Part 5, A Forted Frontier Holiday: A Gift from Buckskin Samson By Kathleen Maher

While harvesting, the German settlement near New Market, Virginia receive warning of an impending attack by French and Indians war parties. They flee to a quickly cobbled refuge, Fort Providence—for they will surely need to rely on God’s Provision. The forted colonials long to celebrate the holidays and await the arrival of visitors. 

Each CQ contributor to this serial will bring their characters into the fort from throughout colonial America. Join us for A Forted Frontier Holiday each Monday CQ throughout the holidays!

Part 1 - Inside Fort Providence by Carrie Fancett Pagels

Part 2 - A Providential Proposal by Susan Craft

Part 3 - Landlocked by Carla Olson Gade

Part 4 - Preserve My Life From Fear by Elaine Marie Cooper

Part 5 - A Gift from Buckskin Samson

By Kathleen Maher

            The owl told him midnight approached. The coyotes had hushed their puppy-like yipping and scuttled back into the wood some time ago as Samson walked among his herds. The big, bald-faced mare had separated herself while the sun sank into the great mountains to the west, and he hadn’t found her hiding place yet. Her foal, once it dropped, would need protection from the hungry pack and from the nipping cold.

            Samson parted a hedge of honeysuckle and leaned in to listen. Labored breathing and a low moan told him he had found her. Gurgling and rustling told him the newest of his bloodstock was delivered alive. Between coyotes and wildcats, he had lost all the new foals born this spring. But this late arrival was different. He needed it to be. He looked to the overcast sky hiding the moon, and considered this one mercy from the Great Spirit for whom his French missionary friend had a personal name. He called him Jhezoos.

            Whether it was the lonesomeness of the night or the sentiment of this one promising birth on the new moon, Samson felt inclined to call on the name of this personal god.

            “For looking upon me with sun in the darkness, I thank you, Jhezoos.”

A smile cracked his weathered lips. The clouds parted and the moon revealed the scene before him. Curled in a clutch of rain-softened maple leaves lay a blood-bay foal with the same bald face as its mother. The mare cleaned her newborn, which struggled to gain its feet. It slumped back down and let out a high squeal, trying again to stand already. A vigorous and sound colt.

            Just beyond, the yipping arose again, even nearer than before. Samson hoisted his flintlock from his shoulder—the one for which he had traded a decent wheat-colored mare the summer before—and stepped back into deeper shadow. Movement in the silver woods drew his attention. The flitting between tree trunks and the scattered calls chilled his hope. These were not coyote, but Shawnee scouts on the prowl.

            Motionless, he pressed his back against the span of a large sugar maple and counted. One, three, no four.  There were four of them, their bodies wearing the colorless quality of the night, their feet making no sound. The larger herd behind him, Samson’s fingers clutched the gun and he wondered if the scout party served as lookout for a larger horse-thieving operation.

            He looked up at the moon, half covered again in charcoal snow clouds, and whispered a prayer to the Great Spirit he still hoped looked upon him with personal interest. “Great Jhezoos, protect my herds this night.”

            The owl screeched, and the footsteps distanced until they disappeared into the wilderness beyond. Another immediate answer to prayer.

            After several minutes, with the foal on his feet and suckling, Samson pried himself from his spot and set out to lead the two back to the herd for safety. He would camp all night in the valley of the daughter of the stars—the Shenandoah—and keep watch. In the morning he would set out for the white man’s settlement to warn Johan Rousch, the German who had traded with him. The Shawnee were on the move.

            Perhaps they would protect him and his herd within the wooden walls of their fort in exchange for something from him. But what? Samson could only think of one thing that the white settlers might want from him. How many horses would they demand in exchange for an alliance? That’s if they even trusted him. Could they distinguish his Cherokee blood from Shawnee? The color of his skin might build a barrier, not to mention his friendship with the French missionary.

            Samson’s thoughts drifted like the scuttling clouds overhead until the first wings of dawn flitted from the east. It was time to find Rousch and make the bargain, if the German was willing.
            Riding his buckskin stallion and leading almost 50 head of horses, Samson approached the fort from the southeast. The golden light filtering through the barren trees set the fresh pine stockade ablaze, and he squinted against the cold and the light blurring his vision. From the parapets he recognized a pair of sharpshooters taking interest in him. He dismounted, raising arms free of weapons in the air in a gesture of disarmament.

            Slowly, one of the doors opened, and a figure came out to meet him. The sharpshooters, still training their weapons on him, were joined by others in strategic openings in the wall. The man was Johan himself, a stout, bearded fellow at times given to a hearty laugh and handshake. But not this day. His expression was tight and grim. He stopped a few paces outside the walls and stood, waiting for him to approach on foot.

            Samson covered the distance in a few silent and efficient strides. Without mincing greetings, he set right out to business. “The night brought four Shawnee scouts. I come to bring you warning of their movements, and a gift.”

            Rousch lifted a shaggy eyebrow, but nothing else of the broadly muscled man moved.

“I bring you two horses loaded with provision. Venison, rabbit, gourds, beans, blankets.”

            The man’s expression lightened with apparent interest, both brows raised and eyes widened.

            “Come inside and we will discuss your trade,” Rousch said. He turned to the fort and the door opened, and both of them stepped into the enclosure.

            Many more people than Samson recalled seeing last summer had come and built small cabins within the enclosure. Women bent over kettles of food or laundry, children scampered in play. A boy appeared at Rousch’s side, perhaps five summers. The boy’s piercing eyes were the blue of a frozen river, looking up at him in a mixture of apprehension and stoutness.

            Samson withdrew a parcel from his bag for the boy—a small cap lined with rabbits’ fur—warm and snug for a boy his size. A squirrel’s tail dangled from the back as he held it out to the young one. The boy smiled, showing gaps in his front teeth. “Can I, Papa?”

            Rousch grinned and nodded.

            Those blue eyes lit like sparkling snow as the boy gazed up at Samson. “Thank you, sir!”

            His heart clenched a bit at the title of respect. “May you wear it in the strength and wisdom of Great Jhezoos.”

            The boy scampered off, his frosted breath puffing at a run toward the group of boys to show off his prize. If only the adults were as easy to win over as young, unbiased minds.

            The German led him to a long, central cabin where the sound of men’s talk rose through the log and daub structure. When the door opened and the two stepped in, the room silenced, and several of the men cast wary if not hateful glances his way.
            “Rousch, why are you letting that savage into our meetinghouse?” A man with red hair and particularly pale features sent a glare his way, his eyes the color of dead grass.

            Samson stood square, shoulders swept back. He schooled his features into a neutral but steady exchange with the man.

            “He makes talk with that frog missionary. You better watch that one, Johan.” This man was younger, clean shaven, and held the look of a doe stepping into open meadow. Hesitant, but a bit more open and expectant than the other.

            Samson tilted his chin up and waited for Rousch to speak.

            “The French worship the same God we Lutherans believe in, do they not? And I have traded with this man before. He has always proven fair and trustworthy.”

            “It could be a trap!” The first man shouted this time, and others gathered to him, nodding and voicing their assent.

            The young, bare-cheeked one looked between that crowd and Johan Rousch, and stepped beside the German. “If you say he is a good man, then I will trust your judgment.”

            A few undecided men joined the two.

            Rousch raised his voice over the rumble of voices. “Our visitor comes with a message and a gift to the fort. Let us give him our ear, gentlemen.”

            Samson cleared his voice and tossed his long hair behind his shoulder. “I have seen the movement of Shawnee this past night. Not twenty miles from here, they came under the clouds to search the harvest fields. You would do well to know your enemies from your allies.” He pinned the red haired one with a flinty look.

            “My people are Cherokee. I offer my gun and my strength to you this winter if the Shawnee make war. I also bring gifts of provision. Yours whether or not you give me and my horses shelter from the raiding parties.”

            The tone and pitch of the murmuring shifted. Samson folded his arms before himself to show that he was done and awaited their response.

            Rousch’s imposing form remained stalwart, but a muscle in his cheek danced in what almost appeared a smile. His keen gaze swept the room and settled on the red-haired man.

            The man extended one foot as though prepared to step in his direction. “What provisions do you offer?”

            “Two pack horses, loaded with supplies. Maize, venison, blankets, trade.”

            “There’s not room enough for all his horses, nor food to sustain us all.” The smooth-cheeked man said in a tone as flat as his broad forehead.

            “We can take a portion of the beans and corn to grow in the spring. We can use the venison and rabbit now, and employ his hunting skills to bring in more. But more than anything, we can use his knowledge of the land, and his offer to fight. I say he is welcome. Shall we put it to a vote? All in favor of welcoming Buckskin Samson and his gifts, say ‘Aye.’ ”

The next serial in this anthology, "Narrow Passage" by Pat Iacuzzi, will be up on December 10th.

Giveaway: This one is for followers only. Leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of Laura Frantz's "The Colonel's Lady" and put CQ at the end.
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Kathy Maher won the ACFW 2012 Genesis contest for historical fiction.  She contributes to Fiction Addiction Fix and blogs at History Repeats Itself. Kathy is one of our newest CQ contributors!