Beyond the Valley, page 24
She obeyed him immediately. The constable turned to the third man. “Well, Laban. The girl has saved us the trouble of going to River Run and dealing with Captain Morgan.” Then his gray eyes narrowed at Sarah. “So, you are now a runaway?”
Mrs. Sadler gasped. “A runaway?”
Mr. Sadler slapped his hand on the counter. “I knew it. We had nothing to do with it, Constable. She came here of her own accord.”
“I believe you.” The constable then stood aside. Behind him stood Laban Thrasher. “You have found your property, Laban. What do you wish to do with her now? Put her in irons so she will not escape?”
Laban Thrasher turned his hat in his hands. “Well, I suppose that is the thing to do. But not too tight, sir, for I would not want her injured.”
All eyes were upon Sarah, even the old widower’s. She clasped her hands together in a plea. “Please, sir, do what any good Christian man would do and let me go. I am to be married and I was on my way to him.” She hoped he would have sympathy for her, but by his unmoved stare she knew different.
Laban Thrasher huffed. “Married? I doubt your story, girl.”
“It is true. His name is Dr. Alex Hutton. He is a physician.”
The men laughed.
“I swear it is true. The war took him away, and when your brother bought me, he did not know where I had been taken. I wrote to him—”
Thrasher waved his hand. “Yes, I know. Mr. Pippins told us all about it.”
Sawyer drew up behind her, so close she could smell and feel his hot breath laced with rum on her neck. Dread rippled down her spine and she felt faint.
“It is over, Sarah. Give the constable your wrists.”
With no one to defend her, she resigned her hands, tears pooling in her eyes. Her heart beat in her breast like a caged bird’s. She closed her eyes and prayed. If this was God’s will, she had to let go. Faith seemed to be all she had left. But even it wavered. The anchor had been lifted from the bedrock, slipped, and she had to find a way to hold it fast before all she believed, all she hoped, drifted away.
Thrasher looked her over once she was secured. “Your clothes are in tatters. A reflection of your poor life, I would say. Wouldn’t you like a new dress?”
Ashamed, she lowered her head and did not reply. Her hair fell over her face, a veil to keep him from seeing the tears in her eyes. She cared nothing for a new dress, or anything from this man. She wanted to be free, to go on, to find Alex and be his wife. So much time had passed, and now the hope of finding him, being his, seemed a futile dream.
“I will not extend your time for running away,” Thrasher said. “I do not blame you, with all you went through. But it is a good thing you got away from Captain Morgan. He would have made things very difficult, if he had not already. We learned he sent his wife to England. You are such a pretty girl, and I hope he did not take advantage of you. He didn’t, did he?”
Sarah blinked, glanced up at Thrasher from behind her locks. “No. Your property, sir, is unscathed.”
“Have you ever been wedded?”
She paused, took in a breath, and said, “I am widowed. Sawyer did not tell you?” and she jerked her head back at Sawyer.
“I do not recall him mentioning it.” Mr. Thrasher shook his head. “Well, a nice dress will soothe your woes, surely, and a new pair of shoes. I will pay top price for them.”
“Is she worth that much to you, Mr. Thrasher?” Sawyer stepped in front of Sarah. “Guess you mean to make her more than a servant.”
Mr. Thrasher smiled. “I assure you, a servant is all she shall be. But she is a woman and deserves a bath and a nice frock. No property of mine shall be seen in rags.”
“Seen? There is only one reason why you would waste your money.”
“Indeed that is true. Make a small investment and you may gain a large profit. You should know all about that.” Thrasher ran his beefy fingers through Sarah’s hair. Sarah shivered and jerked away from his foul touch.
“Why a female like this will bring me enough cash to buy two men to work on my plantation. I will need field laborers, not house wenches. And a field laborer she is not.”
“Perhaps, but do not overlook her flaw.” Sawyer ran his eyes down her body. When he looked back at Thrasher, Sarah thought she saw jealousy rise in his gaze. “You may not get as much for her as you are hoping.”
“Speak of me as a child of God, not an animal you can buy and sell,” she cried, her fists clenched. “Constable, you must see how wrong this is. Let me go.”
“I am only an instrument of the law. Mr. Sadler, have you rooms?” the constable asked.
Mr. Sadler swallowed and looked uneasy. “I do.”
“And, we will need a place to secure this girl. If not a room, then a closet will do.”
Mrs. Sadler stepped forward. “See here. I’ll not have any human being in my establishment, indentured or not, treated like that. Locked in a closet indeed. You should be ashamed of yourselves, gentlemen.”
The constable leaned in toward her. “Have you a spare room for this girl? Preferably without a window so she may not climb through it.”
Mrs. Sadler shrugged. “No, sir.”
“Then show me the way, madam.”
With a frown, Mrs. Sadler turned on her heels and went through to the kitchen. She opened the pantry door. Spacious for its kind, she went in and moved crates to the back wall, then looked at Sarah with sad eyes.
“I will fetch a blanket and pillow,” and she stepped away.
Sarah sat on one of the crates, her face in her hands. There was no point in speaking. Mrs. Sadler returned with a soft woolen blanket and a down pillow covered in a white linen case. “I am truly sorry, Sarah. Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can send word to?”
Sarah looked up at her, clutching the blanket. “There is no one.”
Mrs. Sadler crouched in front of her and picked up Sarah’s hands. “I shall pray for you this night. As they say, there is a silver lining to every storm cloud. I hope you find yours.”
The door closed and with dread Sarah listened to the key turn in the lock. A narrow window was located at the top of the wall, but it was too narrow for her to climb through, too high for her to reach. Moonlight shined through it and bathed the walls around her. She drew the blanket close and lay down on the floor with the pillow beneath her head. Very still she lay, listening, hoping she would hear within her one word of comfort. Then, be still, sprang into her heart.
She shut her eyes and let the tears slip from them. She heard the men speaking, a muffled laugh outside the door. She sat up, crawled forward, and set her ear against it.
“Perhaps you would like to buy her for yourself, Mr. Sawyer. We could make that transaction right now,” she heard Laban Thrasher say, his tone firm.
“I have no time for a female servant in my line of work,” Sawyer grunted.
“You should have a woman to cook and mend for you. I have Dina. She’s a Creole and does everything for me. I really do not need another woman, just laborers.”
She heard Sawyer slap his hand on the table. “Why must you repeat yourself, sir? I understand you do not want to keep her. I understand you are in need of laborers.”
“You do not understand the economy of the thing.”
“So you said before.”
“Go to bed, the pair of you. I’ll keep watch,” the constable spoke up. “Argue in the morning.”
A moment later, when all went silent, she heard the constable snoring. Sarah buried her face in her arms and cried herself to sleep, but not before Alex’s name settled on her lips and she whispered prayer after prayer.
In the morning, the smells of breakfast made her stomach wrench. The door creaked open and Mrs. Sadler handed her a bowl of porridge and a tin cup of coffee.
“I owe you so much, Mrs. Sadler. How can I pay?”
“Do not worry about that. You earned it. I have the cleanest floor this side of the Potomac thanks to you.”
Sarah shook her head. “I never finished it.”
“You may think that. One day when you are free, come see me again.”
Sawyer stood behind the constable as the man stretched his arms. “Time to go, Sarah. Let us not keep Mr. Thrasher waiting.”
He took her by the arm and led her out into the yard. Gray clouds massed along the horizon and promised storms by late afternoon. The heat pressed upon her, causing her to sweat beneath her clothes. Her hands trembled, and she could not look Mrs. Sadler in the eyes when she walked past her and the children. Mr. Sadler lingered on the porch.
“I wish you well, Sarah,” Mrs. Sadler called out. “You have been treated very ill. God will have His justice one day. You can depend on that.”
Coarse hands lifted her onto a horse. And so, crushed by shame and defeat, Sarah said good-bye to what she believed were misguided hopes.
Part 5
Hold up my goings in thy paths, that my footsteps slip not.
Psalm 17:5
40
A few miles north of River Run, a shallow stretch of the Potomac rippled over stones and driftwood. Flanked by oaks and elms, it lay in shadow, except for the few places where the trees did not reach overhead to darken the water.
Anxious to cross, Alex nudged Charger down to the water’s edge. Stepping high, the horse placed his hooves into the river, snorted, and splashed his way to the other side. Cread followed, with Scout sitting on his lap.
The warm day turned leaf and bloom, settled the dust from the road on the flora as they traveled southeast. Drawing in a breath, Alex looked up at the sparks of sunlight shining through the trees. He smelled the rot of last autumn’s leaves and heard the cry of a jay in the recesses of the woods.
He turned in the saddle. “The old men spoke of following this well-worn hunting path,” he said to Cread. “Would you agree?”
“That I would,” said Cread. Scout leaped down and bounded alongside the path. “But I got this nagging feeling if we find nothing within the next five miles, we’ve reached a dead end.”
“Do not give up so easily.”
“I will stay positive for as long as it seems right.”
“It seems right to me now.”
“But those braves that went after her never returned. You know what that means.”
“I do, but there must be signs. I will not give up—not until I know for certain.”
On they rode until Scout stood stock-still, pricked his ears, and whined. “What ya smell, Scout?” Cread said. “Go on, show us, boy.”
At first, Scout ran in circles, sniffing the ground. Then he took off like a shot into the woods. He leaped over fallen trees, scooted around boulders and bracken, pushed his nose along the ground. Then he dug through the leaves with his paws.
Alex dismounted and crouched next to him. From his leather sheath he drew out his hunting knife and moved aside debris. He stopped, stared, chilled at what he had uncovered. With the tip of his blade, he lifted a patch of deer hide.
He looked up at Cread. “A loincloth. Looks like we’ve stumbled onto something gruesome.”
Cread swung off his horse. But before he made it over to Alex, he stubbed his toe. “Dang! What is this?”
Bending over, he lifted from the ground a tomahawk, the wooden handle rough and pitted from lying on the ground for so long. “Well, look at that.” Cread took it in hand. “A tomahawk.” He brushed it off and studied it. “See these marks? Says it belonged to a chief.”
“I wonder if he could be the one who went after Sarah.”
“Hard to tell, but it’s not impossible. Someone caught up to him and stopped him.”
“And—may have rescued her.”
“Or she escaped him beforehand.”
Alex examined the ground around him with close attention. He prodded something with his boot. “And here—human bone. Not much else. Animals have scattered the rest.”
Cread scratched his head beneath his coonskin cap. “Well, you would know bein’ a doctor and all.”
“You cannot tell the difference? Come and look.”
Cread strolled over and, placing his hands on his knees, looked down. “Yep. It ain’t a bear bone or even a deer’s.”
“By its size, I would say it were male.”
“Hmm, and Indian.”
“Yes—the loincloth would say as much.”
“How long you think it’s been here?”
“Several years. I am sure we would find more if we looked hard enough. But let us leave well enough alone.”
“I agree.” With a groan, Cread straightened up. “I don’t like disturbing the dead.”
“Nor do I.” Alex placed his hands on his hips and looked around. “There are plenty of reasons for what could have happened here. We will press on.”
He strapped the tomahawk onto his saddle and raised his eyes to the cloudless sky, then swung onto Charger’s back. He took out a bit of jerky from his bag and rewarded Scout. They rode on, not more than a mile, to where the river widened. The hunting path curved and met the river road.
Off in the distance, an hour before dusk, a large house came into view. Forests fenced in the green meadow it stood upon. In the rear, beneath a shady bower, stood a cabin. There were no people, no cattle or horses in the field. A swing hung motionless from a tree, and all the shutters on the house were closed. Quiet prevailed as Alex’s boots stepped up to the door. He knocked several times. No one answered. Then he tried the handle.
“Locked,” he said, coming back down the steps. “No one is at home.”
“Nobody closes their shutters in this heat.”
“Unless they are away or afraid.”
“I heard of this place. They call it River Run, the farthest estate of its kind this side of the Potomac before you reach Fort Frederick.” Cread leaned low in the saddle. “There’s been a horse here, and a coach. Looks like the people abandoned the place.”
“Perhaps not all. I am going around the back to that cabin.”
Alex strode off. Cread followed him on horseback. Scout raced ahead. Again no one greeted them, and this time they found an unlocked door. Alex went inside. A faded quilt covered the bed. A small pillow lay against the crude headboard. Upon the table that stood beneath the window, a glass jar filled with dried wildflowers sparkled in the sunlight. A candle stub had melted over a brass socket.
On the table were two books, neither of which he looked at. The paper beside them drew his attention and he picked it up to read it.
Do not search for me—signed, Sarah Carr. His heart pounded. His breath heaved. At last he had found her. “Sarah.”
He searched the cabin for more signs. There were no clothes, no brush or comb left behind. She had lived here and was gone. To whom had she written that message and how long ago, he could not tell. Outside, Cread sat on his horse, hands over the pommel of his saddle. Alex stepped out into the sunshine, folded the paper and tucked it away.
“What did you find in there?” Cread asked.
“An empty cabin, except for a message with her name inscribed on it. She was here, but has left. God alone knows where to.” He gathered Charger’s reins. “I am thinking she walked away from this place to escape something. Downriver there are churches and villages. Someone must have seen her.”
Cread wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Well, it will be night soon. I’m dog-tired and hungry.”
Alex agreed with a nod. “I am as well. We will spend the night here and leave in the morning.”
Venison jerky hardly seemed enough to fill the belly. He found food in the icehouse, and after a more substantial meal, he stretched out to sleep. Cread took the floor. Scout curled up beside him.
Alex’s mind twisted and turned. Restlessly running his hands along the side slats of the small bed, he suddenly felt a stack of papers tucked along the mattress—the returned letters that Sarah had sent to him. By candlelight he read the letters, savoring her words as he searched for any clue that might lead him to her. Finally, the wick sputtered and the flame died. Moonlight streamed through the cabin windows. Hoot owls called to their mates, and a fox barked at the night sky.
Tired, he ran his hands over his eyes and gathered her quilt over him. He could smell her scent—the smell of a breeze after a spring shower. He realized she had not been gone long. Tonight she would be alone, perhaps sleeping beneath the stars, hungry and afraid. As his thoughts turned, he wondered why she had been set on such a path. Somewhere soon that path had to come to an end, and he prayed to God he would be there for her.
On the floor in front of the fireplace, Cread snored. His dog rolled over on his back, legs in the air, and sighed. Alex shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep, sensing that Sarah was closer to him than ever.
41
Led into the tobacco barn after a two-day journey, Sarah ached to the bone. Her stomach heaved from the repulsive, tasteless gruel given to her earlier. She wanted to sleep, to lay her head on a soft pillow. She wanted peaceful silence instead of wolves’ howls, and to feel Alex’s warm touch as opposed to rough hands.
Tonight she was the only woman to be auctioned. Laban Thrasher kept his word and bought her a homespun dress and a linen chemise from the auctioneer’s wife. Sarah looked down at the shoes. Made of kid leather, they were soft. But she despised them.
She could have refused all this, but out of fear of punishment, she complied. Not once had she felt a riding crop across her back, and she did not wish to invite it now by being rebellious. Roving eyes fastened on her, made her tremble. Who among these men would bid for her—possibly be the end of her? Would it be the obese man in dark blue, whose buttonholes on his waistcoat separated over a barrel-shaped belly? Or perhaps it would be the taller one in the buckskin leggings and brown hunting jacket.
The frightened stares of poor Africans ripped from their homeland and outcast whites snatched from England’s shores stabbed her heart. Shackled in their bare feet, they shuffled up to the platform.
Sarah turned her eyes away—desirous for tears. All men were created equal, were they not? Then why were some not treated as such? If only men would follow the Lord’s commandment to love one another, the world would be a better place. A frown creased her brow, for she knew how it felt to be taken against one’s will, sold like livestock, live at the beck and call of a master or mistress. But she had also come to know the friendship and compassion of others, like Eliza and Fiona. Could she find such persons among this motley crowd of planters and plantation owners?
