Chapter Thirty-One
The wagon train was five miles from New Orleans when a screeching hawk appeared out of nowhere and dived at the head of the lead horse in Jessica’s team. The Conestoga lurched sharply out of line, beyond the capability of Jasper to restrain the four animals, and pitched Jessica overboard. Even at the head of the wagon train, Silas heard Joshua’s piercing scream. “Jessica!” Turning his horse around, Silas raced to her wagon, in which Joshua was riding, to see Jessica lying motionless on the ground. Silas grabbed the reins of the lead horse and got the team calmed, then jumped from his gelding to run to Jessica. Tippy stuck her head out the back of the wagon, and Jasper and Joshua scampered down from the wagon seat, both starting to cry.
“I’se so sorry, I’se so sorry, Mister Silas,” Jasper moaned.
“Stay with the horses,” Silas ordered, “and keep Joshua with you.”
“Papa, Papa, make Jessica better,” Joshua sobbed.
“I will, son,” Silas said. “Go with Jasper now.”
Jessica lay lifeless on her side, eyes closed, bonnet askew, her calico dress gathered up beyond her knees. Silas turned her onto her back and found blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead caused by having struck a large, sharp rock. A chill fell over him as if he’d passed through a cold patch of shade. She was breathing, but the wound would require stitching or cauterization to prevent infection, possibly gangrene. Tippy ran to join him.
“We’ll need towels, Tippy.”
“Right away, Mister Silas.”
Sick to his heart, Silas untied Jessica’s bonnet to press it to the wound and yanked down the skirt of her dress. Dear God. What was this girl doing here in a wagon train wearing faded calico and muddy boots? What had her father been thinking to subject her to this? What had he been thinking to agree to it? Jessica opened her eyes.
“Don’t move,” he said softly.
“What happened?”
“You were thrown off your wagon seat.”
Tippy dropped beside him with a handful of towels, her huge eyes drowning in dismay. “Oh, Jessica,” she groaned.
“I’m all right, Tippy.”
“Let’s make sure,” Silas said. He could hear Joshua crying as he hung out the back of the wagon. “Tippy, I’ll take care of Miss Jessica. Go be with my son.”
“Oh, please let me stay with her, Mister Silas.”
Jessica reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Do as he says, Tippy. Joshua needs you.”
Silas applied pressure with a towel to stop the bleeding while he explored her shoulders and arms for fractured bones. He pressed her knees and ankles. “Do you feel that anything is broken?”
“No. I just feel nauseated, and my head hurts.”
“You’ve had the wind knocked out of you, and you have a deep cut on your forehead. Try moving your arms and legs.”
Obediently, Jessica pulled up one leg, then the other. She wiggled her arms. “See? I’m all right,” she said drowsily.
But Silas had doubts.
Jeremy had ridden up with bandages and ointment, and the driver of the wagon behind Jessica’s had drawn a bucket of water from the rain barrel hooked to the Conestoga.
Silas could hear Tippy soothing Joshua as he and Jeremy tended Jessica’s wound. She lay pale and listless, and they debated what to do. Once the blood was cleaned away, the cut did not seem as serious as feared. No bone was exposed, but the gash needed immediate attention to prevent infection. Should Jessica be taken in the wagon to a doctor in New Orleans or should a doctor be sent for? They agreed a jolting wagon ride would not be good for her, and much time would be lost trying to locate a doctor in the unfamiliar city.
“I say let’s have Tomahawk take a look at her,” Jeremy said. “His people have been treating wounds like this for hundreds of years.”
The Creek was already hovering in the background, his usually impassive face drawn in concern. Jessica’s consideration and courtesy had won his devotion. “Aloe leaves,” he called. “They grow here.”
“See what you can do,” Jeremy called back, but the scout had already vanished into the woods.
The wagon train had stopped and word of Jessica’s mishap had passed down the line. Her generosity and way with children had warmed some of the hearts frozen against her, and people had gotten out of their wagons to peer worriedly in the direction of the accident but knew from the many casualties experienced along the journey that it was best to stay out of the way and remain with their families and animals.
Tomahawk Lacy appeared with a plant spiked with thick, dark green leaves. Silas and Jeremy moved away to allow him to kneel by Jessica. She had been moving in and out of consciousness but came alert when he removed the bandage.
“I help you, Miss Jessica.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lacy.”
The scout cut several of the cacti-looking leaves that released a thin, clear sap that he applied to the wound. “The cut up and down,” Tomahawk said, pumping his hand vertically to Silas and Jeremy. “Not straight across.” He sliced the air horizontally. “That good. Skin can be pulled to grow back together.”
Jeremy immediately began tearing a towel into strips. Tomahawk said, “Wound should be cleaned first with water that has been disturbed over fire.”
“Boiled?” Silas said.
Tomahawk nodded. “If no…if no…” He struggled for an English word.
“Pus, infection,” Jeremy interpreted.
The scout nodded again. “If no infection, she will get well,” he said. He drew a finger across his temple. “Scar, maybe.”
“I’m most grateful to you,” Silas said, hoping Tomahawk’s prognosis was right and there would be no need for the usual treatment against infection. The image of a red-hot iron pressed to Jessica’s wound or a needle and catgut sewn through her delicate flesh made him nauseated to contemplate. Boiled water was brought, and Tomahawk cleaned the cut, reapplied fresh aloe, and bound Jessica’s head tightly in a strip of towel to draw the flesh together. Silas and Jeremy conferred over the next step. It was decided that Silas, carefully supporting Jessica’s head on his shoulder, would lift her up to Jeremy in the Conestoga. When it was done, Silas climbed in rapidly after his friend and together they made Jessica comfortable on her pallet.
“I’ll stay with her,” Silas said. “If she becomes feverish, someone will have to ride for a doctor. Tell Tippy to stay with Joshua in my wagon.”
“You might get an argument from Tippy about that. She’ll want to be with her mistress.”
“And I want to be with my wife,” Silas said in a tone that settled the matter.
“I’ll see to them both and give the order to camp here for the night,” Jeremy said. “Also, I’ll bring down some laudanum. Your wife is going to have one hell of a headache.”
Jessica opened her eyes as Silas was adjusting her mosquito netting. “Am I going to live?” she asked.
Silas thought he heard a facetious note in the question. He squatted down and stroked her hair back from the bandage. “Yes,” he said. “That head of yours is too hard for a rock to get the better of it.”
A small smile flitted across her lips. “Too bad for you,” she said.
Silas gave a mock sigh. “Worse for the rock.”
Jeremy returned with the laudanum in the company of a local farmer who’d come out to meet the train with fresh produce to sell. Silas should hear his news, Jeremy told him. Silas said it could wait until he’d gotten Jessica to take a spoonful of the reddish-brown, highly bitter liquid used to alleviate pain.
She moaned when he lifted her head, the spoon poised before her mouth. “What is this?”
“Something that will make you feel better. Open wide.”
She made a face as she swallowed and Silas quickly handed her a ladle of water to wash down the taste. “Where is Tippy?” she asked.
“With my son.”
“Why aren’t you with him?”
“Because I’m here with you.”
Her lids lowered sleepily. “Good,” she said.
The farmer imparted news that would cause the dissenters against Tomahawk Lacy to blush with shame from that day forward whenever they thought of him. As the emigrants had passed through Georgia and Alabama, to the disgruntlements of many, the scout had taken the train away from the few existing towns and settlements in the north and guided them through dense forests and marshes and swamps along extremely arduous but safer routes near the states’ southern borders. Some took every opportunity to criticize the scout’s choice of routes. At one point, a settler lost his wagon on a downhill slope and blamed Tomahawk. The man would have taken a steel pike to the scout, but Jeremy stepped in, wrested away the weapon, and reminded the dissenter that his loss was due to his own laziness. He should have locked a wheel to serve as a brake or at least hauled a log behind his wagon to supply drag.
To add to their discontent, the settlers had learned before leaving South Carolina that Santa Anna was no longer a threat. He had been captured when Sam Houston’s army had defeated the Mexicans at a place called San Jacinto. Therefore, for what reason must the train divert to New Orleans and cross the Sabine into Texas, many demanded to know.
Jeremy reiterated that anyone wishing to break off from the train to travel the original route was welcome to do so. Several families did. The Creeks wouldn’t dare attack, they declared, and they had kinfolks at Roanoke in Georgia they had promised to visit when the train passed by. Silas learned from the farmer that in late spring, the settlement at Roanoke had been attacked and burned to the ground and most of the white families massacred. There had also been an uprising in Chambers County in Alabama, where many in the cavalcade had hoped to replenish supplies and mail letters. But for Tomahawk’s wise steerage, the Willow Grove wagon train most certainly would have been a casualty of the Creek Uprising.
The other news the farmer reported was even more stunning and unsettling. Earlier in the month, a band of Comanche Indians had attacked a community in the eastern part of Texas. They had burned alive families in their homes, raped women, brutally tortured and killed the patriarch of the clan, John Parker, and kidnapped his nine-year-old granddaughter, Cynthia Ann.
“Good God,” Silas said, mentally picturing a screaming Joshua carried away on a Comanche buck’s swift horse with the pelt of Jessica’s red hair streaming from his lance. “And the area is just where we’re headed.”
“All the more reason for you to leave Jess and Joshua in New Orleans,” Jeremy said.
Jessica was sleeping when Silas returned to the wagon. He sat beside her, and from time to time took her pulse, placed a hand on her forehead to test for fever, and watched constantly for signs of stressful breathing. After an hour of intense concentration in an uncomfortable sitting position, he stretched out his legs and relaxed against the side of the wagon. He heard the train settle down for the night, and Maddie brought him his supper. Tippy led Joshua over, and Silas allowed them a brief sight of Jessica before sending them off to bed. Darkness fell, and Silas lit a lamp and decided to make use of a fringed cushion as a pillow for his back. It was one of a velvet pair serving as a reminder of the refinements left behind. Silas positioned it behind him and felt something hard. He withdrew the cushion and found the obstruction to be a book that had been inserted into an unsewn end, forming a pocket. Curious, Silas removed it. It was the red leather volume he’d seen Jessica writing in during the long, boring days on the trail. He held it as if he’d come across the holy grail, remembering Jeremy’s words: She’s writing a diary, you know. Women confess all to their diaries. Why don’t you take a peek in it and enlighten yourself?
Silas glanced at Jessica sleeping soundly. Her breathing was regular. The flesh above her binding felt cool to his touch. He readjusted the mosquito netting, sat back against the pillow, and folded his arms, the red book glowing like a ruby within his reach. Occasionally he swatted at mosquitoes, fanned himself, and listened to the nocturnal sounds filling the silence of the night. Finally, unable to constrain his curiosity any longer and after another glance at the closed lids of his wife, he reached for the book.