Chapter Thirty-Nine
By the end of the week, all was in readiness for the departure of the Willow Grove wagon train to Texas. Supplies had been restocked, repairs completed, medicines and ammunition laid in. Keel boats and rafts had been purchased for crossing the Sabine and arrangements made for those preferring the ferry. The other scout in Jeremy’s hire had reported in after many months of reconnoitering the revised route for reaching the black waxy. The way through the bayou country up through the thickly pined area fronting the eastern boundary of the new republic would be tough, but safer. The Comanche were still on the rampage and a constant threat to the settlers, but so far, the warring bands had stayed north of the territory they were seeking.
Silas had sold his Conestoga, adding to his extra pot, and Herman Glover had left him funds more than sufficient to meet expected expenses. The day of leave-taking had arrived. Jeremy had ridden in to say good-bye to Joshua and Jessica with his burlap-wrapped roses slung over his horse’s flanks. Jessica had agreed to look after them and Silas’s Lancasters while they were gone.
“By leaving them with you, Jess,” Jeremy had said when he’d made the request, “we will be sure to make it back to collect them.”
“Then I will see they are tended carefully,” she said, hardly able to breathe for her pain and anxiety.
Henri had been privy to the conversation and asked, “You gentlemen place great importance on these dead-looking twigs. May I ask why?”
It was Silas who explained. “Amazing,” Henri said, visibly impressed when Silas had finished relating the story of how the Warwicks and Tolivers had brought the symbol of their houses across the ocean to the new world. “And now they will be planted in another new world to be conquered.”
“God willing,” Silas said.
“He’ll be willing,” Jessica said in a tone that allowed for no dispute to the contrary.
“Or God will answer to Jessica for it, I wager,” Jeremy had said, grinning.
Joshua had been told the day before that his father must leave him for a few months to make a home for them in Texas. “Now I want you to take the news like a little man,” Silas had said to his son. “You’re now five years old.”
“Yes, sir,” Joshua had said, standing militarily straight before Silas in his oversized buckskin jacket with eyes watering and lip quivering. Later, out of sight of his father, he had buried his head in Jessica’s lap and sobbed.
Lorimer Davis stood with his family; Silas with his. Their horses were saddled. Tippy had vanished into the hotel. Jessica had been pleased when Silas had sought her out to extend a personal farewell and admonition to look after his family. Jessica held Joshua’s hand tightly. The moment had arrived for last good-byes. Silas placed his arms around his wife and son and drew them to each side of him. “I’ll be back for you when it’s safe, and I’ll write,” he said, his voice gruff. “Somehow I’ll find a way to get mail to you even if I have to borrow Tomahawk from Jeremy to do it. Joshua, do you remember what I told you?”
“Yes, Papa. I’m to take care of Mother.”
“And you’re to say your prayers and mind your manners. Remember that you’re a Toliver.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Now will you please go stand with Jake until I can say a few words to Jessica?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jessica had bowed her head as she had a tendency to do when unwilling for anyone to see her on the verge of tears. Silas allowed her no such quarter and lifted her chin with his fingertips. In the months to come, she knew she would remember him standing tall by the magnolia tree, its dark green leaves and waxy white blossoms a background for his black hair and eyes that held the fire of emeralds. She told herself she must not consciously remember every detail of his face and expression, for to do so would give credence to the unthinkable.
“Jessica,” he said, “I have never felt about anyone like I feel about you, whatever value you place in that.”
“I’ve no understanding of it—none at all.” Her refusal to become emotional hardened her words. “I only know that I…”
“What do you know?” he asked, the question soft as the breeze that stirred his undisciplined hair.
“That I want you to come back.”
He brushed his fingers over the healing wound that had brought them to this moment of hope and despair. “I’m glad. You must keep writing in your journal, and I will write in mine. When I return, we’ll read them aloud to each other and that way we won’t have missed a day of being together. I won’t have been denied these next months of watching my son—our son—on his journey of growing up. Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
“I leave a happy man. Will you kiss me?”
“I will.”
In the shade of the magnolia tree, he bent his head, and Jessica lifted her face, and they kissed. Afterwards, Silas backed away from her with a gaze she believed was meant to lock the image of her in memory. He threw a salute to Joshua, who returned it snapped at attention, and mounted his horse. “Lorimer,” he called to his travel companion, his voice brisk, businesslike, “let us be on our way to Texas.”
Stephanie and Jake, Jessica and Joshua watched them go. Tippy stole beside them, silent as a shadow, and no one said anything until men and horses and wagons were out of sight. Then Jessica said, “Tippy, we must find some big buckets. We have to get the roots of those roses into fresh soil and do all we can to keep them alive.”
For how the roses go, so will Silas and Jeremy, she thought.
It was the first of June, 1836.