Destined to Love
Captured
by the Indians as a child, Rebecca is torn between her love for her
adoptive people and her yearning for the white man, Daniel Chamberlain.
In
the midst of the French and Indian War, a time when no Englishman is
safe, they find their love may not be enough to keep them together.
"...deeply satisfying." ~ Escape to Romance
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Southwestern Pennsylvania, 1754
The young woman stared upward to
follow the flight of a scarlet tanager, delighting in the flash of color
against a clear blue sky. The women's chatter and the thump, thump of deer
shoulder hoes broke the stillness of the afternoon, a welcome relief from her
tiresome day. She shaded her eyes against the glare, but the icy sting in the
air belied the sun's brilliant shine. Spring's arrival hadn't brought any
warmth to the village of Amigaki, she thought with a shiver.
"Are you tired?" Snow
Woman asked. Her gaze made a wide sweep of the field. "We still have more
of the corn field to hoe."
"Oh, no," Rebecca
answered in Lenape, studying her adoptive mother with affection. The vermillion
spots on Snow Woman's cheeks shone a fiery red, a color in sharp contrast to
the nut brown of her wrinkled skin. A stiff breeze caught a strand of her
second mother's hair, releasing it from the snakeskin ribbon that bound the
black locks in place. After all these years, Rebecca wondered if it was time
for her to dye red spots on her cheeks, too, and bind up her hair like her
mother's, instead of letting it fall loosely down her back.
She brought her mind back to her
mother's question. "Not tired. Only thinking how nice it will be when warm
weather comes. I can swim in the river then." She inhaled deeply of the
crisp spring air, the aroma of freshly-hoed earth, the fresh scents of the
woods. The budding maple trees splashed a reddish glow across the forest, and
flowering dogwood formed a white filagree over the gray, rolling hills.
Beautiful!
Her mind wandered back to the time
of her capture by the Caughnawagas years ago, when she was only nine. Reviled
and treated like a slave, she endured her captivity until a band of Lenapes
raided the Caughnawaga village and brought her here to Amigaki three years ago.
Snow Woman had adopted her,
treating her like a true daughter, helping to erase--if only in a small
way--the death of her family and the horrors of her life with the Caughnawagas.
She cast aside these oppressive
memories as a dim figure on horseback caught her gaze, a man who rode eastward
along the winding trail that led to the village, less than half a mile away.
Touching Snow Woman's arm, she nodded toward the man on the horse.
"Mother, who is that?"
she asked in an excited whisper. She hadn't seen any strangers since she'd come
to live among the Lenapes. Her adoptive mother had always hustled her away
whenever a newcomer came to the village, keeping her well-hidden, especially
from white people. She supposed that now Snow Woman felt more certain of her
attachment to the Indian way of life.
Snow Woman rested her hands on her
hoe and stared across the field. "The fur trader. . .” A white man!
"We call him Lokwalend
because he travels so much." She glanced at Rebecca. "We adopted him
into the tribe. This time of year he usually has several horses with him,
carrying supplies for the village. Something must be wrong," she continued
with a worried frown. "We gave him our furs to trade a long time ago. So
where are our provisions?" She shook her head, then dropped her hoe on the
ground to head for the village. "Come, let us see what the matter
is."
The horseman quickly covered the
distance to Amigaki, his mount's hooves clattering on the rocky ground. Unable
to shift her eyes from the stranger, Rebecca observed how tall and upright he
rode in the saddle, like a conquering hero, she mused with increasing
curiosity. From all directions, the women left the field, rushing to the
village.
Rebecca wanted to see him, and if
she could summon the nerve, talk to him, too. But would the Lenapes disapprove?
Uncertain what to do, she threw her hoe aside and hurried past the furrowed
rows, hastily brushing her deerskin skirt as she ran and tucking loose strands
of hair behind her ears.
The rider tied his horse to a
low-hanging branch of an oak tree near the entrance to Amigaki, then headed for
the council house at the center of the village.
With studied calmness, Rebecca
strolled past the villagers and listened to their troubled voices but kept her
gaze on the trader. When she reached a giant oak near the center of the
village, she stopped at a spot where the tree's massive trunk and
wide-spreading branches gave ample concealment, a chance to quietly observe
everything, an opportunity she couldn't resist.
From her vantage point, she looked
out over the many log houses that dotted the village--more than twenty. The
blue-green Allegheny River flowed to the west, spawning a wide meadow lush with
grasses and wildflowers. My home now, she thought, grateful the Lenapes had
accepted her as one of their own, wanting so much to have a family, to belong.
All the villagers turned as the
trader strode toward them, a look of worried expectancy on their faces. Men of
all ages clustered in groups, and with quiet words and many gestures, they
revealed their concern. As the newcomer moved amongst them, good manners
prompted the Indians to drop their melancholy expressions.
The stranger embraced one of the
young men. "Hello, Gun Barrel. How's that new baby of yours?" With a
quick smile, he turned to another. "And Forest Walker, I remember you're
going to be a father soon, too."
Well-hidden behind the oak,
Rebecca was surprised that he spoke Lenape as well as she. For some reason she
couldn't define, she didn't want him to see her yet. Later she might summon the
nerve to approach him.
After White Eagle, the sakima,
greeted the visitor, the men eased to the hard ground and sat cross-legged in
rows, the women sitting opposite them. With somber faces, they waited for the
fur trader to speak.
Rebecca hurried to sit in the last
row with the other women, shimmying into a comfortable position. She pushed her
long- flowing hair from her face and tried hard not to stare, her gaze shifting
from the ground to the council house, finally settling on Lokwalend.
The fur trader walked with an air
of casual assurance, like one accustomed to dealing with others. A stiff breeze
lifted a lock of chestnut-colored hair from his forehead and fluttered the
fringe of his deerskin shirt. His skin glowed a rich tan, matching the hue of
his shirt.
"My brothers!" he began.
"I know you wonder why I haven't brought the goods you paid for with skins
and furs. I recently returned from Philadelphia. There, I found the supplies
hadn't yet arrived. I shall leave for Philadelphia again as soon as possible to
see if your supplies have come, for I'll not cheat you of what is yours, as
other fur traders have. But now--"
Looking from one villager to
another, he stopped in midsentence and stared--at her! Rebecca lowered her eyes
to study the ground, then glanced up again, breathless.
He resumed speaking.
"Brothers! There is another matter I must speak to you about. As you know,
the French say this land is theirs--" Angry murmurings erupted from the
villagers like the frenzied buzzing of bees--"and they threaten to take it
by force. My people, the English, have tried to live in peace with you. We
don't intend to let the French take this land from you. Some say the English
won't lift a finger to save you from the French, but you mustn't listen to the
singing of ugly birds."
Rebecca viewed his every gesture
and listened to every word, thinking the Lenape language had never sounded so
beautiful. She inched closer to the edge of the row to see him better as
thoughts of warmth and light, strength and courage, teased her mind. He stood
tall and straight, not slouching or bandy-legged like the other white men she
remembered from her childhood. She guessed he was six or seven-and-twenty, not
a young boy but a man of experience. Where did he live? she wondered, but
quickly dismissed the question. This white man, this stranger, belonged to
another life, another world, a world she could no longer claim as her own.
"Brothers! I intend to leave
soon for the Monongahela River. The English are building a stronghouse there
for your protection. Then I hope to come back to you within a few months with
your provisions." The fur trader paused, his gaze covering the villagers.
"Ninachtak, I have nothing more to say."
He waited for the sakima to rise
and spoke quietly with him for a few minutes. Legs spread apart, arms folded
across his chest, he had a calm look on his face, as if nothing ever bothered
him. The other villagers rose, too, talking excitedly among themselves, a few
women returning to the corn fields, some of the younger men heading for the
river to fish.
Rebecca remained in the
background, watching them, listening to every word but continually shifting her
gaze to the trader.
"Will the English be able to
save us from the French?" Gun Barrel cried, other young men clustered
around him.
"We must depend on
ourselves," Gray Wolf said. He wore a robe of brightly-dyed turkey
feathers thrown over his left shoulder, his face showing grim determination. A
deerskin tobacco pouch hung around his neck, the scent of tobacco drifting in
the cool spring breeze. "And," he added, "never depend on the
English."
Oblivious to the talk around her,
Rebecca moved closer to the council house. A mangy dog snoozed next to the
house, snoring softly, twitching in his sleep. She knelt in the dirt to stroke
the animal but watched Lokwalend, pondering if she should approach him after he
finished talking to White Eagle.
Keen anticipation blended with
dread as she collected her courage for the encounter. Her heart thudded, her
mouth as dry as a cornfield in August.
Her mind worked furiously as she
thought of all the things she'd like to say to the fur trader. Would he
consider her too bold if she asked him to get her a looking glass? And, oh! a
book. More than anything, she wished she had something to read, a pleasant
change from hoeing and pounding corn, all the other chores that demanded her
time.
He strolled toward his horse,
glancing from side to side, as though looking for someone. On a flight of wild
imagination, she dared to wish he looked for her, but if she didn't stop her
woolgathering, she'd miss the chance to talk to him. She'd speak in English,
she decided, hoping she'd remember the words. With rising excitement, she rose
to brush the dirt from her knees and combed shaky fingers through her hair.
"Sir!" She rushed to
catch up with him. "Please wait!"
Copyright (C) 2012 Shirley Martin
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