Wild Indigo (15 page)

“Yes,
ma'am
,” he said emphatically. Though one hand fisted, Nicholas took his seat.

 

Exhausted at the end of a long day, Retha stripped to her summer body linen and dragged herself to bed. Luckily, despite her rudeness to her friend in the afternoon, Brother and Sister Ernst had walked with them to
Singstunde
for the evening song service and
kept them company in the
Saal
. Luckily, too, Eva's forgiving disposition diffused Retha's tension, and Brother Ernst teased Nicholas about tripping on his lower lip until Nicholas had to smile. Most luck of all, heavy clouds brought darkness early, so Retha hustled the children off to bed before another incident could occur.

Jacob's bed was still newly crisp and inviting. Its cornhusk mattress crackled as she settled in alone. But not without an overwhelming sense of his presence. It had shadowed her all day, as if he were watching her, evaluating her, quick to prod, correct, protect. He had become her conscience, and her critic.

She slipped into the bed, weariness deepening as she listened to the crickets' heated chirping. She wanted to be a good mother to Jacob's children, to be for them the mother she had lost not once, but twice. She wanted to care for each one of them equally—ragged Anna Johanna, pious Matthias, defiant Nicholas. No matter how difficult mothering half-grown boys was proving to be.

She wanted to do so without anyone's help because she had always made her way. If she could do it on her own, they would seem—would be—her own family all the more. But getting all three of them to accept her as their mother was going to be very, very hard. She pulled up the sheet, then flung it off. The bed was hot, and she was frustrated and confused, for Jacob had sent help in the persons of the Brother and Sister Ernst.

Humiliated as she had been on first realizing his ploy, she was less so tonight. She had to admit, he
had not been all that wrong to enlist their aid. They had helped. Their presence had deferred Nicholas's explosion and afterwards doused his fire. If Jacob stayed away long, no doubt she would need them again.

Deep inside, she wanted more. She had to prove herself worthy of being Jacob Blum's wife. Whatever she had done on her wedding night had cost her his respect. She wanted it back. She twisted her body on the half-empty bed, in the heat, in the dark, lonely night. She imagined his body beside her, strong and solid and peaceful in sleep. She wanted him back. To whisper
Liebling
again, his lips warm at her throat.

“A
h, Blum. You have news about our grain?” Inside his field tent, a tall, fastidious Colonel Martin Armstrong relinquished his smoldering pipe to its stand.

Jacob bowed courteously to the Continental officer. Until now, his every contact with the man had shown him to be fair and reasonable. Cousin Andreas's latest stupidity might well put the man's reason to a test. Mentally, Jacob shifted to English.

“No, sir, I have not come about your grain.”

Eyes narrowing, the colonel stood up behind a battered but much polished field desk. “What other reason could bring you here? I doubt you come to enlist.”

Jacob stiffened. “You know our community does not bear arms in this struggle, Colonel. Wherever our personal sympathies may lie. Indeed, my cousin, Andreas Blum of the Friedland community, has been wrongly drafted.”

The colonel fingered his pipe. “Not wrongly, since your Friedlanders did not pay the tax required of men who do not wish to serve.”

“Some paid it. My cousin paid. I have the proof.”
Jacob slid a hand inside his coat for the duplicate certificate, forgetting caution in his haste to be about his business. In a flash, Armstrong's aide and another soldier pinned his arms, wrenching them back. Too large and strong for them to actually hurt him, Jacob tightened his muscles against an angry compulsion to retaliate.

“Check his coat,” the colonel ordered, his voice calm.

Jacob tried not to resent their roughness as they patted him down and probed his coat pockets, ignoring the crackle of paper.

“No arms, sir.”

“Release him.”

The men stepped back as if reluctant to lose a potential prisoner. Armstrong walked out from behind his field desk and stopped three feet in front of Jacob. “Proof, you say?”

Jacob retrieved the bishop's certificate of waiver for his cousin from his pocket. No one stirred as he handed it over.

Scanning the waiver, the colonel tossed it onto his desk. “Very well. We can check the roster. Corporal!”

The aide handed the colonel a large sheet of parchment. The colonel inspected it. “I see no Private Blum. But for you, I will send a man to look among the new recruits.”

Jacob weighed the colonel's response with frustration and hope: Andreas was not here, but the colonel would help look. He ordered an aide to go, motioned Jacob to a worn camp stool, and busied himself with papers on his desk. Finishing, Armstrong set down his pen and picked up his pipe.
“We must not waste your visit,” he said.

Jacob waited as the colonel nursed the pipe to smoldering life, not trusting the casual tone of his remark. “If I can be of use…” he said cautiously.

Armstrong made an obliging gesture. “You can deliver the grain we ordered or at least account for your delay.”

“Our mill-race was destroyed in the spring floods. We can grind no grain until it is repaired.”

The colonel popped his lips around his pipe's stem. “In lieu of our grain then, you can tell me what you know of the Tory encampment on the Atkin.”

Jacob bit down on quick anger. “I am no spy, sir.” He neither supported the British nor sympathized overmuch with the Tories who did. Nonetheless, he could report nothing without compromising his community's strict neutrality, and the colonel knew it.

“They're nearer Salem than Salisbury, are they not?” the colonel probed.

Resolutely Jacob met the man's gaze. “'Tis widely
rumored
”—he stressed the word—“that several hundred men are camped there.”

“That agrees with our reports. And the British approach from the south. I take it you have word of that.”

“Yes, sir. Salem is a hotbed of rumor.”

“No doubt,” the colonel said wryly.

Relieved that Armstrong accepted his answer in good humor, Jacob had to smile. “If your officers found other towns more to their liking, we might know less.”

The fastidious colonel shrugged obligingly. “Everyone knows there are no finer accommodations
to be found in this bloody wilderness. But what of military traffic through your town?”

“It increases. Unlike spring, troops pass through nearly every day. Some stay, but not for long, and rarely very many.”

“British? Or ours?”

Probing again, Jacob thought. But this information he could give without betraying his beliefs. Which army or which faction passed through town was common knowledge. “A few British officers, usually on the run. Lighthorse, occasionally. All the rest are Continentals and militia.”

For a moment, Armstrong chewed the stem of his pipe. “What of your actual danger?”

Surprised at his concern, Jacob replied, “We tripled the night watch.”

“Comprising how many men?”

“Three.”

The colonel shook his head. “Not enough, Blum, to protect your people or our grain. Did you arm them?”

“They carry conch shells to sound a warning. And since Brother Homer was beaten in the street, we keep clubs at home to protect our families.”

“Clubs!” The colonel snorted. “They'll not stop a raid. But you are foolhardy, to neither fight nor arm yourselves.”

“With respect, sir, our beliefs…”

“Your beliefs will be the undoing of the most successful trading community in the backcountry, Mr. Blum.”

“Or our salvation. We do not bear arms, colonel. That is why I have come for my cousin, taking time from needed repairs.”

Armstrong glared. Jacob waited, his expression impassive, he hoped, over the impatience that drove his pulse.

“Oh, very well,” Armstrong snapped. “You may wait outside. I have much work.”

Satisfied to have won his point, Jacob sat out the rest of the afternoon in front of Armstrong's tent. But after four days of fruitless travel, it was hard to bear the waiting and the bold taunts of soldiers when his body burned for action and his heart yearned for Retha and his children thirty-nine miles away.

The Lord only knew what havoc his family would wreak in his absence. During Jacob's last trip, Nicholas had teased his sister to tears with wriggling skinks, Anna Johanna had tried to run away, and Matthias's nightmares had terrorized the Ernsts.

Now Jacob could add his bride to his other worries. How would she contend with skinks, runaways, night terrors? It was some comfort to recall that she had once quieted his daughter and later held her own in altercations with his sons.

Leaning his elbows on his knees, he stared past troops gathering for drill near the river. Instead of doubting everything, he should try to trust Brother Marshall's reassurances, depend on the Ernsts' steadiness, take heart in Retha's confidence when she saw him off.

Such confidence, and such unexpected concern.

Abruptly the texture of their departing kiss flooded back to him. He could not fathom it. What had brought on such a change from her terror of his touch? After all but turning him out of bed on their wedding night, she had bid him good-bye with a
soul-shattering embrace. It held a lingering sweetness, a trace of trust, and a hint, he hoped, of desire. Beneath that, he sensed a wild promise in her kiss as well. Across the miles, that promise tugged at him.

But her touch, that chameleon change, held her secrets, too.

He mopped sweat from his brow. It did no good to sit and stew. When he returned home, he would have her many mysteries to solve: her cheerful, concealing competence and the wild temptation of her touch, both set against her clawing fear.

Perhaps that fear would dissipate. Unlikely, he told himself. As his search for Andreas had lengthened to days, he had had little to do but recall the events of his wedding night. Her fear appeared to be an old one, fueled by forces he might never know. Even so, what could he do to forestall such another scene? Could he do anything?

He shifted uncomfortably on the cramped camp stool the colonel had consigned him to. His bride would share his bed, if not her body; he insisted on it. He entertained the idea of investigating. Sisters Krause and Ernst, perhaps even old Sister Holder, could shed some light.

But he dare not ask any of the three. Retha's secret was, in honor, now his. He would not shame her to any Single or Married Sister by casting the slightest doubt on her suitability to be his bride. She had done no wrong. She had not hurt his children. She had not hurt herself.

At last the aide returned, bringing neither Andreas nor good news. His cousin was not among the newly drafted men.

His patience raveled, Jacob demanded another interview. Armstrong's head bent over papers as Jacob strode to his desk and placed his palms on Armstrong's desk. “Allow me, Colonel, to question the recruits regarding my cousin's whereabouts.”

Raising his head, Armstrong gave Jacob a sharp look. “You presume on our acquaintance and waste our time and your own.”

“Sir, we are within the law.”

The colonel jammed his pipe into its holder. “Very well. It is your time after all. The sooner you are satisfied, the sooner you will return to your mill, will you not?” To the aide he said, “Take him to the new recruits.”

The aide tucked the roster under his arm and marched with Jacob toward the river through lanes of packed red clay and choking red dust. In the harsh sun, tents gleamed, haggard infantrymen lounged, and a few mounts rested. The smell of supper cook-fires hung over the encampment—strong coffee and scorched beans, reminding Jacob he was hungry, reminding him he was far from home. Downstream by the riverbank, he caught a glimpse of unbound amber hair so near the color of his wife's that his breath lodged in his throat.

She couldn't be here. Blinking, he peered through the shimmering haze of campfire smoke and summer heat. No, this woman's hair was shorter, straighter than his wife's untamed mane. But suddenly he longed for Retha, his groin telling him in no uncertain terms exactly what he wished for: her presence, her body, here.

Trailing the aide, he neared the gap-toothed,
grinning woman, a bedraggled camp follower doing laundry. He hurried past, vexed to be so vividly reminded of his wife and then to have that vision spoiled.

On the camp's outskirts, three sweating men dug ditches under the broiling sun. The stench hung, concentrated, in the still afternoon. Jacob suppressed his planner's impulse to tell them how to alter the entrenchments to improve conditions. Below his knees, flies swarmed thickly, a few escaping the throng to light on the bare skin of his face. He swatted at them.

“There's naught but three,” the aide said, then barked an order to the straining men. Surprised, they turned, dropped their shovels, and tiredly stood at attention, facing the sun's glare.

One of them shielded his eyes and grinned. Relief and exasperation welled in Jacob's chest. Could the man take nothing seriously?

“That one is my cousin,” he told the aide. “In the middle.”

The aide studied the men and then ran a finger down the roster. “That man's Pope, or Richards, or Andrews,” he read.

“Not Andrews,” Jacob snapped, seeing the military's error in a flash of irritation. “Andreas. Andreas Blum.”

The aide stubbornly clung to the name on the roster. “Private Andrews, fall out.”

Andreas looked from the aide to his fellow ditch-diggers, clearly puzzled.

Jacob spoke in German. “He's releasing you from duty, Andreas. Get out of the ditch.”

At the sound of his mother tongue, Andreas perked up and squinted into the sun. “
Kusine
Jacob!” Eagerly he slogged through the muck to Jacob's side and gave him a disgusting, smelly bear hug. “I had not expected you for days—no, weeks!”

“The war comes closer to us. I could not well leave you to kill and be killed,” he growled.

“
Ach
, but for you to come and leave a beautiful new bride at home…” His cousin's dark eyes danced, for Andreas enjoyed a joke at anyone's expense.

Jacob ignored him. “It has taken me four days to find you. And it will be as many hours before we are free of this mistake.”

His prediction proved all too true. A setting sun reddened the sky by the time Andreas strolled up, dressed in plain farm clothes and flanked by an armed infantryman and the aide.

Armstrong saluted his men. “Andreas Blum is hereby stripped of all rank, privilege, and duty to the Continental Army and released and relinquished to the custody of Jacob Blum.”

“I thank you,” Jacob said formally, trying to balance a deep-rooted dislike of military procedure with grudging gratitude for Armstrong's help. “And for our community, Brother Marshall thanks you.”

Armstrong nodded. “Neither your gratitude nor theirs impresses me, Mr. Blum. All I want from Salem is our grain.”

Jacob reined in anger. “You shall have it,” he promised.

“I can afford you no more favors,” the colonel warned.

Jacob bowed curtly. “We shall ask no more, only our rights under the law.”

 

Arms hugging her knees, Retha sat on a large rock. Jacob had been gone four long days, and she was fighting worry.

For years she had come here for a respite from the too orderly enclosures of a Single Sister's life. The rock was still warm from the day's heat. The bright half moon was near to setting, and water lapped lazily in the creek. She had only precious minutes to herself She had left the children in bed asleep.

Her wolf had not yet come for the hunk of fat-back she had placed on a nearby log. She waited anxiously, craving a sight of its free spirit. A sight of something purely wild and not so demanding as the children. She had ridden herd on them all week. Or them on her. Anna Johanna wanted her hair brushed, her face washed, her “deer dress” completed now. Matthias would accept no food on earth but demanded more Indian stories.

And Nicholas wanted Retha to leave him alone. His father gone, he sulked. Daily she invoked the sixth commandment, the only measure that seemed to work.
Honor your father, Nicholas. The more so while he is away
. Grimly her stepson set out dishes. Stubbornly he hoed his row as she had struggled, with the children, to restore the garden to order and rid it of weeds. Mechanically he apologized to his sister each time he thoughtlessly reduced her to tears.