Chapter Twenty-Eight
By the time they reached Georgia, Jessica had exchanged her corset for one petticoat and her fashionable day gowns with their down-filled sleeves and full conical skirts for simpler cotton dresses. She had now joined the sparrows if not their nest. The importance of preserving the “empire silhouette,” so flattering to her figure, her only asset, seemed ridiculous when attempting to walk beside a mud-slinging wagon in pouring rain to lighten the load or to maintain a seat while driving on a washboard road or navigating forests, rivers, and swamps. The large brim of a calico bonnet she’d purchased from a general store in a small town before leaving South Carolina sheltered her freckled face, and Silas had surprised her with a sturdy pair of women’s work boots he’d seen in a store window. “I hope they are not too big, he’d said. “You have such dainty feet.”
Jessica had been overcome by the compliment. The boots were the ugliest looking footgear she’d ever seen, and indeed too big, but thick stockings would fill them up, and they were so much more practical and comfortable than her lightweight kid leather slippers.
“Thank you,” she’d said shyly.
He seemed pleased that he had pleased her. “You’re welcome.”
“Of course I will pay you for them,” she said.
His face showed an instant’s disappointment, then hardened. “They were meant as a gift from my own pocket, but if you prefer, you may consider them purchased by your father, who has already paid for them.” His tone had been clipped, and he’d stalked away before he could see her bite her lip in self-reproach.
Why, Jessica had wondered, did she persist in slamming doors in the man’s face he seemed to want to open to her? Was she afraid he might see the truth of her feelings for him, whatever that truth was? The day would come when he would no longer bother, and she could not blame him. Indeed, as she noted in her diary a week later, the exchange marked his last attempt to win her friendship, but by then, his days were too busy and fraught with anxiety to try. Their last encounter had happened on the eve of the dreadful news that reached them the next day.
APRIL 7, 1836
Oh me, oh my, it is rumored that the Creek Nation may go to war against the whites for the fraudulent theft of their land, and we’ve been told we must be on constant alert for attack as we pass through Georgia and Alabama. What did the greedy whites expect when they swarmed onto Creek hunting fields and farms, forcing them out of their own homes and stealing their land rights? Appeal to our government to stop the thievery has been futile. The United States government has broken every treaty it signed with the Creek Nation that guaranteed them protection from encroachment on their territory, and now the Indians have had enough.
I am concerned over the mumblings (mainly from the slave owners, of course) that have risen against Tomahawk Lacy, Jeremy’s faithful Creek scout, who has been charged to reconnoiter the trail for danger and safer routes. Tomahawk’s out-rider skills have been invaluable to the success of the train so far, and now the ingrates question if his reports can be trusted when he returns from a scouting mission. They fear he is torn between his loyalty to Jeremy and his allegiance to his own people. I like Tomahawk so much. He closes his eyes when he talks to you, as if concentrating on every word for its perfect accuracy. It should be an annoying feature of his expression, but it is not. Somehow his habit makes you believe everything he says.
The grumblers did not address their concerns directly to Silas and Jeremy. They muttered them within my hearing distance with the intention that I relay them to Silas, which I did, and he in turn would inform Jeremy. I have observed that the men in the train, including the hotheads, give Silas and Jeremy a wide berth. My husband and Jeremy have proved themselves extraordinary wagon masters, and they have made it clear that those not satisfied with their leadership are welcome to pull out and seek their own way to Texas.
So far none has.
The almost certain possibility of an Indian attack necessitated halting the wagon train for a day so that everyone—men, women, and children—could learn and practice defense and protection procedures. The wagon leaders and Tomahawk addressed the large congregation with information on what to expect if attacked and gave instructions and demonstrations on techniques to stay alive and preserve their property and livestock. For practice sessions, the members of the wagon train were to be divided in groups of eight with each member of the family assigned specific duties to assist others in their section.
“United we stand. Divided we fall,” Jeremy quoted. “In an Indian attack, it’s not every man for himself. It’s every man watching out for the back of his neighbor.”
Led by the most seasoned among them, the audience was then dispersed to rehearse what it had learned. Tippy, Jasper, Joshua, Jeremiah, and Maddie were sent to be with Tomahawk’s party. Jessica, standing beside her wagon, waited to be assigned to hers. She had begun to get impatient when Silas finally broke away from his supervisory duties. Her heart leaped when she saw the tall, slim figure stride toward her, a reaction she concealed by setting her face in stone.
“I was beginning to think I’d been forgotten, Mr. Toliver,” she said, her tone crisp. “To what group am I to be dispatched?”
“Mine, Miss Wyndham.” Silas held out a long-barreled gun. “Do you know how to shoot this?”
She gazed at it, nonplussed. “I…can shoot a pistol. I was taught before I left South Carolina.”
“But how about a flintlock rifle?”
“I’ve never held one in my hands.”
“Then get down on the ground and lie on your stomach, right here by your wagon’s wheel.”
“For what purpose?”
“I’m going to teach you how to shoot it.”
“Oh. I thought my task would be to keep the guns loaded.”
“That, too, Miss Wyndham, but every woman needs to know how to aim, load, and fire a weapon in an Indian attack. Keep your pistol beside you, but it is useless unless your adversary is within close range. We won’t waste ammunition today, but you can practice aiming and firing, and I’ll show you how to load the gun. Now, please. Get down on the ground.”
Jessica obeyed and lost her breath when Silas lay beside her and reached across her to adjust the gun to her shoulder. She willed herself to ignore the press of his body and the closeness of his head as he patiently and softly warned her of the gun’s report and fed instructions into her ear.
“Steady the gun in a spoke and aim for the belly of the horse. When the horse goes down, the Indian will, too. You may not have time to reload. When the Indian comes within closer range, that’s when you use your pistol.”
Jessica listened, appalled. Shoot a human being, an innocent horse?
“That’s it. Good. Now try again,” Silas said, close beside her, when she aimed and fired at a pretend target.
When finally he was satisfied, Silas showed her how to insert a paper cartridge filled with gunpowder and a lead ball into the gun barrel. They sat knee to knee, their close heads bent over the gun. Jessica was acutely aware of his nearness and hoped that, in his man’s way, he did not sense her “juices” flowing.
“All right,” he said, too soon, and clambered to his feet. “That’s enough for today.” He reached down to give her a hand up, and she noticed his gaze sweep over her hair, flaring unfettered over her shoulders. She was without her bonnet since the day was warm and overcast.
“I suggest, in case we’re attacked, that you cover your hair completely,” he said. “Red-haired white women are prized among Indian warriors and chiefs—not that they’re treated as such.”
Horrified, Jessica clasped her head. “Do you think I…should have it cut?” she asked sorrowfully.
He seemed as regretful. “What a pity that would be. No, let’s see how events unfold before taking such a drastic measure. I’m leaving the gun with you. Practice your aim and assembling cartridges, but keep the gun barrel empty. We’ll need every bit of ammunition should worse come to worst. Let’s hope it doesn’t.”
“Yes, let us so hope,” Jessica said. “Thank you for your instruction, Mr. Toliver. I realize it is to your advantage that I stay safe, but I…appreciate the lesson for my own sake.”
“Instruction in keeping safe is to the advantage of all of us, Miss Wyndham,” Silas said and strode off, his parting shot the last he had to say to her of any substance in the long, anxious weeks following. She sensed his watchful eye upon her as they passed through Georgia and Alabama into Louisiana without mishap from the Creeks, who had indeed declared war against the whites, but he kept his distance, and Jessica could only guess at his relief when he dumped her in New Orleans in two weeks’ time.