of the wagon train were to be divided in groups of eight with each member of the family assigned specific duties to assist others in their section.

“United we stand. Divided we fall,” Jeremy quoted. “In an Indian attack, it's not every man for himself. It's every man watching out for the back of his neighbor.”

Led by the most seasoned among them, the audience was then dispersed to rehearse what it had learned. Tippy, Jasper, Joshua, Jeremiah, and Maddie were sent to be with Tomahawk's party. Jessica, standing beside her wagon, waited to be assigned to hers. She had begun to get impatient when Silas finally broke away from his supervisory duties. Her heart leaped when she saw the tall, slim figure stride toward her, a reaction she concealed by setting her face in stone.

“I was beginning to think I'd been forgotten, Mr. Toliver,” she said, her tone crisp. “To what group am I to be dispatched?”

“Mine, Miss Wyndham.” Silas held out a long-barreled gun. “Do you know how to shoot this?”

She gazed at it, nonplussed. “I…can shoot a pistol. I was taught before I left South Carolina.”

“But how about a flintlock rifle?”

“I've never held one in my hands.”

“Then get down on the ground and lie on your stomach, right here by your wagon's wheel.”

“For what purpose?”

“I'm going to teach you how to shoot it.”

“Oh. I thought my task would be to keep the guns loaded.”

“That, too, Miss Wyndham, but every woman needs to know how to aim, load, and fire a weapon in an Indian attack. Keep your pistol beside you, but it is useless unless your adversary is within close range. We won't waste ammunition today, but you can practice aiming and firing, and I'll show you how to load the gun. Now, please. Get down on the ground.”

Jessica obeyed and lost her breath when Silas lay beside her and reached across her to adjust the gun to her shoulder. She willed herself to ignore the press of his body and the closeness of his head as he patiently and softly warned her of the gun's report and fed instructions into her ear.

“Steady the gun in a spoke and aim for the belly of the horse. When the horse goes down, the Indian will, too. You may not have time to reload. When the Indian comes within closer range, that's when you use your pistol.”

Jessica listened, appalled. Shoot a human being, an innocent horse?

“That's it. Good. Now try again,” Silas said, close beside her, when she aimed and fired at a pretend target.

When finally he was satisfied, Silas showed her how to insert a paper cartridge filled with gunpowder and a lead ball into the gun barrel. They sat knee to knee, their close heads bent over the gun. Jessica was acutely aware of his nearness and hoped that, in his man's way, he did not sense her “juices” flowing.

“All right,” he said, too soon, and clambered to his feet. “That's enough for today.” He reached down to give her a hand up, and she noticed his gaze sweep over her hair, flaring unfettered over her shoulders. She was without her bonnet since the day was warm and overcast.

“I suggest, in case we're attacked, that you cover your hair completely,” he said. “Red-haired white women are prized among Indian warriors and chiefs—not that they're treated as such.”

Horrified, Jessica clasped her head. “Do you think I…should have it cut?” she asked sorrowfully.

He seemed as regretful. “What a pity that would be. No, let's see how events unfold before taking such a drastic measure. I'm leaving the gun with you. Practice your aim and assembling cartridges, but keep the gun barrel empty. We'll need every bit of ammunition should worse come to worst. Let's hope it doesn't.”

“Yes, let us so hope,” Jessica said. “Thank you for your instruction, Mr. Toliver. I realize it is to your advantage that I stay safe, but I…appreciate the lesson for my own sake.”

“Instruction in keeping safe is to the advantage of all of us, Miss Wyndham,” Silas said and strode off, his parting shot the last he had to say to her of any substance in the long, anxious weeks following. She sensed his watchful eye upon her as they passed through Georgia and Alabama into Louisiana without mishap from the Creeks, who had indeed declared war against the whites, but he kept his distance, and Jessica could only guess at his relief when he dumped her in New Orleans in two weeks' time.