At least the fort was fresh hewn, the privies newly dug. Whoever this hero named Tygart was, she hoped he’d be pleased with the place that bore his name. Though they’d never met, she already knew the gist of him, of every enduring borderman. All were crafted with the same uncanny courage, that hard-bitten fearlessness. Not all men had it. Those who didn’t were soon run off or cut down. Cowards were not to be borne.
Somebody within these walls said Tygart had eyes like a rattler, so intense was his gaze. A shiver coursed through her. If he had such eyes, she’d not look into them. Snakes were an abomination ever since Eden’s garden. Copper snakes and rattlers wound themselves amid her flax patch, an everlasting dread. A vicious snakebite had carried off her favorite cur, Absalom. She still visited his grave.
“Come away, Daughter.” Ma was at her side, all but prying the flintlock from her hands. “We’re to sup with Hester.”
With a nod, Tessa looked up at the rifle platform where men stood watch, all armed to the teeth. Yet not one contrary shot had been fired. For that they could be thankful. She might eat her supper in peace. No need for a feminine hand just yet till time came to spell one of the men when the fray turned exhausting. With Jasper overmountain, were her other brothers safely here? Amid all the homespun and felt-hatted men at dusk, ’twas hard to tell.
Eyes down, she followed Ma through the melee. Folks were still coming in, the gates manned by no less than a dozen guns. The whine of new iron hinges nearly made her wince. Last time they’d forted up downriver the Indians had stormed the gates and nearly gained entry till a quick-thinking settler had poured molten tar on them. Their anguished howls stalked her for days.
Once inside Great-Aunt Hester’s cabin, Tessa leaned her rifle in a corner. Cornbread baked a deep buttery gold sat at the hearth, and a pie, likely made of last season’s dried apples, cooled on a table. Pewter plates and tankards were placed just so, the eldest Swan exacting even in old age.
“Tessa, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Hester said as she bent to poke a pot of beans.
Tessa gave her a peck on the cheek. “Need a hand, Auntie?”
“Set out this round of cheese and the last of the quince preserves.”
Despite Hester’s spinsterhood, the cabin had a comfortable feel full of homespun touches, unlike the temporary quarters of those who dashed in when an alarm was raised, then scurried out again when the country was calm.
Ross appeared for supper, though her other brothers remained at the wall. A few others joined them, in need of feeding. The Swans were a generous lot, with ties to Williamsburg and Philadelphia. Talk even now turned to overmountain. Tessa reckoned she was one of the have-nots, born and bred on the frontier, hearing about such faraway places secondhand.
After all but Ross returned to their posts, Hester served sassafras tea. “Two Swan spinsters are too many.” She began her familiar rant, darting a stern look Tessa’s way. “Thankfully, with so few women here, there’s a blessed glut of men to choose from.”
Tessa breathed in the beloved scent of sassafras as her own cup was filled, shutting out Hester’s timeworn words. Spring tonic, sassafras. When sweetened with maple sugar, no finer remedy could be had.
“I’d rather talk about Jasper,” Ma said after a sip from her own cracked treenware cup. “He promised to bring flower seed from overmountain. I’ve a mind to plant a tea garden. Liberty tea, it’s called.”
“Oh? And what is this so-called liberty tea?” Ross teased as he reached for the last piece of cornbread. “We are anything but at liberty.”
“Likely the Indians will cut down that sort of nonsense too.” Hester’s words were punctuated by a gunshot. “Save your seed for more peaceful times.”
Tessa said no more as another shot rang out. So, the fracas had begun. Talk was pointless amid so much noise.
Ross left the cabin, cornbread in hand, shutting the door after him. The women sat listening. A baby cried and the corralled animals near the fort’s front gates began making frightful noises of discontent. Already the biting smoke of black powder snuck between the cabin’s chinking, snuffing the fragrance of sassafras.
Steeling herself, Tessa bowed her head briefly.
Lord, let it end soon, please. Spare Tygart, whoever he is, the sorry spectacle of his fort under siege.
4
Clay took in the distant, dark silhouette of Fort Pitt. Of all the frontier outposts, Pitt had the most presence. Bordered by three rivers that were nothing short of jaw-dropping no matter the season, Pitt was a behemoth of brick and earth and stone, a formidable stronghold, the celebrated gateway to the west. Now, overfull from the spring thaw, the entangled waters held a special sheen, unspooling to faraway places.
The Monongahela River he knew best. It flowed north and was a mere hundred or so miles in length, shallow enough to walk across in places, leading south toward Virginia and the fort that bore his name. He preferred the seldom-seen waters farther west, the Indian-sacred Muskingum and Tuscarawas and White Woman of his former life.
For now, they’d reprovision at Pitt after a week’s travel. Digest any news before journeying on.
Clay reported to Captain Edmonstone while Jude and Maddie found lodging at Semple’s beyond fort walls. Bypassing swaggering soldiers and sotted traders, steely-eyed Indian guides and half bloods, Clay gained the garrison’s inner sanctum only to be steered beyond its walls to the newest commandant’s house, a fine brick building with cut stone steps.
“After a brief time of peace following the last treaty, there’s fresh trouble,” Edmonstone told him straightaway, gesturing to a large map spread across a table. He jabbed an ink-stained finger toward the westernmost Virginia border. “Numerous raids, large and small. A great many scalpings and captives taken. Most of the unrest seems to originate with the Shawnee. You’ll muster a much-needed militia at Fort Tygart, where settlement is the heaviest and danger is the thickest. Pick your spies and send them out to scout with care. There are many able bordermen who should serve you and the government well, the Swans, Clendennins, and Schoolcrafts foremost.”
Noting the settlers’ names, Clay studied the map. Though Pitt was virtually immune to Indian attack, word was that the British no longer wanted the encumbrance of so costly an outpost, no matter how well fortified and strategically placed. Ransoming captives, making treaties with the tribes, and supervising the oft-brawling Indian traders was what Pitt did best. Though subject to the king’s and Parliament’s whims and dictates, Pitt turned a blind eye on the tide of settlers flooding west despite the king’s waffling displeasure. The lure of the land was too great.
That night Clay, Jude, and Maddie sat down in the crowded dining room.
“Semple’s is becoming quite proper,” Maddie said, eyeing their linen-clad table and fellow diners. “I spy John Connelly, agent of Virginia’s royal governor, over in the corner.”
“Mistress Semple’s famed kin, aye,” Clay answered.
