They grew still, the raucous call of a crow the only sound other than the rustle of the stalks. Keturah shut her eyes, then opened them. “Jasper . . . he won.”
“Aye, being the oldest and the fastest.” The burst of joy she felt at the sweet memory was short-lived, given her brother’s hard-heartedness.
Keturah lost her faraway look. “Talk more of, then.”
As they started back to the cabin, taking turns pulling the heavy sled, Tessa spoke of cranberry tarts at Christmas, the forest furniture they’d gathered for their rag dolls, the bear cub once shut up in the barn, the scourge of measles that spanned months before it was done, and her and Keturah’s baptisms in the cold water of the Buckhannon by an itinerant preacher.
“I was made a”—Keturah hesitated as she often did, the white words eluding her—“angel?”
“A saint,” Tessa replied softly, moved by the recollection. “But aye, I do remember Brother Merritt saying you looked like an angel when you came up out of all that water.”
Clay had expected someone older but now faced a man his own age, an apprenticed cooper turned missionary. John Heckewelder was a remarkably unassuming man. “I’m serving as the messenger of David Zeisberger,” he said almost apologetically upon arrival at Fort Tygart, his handshake firm, his manner warm. “But Brother Zeisberger sends his sincerest regards.”
Zeisberger was the Moravian leader, a true friend to all the tribes, with none of the prejudices afflicting so many. He’d established a successful mission named Bethlehem in eastern Pennsylvania, and his converts, mostly Lenape, were growing. Keturah’s plight was of special interest to them.
In Heckewelder’s party was a Mingo scout and his wife, three fellow converts, and his own assistant, all committed to establishing a new mission farther west. Greetings went round, and then Heckewelder was left alone with Clay after being shown the east blockhouse where they’d lodge.
Hester soon came with food and drink, then left the men to their talk. Keturah would join them in the morning, escorted by one of the Swan brothers and Tessa. He’d asked Tessa by letter to accompany them, his desire to have her safely behind fort walls as much in mind as Keturah’s comfort.
He’d expected to answer Heckewelder’s questions about Keturah, help smooth the way to their meeting, but once again the truth emerged that he knew precious little about her due to his own history with the Lenape and not wanting to delve further.
Now as they walked about the garrison at dusk, Heckewelder remarked on the fort’s prime location, particularly taken with the bountiful spring. “Bethlehem, being a peaceful community, is without pickets.” He stood beneath the elm’s arching shade as a few children regarded them shyly. “We Moravians would deny you a job if we could.”
“By converting every tribe and nation?” Clay mused, knowing their lofty aims. The peaceful prospect seemed especially ludicrous in light of their present surroundings. “Admirable but hard-won.”
“We understand the tribes’ plight, given so many of us Moravians have been driven out of our own homelands in Europe. We see their warring ways as a desperate effort to hold on to their territory, their way of life, mayhap their very existence. Admittedly, our stance on the frontier is conciliatory rather than defensive.” Heckewelder studied the sentinels guarding the half-open front gates. “What is your greatest challenge here as commander?”
“Murderous attitudes.”
Heckewelder nodded in understanding. “Both settlers and Indians, you mean.”
“Most here have known violence and death at Indian hands, or they will. Many seek an opportunity to repay in kind. The rule of law, even military law, is nearly unknown.”
“’Tis understandable in light of their losses, but certainly not biblical.”
“Most prefer ‘an eye for an eye’ and overlook ‘blessed are the peacemakers.’”
“And you, Colonel, are you not a riddle, raised by both Friends and Indians and now defending the westernmost border?”
“My position here is primarily defensive. I have no plans to mount an offensive unless provoked.”
“Has an attack been made on the fort or settlers?”
Clay gave a nod. “Before my coming, aye. I assumed command in early May but have yet to fire a single shot at the enemy. Fort spies regularly report sign, mostly on well-traveled Indian trails, but other than a few stolen horses the country is remarkably quiet.”
“A most peculiar circumstance.” Heckewelder’s calm demeanor continued. “Who are the foremost raiders?”
“Prior attacks were at the hands of the Wyandot, Delaware, and Shawnee living on the upper Sandusky and Scioto.”
“The very places we hope to sow peace.”
They bypassed the powder magazine, hardly a point of interest since the Moravians, like Quakers, were pacifists. Clay pointed out the common garden with corn, beans, and squash in abundance.
“I’m partial to Indian fare.” Heckewelder’s lean frame was in sharp contrast to Cutright, who stood watching them from his storefront. “Succotash in particular.”
“I well remember,” Clay said, never having lost his taste for the Indian dish.
“How long were you with the Lenape?”
