Tonight, after washing at a basin on her windowsill, she lay down. Her treasured wash ball was nearly gone. A lodger had left it behind last winter and its clove scent seemed a gift given the harsh soft soap she herself made from lard and lye in late fall.
Tomorrow was the Sabbath when they could rest. The saddlebag preacher would come and give a sermon on the tavern’s front steps. He only came round once a month or so and most settlers who lived within riding or walking distance turned out to hear him preach. Some said he made hell so vivid one could find it on a map. Young and lined, the fearless Methodist rode round Virginia’s back country in all seasons.
“Mon Dieu…” Dropping to her knees by her bed, Brielle shut her eyes and nearly fell asleep as she uttered the French prayer she’d learned in childhood, “Forgive me whatsoever I have done amiss this day, and keep me all this night, while I am asleep. I desire to lie down under thy care, and to abide forever under thy blessing. Amen.”
The linens she’d washed and dried felt smooth and clean against her skin, the open window admitting a refreshing night wind. Her last thought was of the scout, Ross, and if the troubling news he’d brought was true.
The Sabbath dawned bright.
Griffiths, however, was as dark as a thundercloud, his bellow rousing them from where he stood on the stair’s landing below. “There’ll be no rest for those who shirk their work! Up and in the fields, Titus. The Indian corn is in dire want of water.”
Yanked awake, Brielle spilled from her bed, wondering how Titus fared in the night. He needed rest, his injuries salved again, but Griffiths had other plans. She cracked open her door to watch his small frame, head down, slowly descend the stairs as Griffiths ordered.
Their master hadn’t lied. Across from the tavern the fields with their ridges and furrows were parched, the soil crusty and the plants limp. Titus would need to go to and from the spring, watering all the corn he could while wishing for rain. The wheatthey could do little about. It would take an army of men to soak it, and they must pray and rely on the weather instead.
With no breakfast—for Griffiths withheld that, too—Titus limped to the corn field. Brielle dressed hurriedly, her hopes for the day dashed like dropped crockery. She was hard pressed to keep her frustration and fury in check as she went downstairs to breakfast, Tamsen following. A few lodgers were seated at trestle tables in the public room, Griffiths’ enslaved serving them.
Entering the kitchen, Brielle had a dish of tea then slipped her uneaten toast into her pocket along with a boiled egg and greasy bacon. Once outside the tavern, she grabbed an empty bucket and gourd dipper, hastening to the spring that burbled in back of the milk house. Sunlight warmed her capped head and linen-clad shoulders as she filled the bucket and walked to the fields. Titus hadn’t made much progress, sure to earn him more of Griffiths’ ire.
Unaware of her approach, he finished a long, uneven row then swung round to return to the spring. Unclouded joy shone in his face at the sight of her. They were out of view of the tavern now at the back of the field. She passed him the breakfast she’d pocketed, her shadow shielding him from the sun as he wolfed it down.
She patted her other pocket. “I have salve too should you need it.”
He looked up at her, eyes damp. “My legs are stinging like yellow jackets.”
She took care of that, too, as he finished the toast and took a long drink of spring water. Thanking her, he returned to work, saying nothing when she began helping, dripping a gourd full of water on several plants at once as she went down her row. Only ankle-high, the corn made her wish it was full grown so they could hear its delightful rustle in the wind and seek its sweet shade. Sweat ran in rivulets from her hairline to her chin, dampening her shift and stays beneath her linen dress.
Titus removed his hat and fanned his shining face. “Hot as Hades.”
Across the way, settlers began gathering at the front of the tavern. The preacher had just arrived on an old bay horse. Brielle felt a pang at his steadfastness. Many of these gospel men rarely reached the age of thirty, exposed to so many dangers. Knowing it made Brielle’s own circumstances less loathsome. At least she had a place to lay her head and a meal day by day.
“Go on and hear the preaching,” Titus urged, knowing how much Sabbath sermons meant to her.
Brielle continued her watering. “I’d rather be here.”
His features tightened. “If Griffiths sees you helping me he might whip you, too.”
She said nothing more, just resumed their shared task. It was still morning, more of the settlement gathering in fair weather. Some sat in the shade of the giant elms clustered around the tavern while others settled on the porch. Soon there’d be a lull for a meal then the sermon would resume till supper. The preacher’s voice carried far though it didn’t reach the field.
So far they’d watered only a quarter of the corn as the sun sizzled and insects swarmed. Thankfully the spring was west of the porch and they could travel back and forth between outbuildings without much notice. Where Griffiths was she didn’t know. Usually he kept to his office adjoining the bar during the Sabbath.
Lightheaded, Brielle rued having only tea for breakfast. Titus seemed to sag, too, despite eating, his shoulders slumped, his skin crimson where the whip had cut him. She set her jaw and passed to the next row, batting her gourd dipper at a pesky fly. They continued on one hour. Two.
Toward noon the sharp crack of a rifle made them both turn toward the tavern. Across the wide, dusty road the familiar yardand porch swung violently from calm to chaos. Screams rent the air as more firing jarred harshly with eerie, undulating war cries. All the breath left Brielle as gathered settlers and tavern guests fell before a painted rush of warriors. The distressed whinny of stabled horses sounded before they were driven into the open, spared only to be stolen.
Titus took a step back, his voice a squeak. “Indians.”
Grabbing his sleeve, Brielle yanked him to the hard, unforgiving ground. Her heart began an erratic gallop making her more breathless. They lay flat in the dirt, side by side, their heads barely raised enough to see over the leafing corn to the carnage. Bile burned the back of her throat as Griffiths rushed out of the tavern and fired his musket only to be tomahawked on the steps. Two Indians lay unmoving in the grass while another swarm of painted warriors cut down more settlers, many unarmed, before rushing into the tavern amid more screaming and shouting.
“Tamsen…” Titus choked on his sister’s name.
Brielle searched for the girl but failed to see who lay upon the ground. Had she been indoors or out? Had she escaped? Thick woods behind the tavern made a fine hiding spot.
Lord, let her have gotten away.
Soon it was over save the sigh of the wind and the buzzing of insects in the field. Lying so long, Brielle felt melted upon the hot ground, unable to move or even speak. Titus’s head was on his hands as if he couldn’t bear to look any longer.
Could the Indians see them?
