Tea Party Carrie Fancett Pagels, Kathy Maher, and Joan Hochstetler

Charles City Tavern Sign

Welcome to the lovely Charles City Tavern, known throughout the region for its wonderful food! Having enjoyed Cate McKnight's hospitality on many an occasion, I know our guests will NOT be disappointed today in the wonderful Tavern fare we will be enjoying all day!

Front entrance to Charles City Tavern!

We are celebrating mere miles from Shirley Plantation, which is celebrating its 400th anniversary this year!

Partial view of building on Shirley Plantation, Left view

We are celebrating my story "Return to Shirley Plantation: A Civil War Romance" as well as Kathy Mather's upcoming release of "Bachelor Buttons" and Joan M. Hochstetler's Heritage edition of her novel "Wind of the Spirit."

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Kathleen L. Maher

Kathleen L. Maher debuts with Murray Pura’s Civil War collection. She won ACFW’s 2012 Genesis contest and is represented by Terry Burns of Hartline Literary.

Bachelor Buttons: Rose Meehan longs for a better life than the tenements of Manhattan. She must choose between two suitors while the city explodes in the 1863 Draft Riots.

Website (blog): kathleenlmaher.blogspot.com

I'm giving away a copy of Bachelor Buttons, and a $25 Olive Garden gift certificate.

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Book 3 of J. M. Hochstetler's American Patriot Series, Wind of the Spirit, released in the new Heritage Edition April 1.

With the patriot cause on the verge of extinction, rebel spy Elizabeth Howard is drawn into the very maw of war at the Battle of Brooklyn Heights, where disaster nearly ends the American Revolution. But her heart is fixed on Jonathan Carleton, whose whereabouts remain unknown more than a year after he disappeared into the wilderness. Can her love bridge the miles between them—and the savage bonds that threaten to tear him forever from her arms?

An award-winning author and editor, Joan is the daughter of Mennonite farmers, a graduate of Indiana University, a professional editor, and a lifelong student of history. Her American Patriot Series is the only comprehensive historical fiction series on the American Revolution. Joan's contemporary novel One Holy Night was the Christian Small Publishers 2009 Book of the Year and finalist for the American Christian Fiction Writers 2009 Carol Award. She is represented by Joyce Hart of Hartline Literary Agency.

The American Patriot Series
American Patriot Series Blog
J. M. Hochstetler

I'm giving away a box of authentic Boston Harbor tea from the Mark T. Wendell Tea Company. This delicious tea is the same kind the rebels threw off English East India Company ships into Boston harbor during the Boston Tea Party in 1773, one of the incendiary acts that sparked the American Revolution. The winner will also receive a copy of one of the volumes in the American Patriot Series, at their choice.

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Book Blurb: Abducted against his will, Matthew Scott is conscripted into the Confederate army because of his Copperhead father’s political leanings. After being injured at Malvern Hill, Matthew is taken by the Union army to Shirley Plantation in Virginia where he is tended by seamstress Angelina Rose, a freed slave. Although given an opportunity to leave the South and start a new life for herself, Angelina remained for the sake of her sister’s orphaned twins who are still enslaved. Will Matthew’s return to Shirley Plantation settle a mystery concerning his father’s past? And help Matthew find the family he longs for.

Return to Shirley Plantation By Carrie Fancett Pagels

Carrie Fancett Pagels

Bio – Carrie Fancett Pagels

Carrie Fancett Pagels (www.carriefancettpagels.com) writes “romantic” historical fiction. Carrie’s debut release “Return to Shirley Plantation: A Civil War Romance” is a Kindle best seller and part of a multi-author anthology headed up by Murray Pura. Carrie is represented by Joyce Hart. 

Giveaway: Choice of one teacup set from Shirley Plantation. Do you like the elegant schooner tea cup set or the crackle-finish set?

Come in and take a seat in the interior of the Charles City Tavern:


Charles City Tavern interior front left dining area.

There are multiple areas of seating both out on the gorgeous wraparound porch and on the other side of the tavern--a large room.

Side and Dogwood at Charles City Tavern

Isn't this dogwood gorgeous?  This is such a great place to have our Tea Party and celebrate!

Fabulous Shirley Plantation is a short jaunt up the road!  Angelina and Matthew say "Welcome" and come on in and enjoy!!!






THREE Giveaways:  If you are a CQ follower put CQ, Helping Hands (HH), Overcoming With God (OWG), Carrie's author page on FB (CFP), Kathy's blog follower (KM), Joan's (JMH).

New York State and the American Revolution Part III

Saratoga: Turning Point of the Revolution by Kathleen L. Maher

BACKGROUND

In the autumn of 1777, the British wanted to cut off New England from the colonies in the south, and drew up a plan to control Upstate NY. British General John Burgoyne in Montreal would push south to Albany via Lake George, Lake Champlain, and the Hudson River. In the woods surrounding Lake George, the patriots felled trees to slow him down and wear him out.
Meanwhile, Howe was supposed to come up from New York City and meet Burgoyne in Albany, but he  took a detour to capture Philadelphia. Washington retreated to York, luring Howe further away from his rendezvous with Burgoyne.
Burgoyne's depleted troops attempted to conscript cattle and supplies from nearby Vermont, and the patriots there defended their stores and further weakened "Gentleman Johnny" Burgoyne's troops with skirmishing and counterattacks. As autumn passed, he would need to decide where to make winter camp--either retreat to Ticonderoga which he had just won in July, or advance to Albany. His Native American support had dissipated after the failure at Bennington, but he chose to press on to Albany.
General George Washington had a sense of the battle lines being drawn and sent up Benedict Arnold and Massachusetts General Lincoln, also calling up militias to join them.
Saratoga sets the stage for the showdown.

BATTLE BEGINS

Burgoyne sets out toward Albany again and is met by Morgan's Riflemen, sharpshooters from Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia, and other colonists under General Horatio Gates in the First Battle of Saratoga on September 19, 1777--The Battle of Freeman's Farm. Burgoyne seeks to dislodge the Americans, who commandeered loyalist Freeman's property, from their entrenched position up Bemis Heights. Benedict Arnold throws his army in the way, but Burgoyne rallies to take the Farm, at great loss. For every one Patriot casualty, Burgoyne loses two. Waiting for reinforcements from Howe that never came, Burgoyne lingers in the area while the colonists amass an army.

The Battle of Bemis Heights, the second battle at Saratoga occurs on October 7. Though British General Clinton attempts to join Burgoyne, he fails to provide him the relief he needs. The British and their German allies are encircled by superior numbers of Patriot  

(12,000 and well equipped) forces and attempt to break through. Benedict Arnold, though ordered off the field in the last conflict by Gates and according to some sources possibly drunk, takes the field and inspires the American forces in heavy fighting. He takes out Hessian commander Von Breymann and his redoubt, receiving a wound to his leg.  Morgan's sharpshooters meanwhile actually clip Burgoyne in three places--his horse, his hat and his waistcoat. The Patriots whip Burgoyne soundly. Outnumbered three to one, and having lost many of his best commanders due to Morgan's sharpshooters, he withdraws to Schuylerville and ten days later surrenders.

RESULTS

British in Ticonderoga retreat further north into Ontario.

Benedict Arnold wounded in leg

Disgraced, Burgoyne returned to England, never to be given another command.
The first proclamation of a National Thanksgiving was issued by Congress on Dec 18, inspired by Burgoyne's surrender.
France joins war on Patriots's side.

Escalates the war to a global conflict.
Spain lends Patriots aid against Britain.



Kathleen L. Maher is a patriot from upstate New York, and writes historical fiction and romance. She is represented by Terry Burns of Hartline Literary Agency, and has a Civil War novella coming out May 1st set in New York City. Find her on facebook and twitter as well as her blog featuring New York State history with an emphasis on Christian fiction. 

New York State and the American Revolution--Part II

THE BATTLE OF ORISKANY

By Kathleen L. Maher

According to the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation,
“Nearly one third of all the battles fought during the American Revolution were fought in New York State. The capture of Fort Ticonderoga, the Battles of Oriskany, Newtown and Saratoga are just a few of the major events that took place on New York soil.”

This is part two  in a four-part look at these important theaters in the war and New York’s vital role in our Nation’s Founding Struggle

To understand the Battle of Oriskany, one must appreciate the waterways and the mode of travel and trade through New York in the 18th century. The Mohawk Valley (see Mohawk River on above map) was incredibly fertile and considered a bread basket. New York offered lucrative opportunities for trade along its waterways: from New York City's harbor, up the Hudson River, west along the Mohawk River, a trader could make it almost all the way to the Great Lakes by canoe. At the end of Mohawk River, however, one would have to carry their canoe and goods for a short stretch to meet Wood Creek and continue on. This area of portage was called the Oneida Carry. It was this small parcel of land between the Mohawk River and Wood Creek that would become a hotly contested area between British, Iroquois and Patriot interests over who would control trade and control of the state.

An old British stronghold Fort Stanwix guarded the Oneida Carry, and in 1777 the New York patriots rebuilt it and manned it with 700 infantry, and renamed it Fort Schuyler. In nearby Oswego, loyalist General Barry St. Leger had a force of 800 plus another 800 Native Tories. St Leger was then ordered to move east to meet Bergoyne. Standing in the way was Fort Schuyler, and St. Leger prepared to lay siege. Patriot reinforcements came from the east, from Fort Dayton via General Herkimer and 800 of his troops. In early August, 1777 Joseph Brant, the famous Iroquois leader, led a party to intercept Herkimer. At the little Indian village of Oriska, an ambush lay in the dense woods and its steep ravine and creek--British commander John Butler's Rangers and Sir John Johnson's Greens waiting to strike the head of Herkimer's column while the Natives under Brant would attack the rear and flank.

Herkimer was supposed to wait for a signal (three reports from cannon) from the commander at Schuyler before moving in, but pressured to prove his mettle in a swift attack, he forged ahead of orders. His Oneida scouts sensing no threat, he marched 600 men into the ravine, plus several supply wagons, and as his rearguard began to follow, the attack came at them from all sides. 

"One of the most violent battles of the Revolutionary War occurred at Oriskany on August 6, 1777. It was the first time that Oneida warriors, who openly sided with the rebellious Americans, fought against other Haudenoshaunee warriors who allied themselves with the British."
so reads a plaque at the site of the Battle of Newtown.                                                                                        Oneidas at the Battle of Oriskany                                                                                            painting by Don Troiani 2005.

Blacksnake, a Seneca war chief, said this of the battle:
We met the enemy at the place near a small creek. They had 3 cannons and we none. We had tomahawks and a few guns, but agreed to fight with tomahawks and scalping knives. During the fight, we waited for them to fire their guns and then we attacked them. It felt like no more than killing a Beast. We killed most of the men in the American's army. Only a few escaped from us. We fought so close against one another that we could kill or another with a musket bayonet.... It was here that I saw the most dead bodies than I have ever seen. The blood shed made a stream running down on the sloping ground.

General Herkimer was shot through the leg and his horse killed, but he continued to lead the men. A fierce thunderstorm interrupted the battle, allowing a contingent of Patriots to slip away and attack the nearby British camps. Once the battle resumed, the Indian Tories abandoned the fight and went to the aid of their camp. Without their help, the British soon abandoned the fight, too.
The result of the battle was a draw. Out of 800 only 150 Patriots returned without major wounds. Herkimer didn't stop the siege, but by August 22, St. Leger ended it anyway. General Herkimer died of his wounds 11 days after the battle. The Oneida villages were sacked and given over to natives loyal to the rebel cause.

New York held a tentative peace as each side retreated in stalemate. More conflict was to come.

New York State and the American Revolution--Part I

According to the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation, 

“Nearly one third of all the battles fought during the American Revolution were fought in New York State. The capture of Fort Ticonderoga, the Battles of Oriskany, Newtown and Saratoga are just a few of the major events that took place on New York soil.” http://nysparks.com/historic-preservation/heritage-trails/revolutionary-war/default.aspx

This is a four-part look at these important theaters in the war and New York’s vital role in our Nation’s Founding Struggle

By Kathleen L. Maher

Part I—Newtown

Where modern day Elmira, NY is now situated, an Indian village by the name of New Town set the stage for  an important battle in the American Revolution. Set on the Chemung River near Pennsylvania’s border, Newtown/Elmira is fringed by hills on the West and East, and it is along one of these hills to the East that General Sullivan staved off an ambush from the Iroquois leader Joseph Brant and British commander Colonel John Butler.

The Six Nations, four of whom had pledged their loyalty to the crown, had been attacking the settlers of south-central New York for years, trying to drive them out of their log homes and farmsteads. The Mohawk, Cayuga, Seneca and Onondaga tribes supplied the British from this fertile area, and General John Sullivan’s orders from Washington were to drive them out.

In August 29, 1779, Sullivan and 5,000 Continentals from New York, New Hampshire, and Pennsylvania had amassed on the shore of Chemung River on New Town’s northeast side. Rumors of an impending ambush roused the Patriot forces to clash with British and Iroquois warriors at the base of what is now called Sullivan’s Hill.

Sullivan's Monument

The casualties were not high but the lasting effect of the battle of Newtown was the disbanding of the Six Nations—the Iroquois were scattered, their villages burned, and their supplies were decimated. Washington instructed Sullivan to pursue the enemy all the way to Forts Niagara and Oswego, but Sullivan failed to accomplish these orders.

The British had lost their bread bowl, and a fierce ally in the war.

A plaque on the memorial site at Sullivan's Monument reads: The soldiers in Sullivan's army were surprised to find cultivated fields and beautiful orchards. Following the war many returned to settle here. Some historians contend that opening the Indian lands for settlement was General George Washington's ultimate purpose for Sullivan's expeditions.

"The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements, and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible. It will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more."

General George Washington

A Forted Frontier Holiday: Finale

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.

Today is the CONCLUSION of A Forted Frontier Holiday!

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

Part 6 - Narrow Passage by Pat Iacuzzi

Part 7 - Through the Storm by Lynn Squire

Part 8 - Christmastide by Carrie Fancett Pagels

Part 9 - Amish Snow by Kelly Long

Part 10 - Epiphany! by Dina Sleiman

(Kathleen Maher)

            A soft whicker and a warm breath preceded a nudge to Buckskin Samson's arm. He knew exactly who it was, U’sti, or “Little One,” and turning to the bay foal standing at his side, he rubbed the broad white path between its eyes, down to the slip of its pink nose. The rascally colt lipped at his fingers and turned sideways, flicking its tail and kicking up its back legs before darting away to its mother.  A throaty chuckle rumbled from him and he returned to his work at hand, crafting the deer hide into a pair of soft suede gloves.

Many days had passed since he had joined the fort with the Rousches. The kind family doted on their new addition, a girl born in the winter just like his promising young colt. Appreciation for their acceptance and welcome, as well as a sense of longing, swelled within him at every thought of the hardy German and his French wife. Their friendship meant a great deal, but the desire for family dogged him with the relentless energy of their many children. He had much for which to thank Great Jhezoos, not the least of which included surviving a harsh winter. But he had a new request, too.

 Several parties had joined their number in that time—soldiers, guides, travelers, couples, families. And, he hadn’t failed to notice, a few blushing maidens. He looked at the pretty doeskin gauntlets as he worked, and smiled with a glimmer of ambition rising within him. He had noticed a fair-haired a-wo-du-hi a-ta—a beautiful young lady, who had only scraps of old rags to protect her hands from the cold. If the good Lord would smile on Him again, perhaps these gloves would win him the favor of this young beauty, and soon, he would have a family of his own. 

***
(by Pat Iacuzzi, Dedicated to my Mom, Anna)

            You may need to make decisions for yourself soon …

Something Hannah Maclaren had never done in her entire life, for most of the choices controlling her existence had been made for her by someone else. She rubbed the throbbing scar at her wrist—and some of those decisions had been meted out to her in thoughtless and violent ways. From the time she was taken captive by the Shawnee, to the time they’d traded her north to the Seneca and finally exchanged in a captives’ trade as an indentured servant to a German family, Hannah had not made one decision concerning her own life or how she would live it. But since she’d become a bondservant to the Yosts, the elderly couple had treated her tenderly these four years past, more like a daughter than a servant, and with their guidance, her faith in the Lord and her self-reliance had grown. I thankest Thee O Lord, for placing me in their care.  

A bleak winter sun bathed the log walls of Fort Providence in a wash of sepia light. Hannah shivered in the bracing January air and lifted the hem of her simple blue linen frock, taking care against the dust that puffed up as she broadened her stride to cross the fort’s parade ground. Her Mistress had given her the dress for Christmas, even as the woman’s thoughts still must have dwelt on her husband’s last days. But Hannah had nothing to give Mütter Yost in return. Nothing to ease her pain or show her how much Hannah loved her.

Master Yost had passed away shortly after they’d taken shelter in the fort. Hannah’s heart swelled at the bittersweet memory, and she swallowed, holding back the sting of tears in the corner of her eyes. For on his deathbed, Master Yost had released Hannah from her contract. She was no longer a bondservant. She was free. And with that freedom Hannah experienced an overwhelming sense of fear and wonder. And therein lay her dilemma—the call to face responsibilities and make decisions for herself.

She shifted the basket of vegetables the generous Mistress Rousch had given her to her other hand and pushed open the plank door of the cabin she shared with Mütter Yost. ’Twas one of several built for settlers’ protection within the fort’s confines. The bottom of the door scraped an arc across the dirt floor as she entered the cabin’s shadowy interior. Mütter sat rocking, a cup of tea in her mitted hands, a broad smile on her face. “We have a guest, child.”

A broad-shouldered figure, his arm draped against the fireplace mantel turned to her, the half-light from the fire dancing over his features.

“LaLoup?” The basket fell from Hannah’s hand, and turnips bounced and scattered along the floor. She ran to him and the scout gathered her in his arms. Hannah closed her eyes as he pressed his cheek against her hair and she inhaled the fresh scents of leather and pine that surrounded him.

He took a step back, held her hands in his warm grip and scoured her with his green-eyed gaze. “Well my (white loon) are you ready to become my bride?”

Almost automatically, Hannah turned to Mütter Yost for her word of direction. What should she do? Somehow she could not start a new life without the acknowledging the old. And she would not leave her Mistress to fend for herself. Not after all she had

meant to Hannah.

The woman took a sip of her tea and with a shaky hand, carefully set it down. She looked up at Hannah, her blue eyes misty. “There is still the cabin and land my husband intended to farm northwest of the Rousch acreage. It awaits a new family as I will have no use for it now, liebschen.”

Hannah knelt before her and took the old woman’s knotted hands in her own. She was certain now what God would have her do. Knowing His Word made her decision so much clearer, so much easier. “Mutter Yost, do you remember what you taught me? When you read to me the story of Ruth? “….Entreat me not to leave you, or to return from following after you: for where you go, I will go; and where you lodge, I will lodge: your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” Hannah placed the woman’s hand against her cheek. It was cold and rough. “I cannot leave you behind. I want you to come with us. I will care for you as you cared for me.”

She rose and turned to LaLoup. Hannah caught the soft shine of the brushed silver cross glistening against the smooth tan of his chest. It was then she knew trust; that his commitment to her was as strong as his belief in his Savior. He nodded and smiled.

 “I love you, LaLoup …and would be honored to be your wife.” Hannah rested her head against his hard chest, and heard the beating of his heart in rhythm with hers. It seemed as if God had placed him in her life like a bulwark, in times of trial and of blessings.     

She felt a sense of peace, like a warm blanket envelope them. 

***

(By Carrie Fancett Pagels  Dedicated to Ruby Evelyn Skidmore Fancett, descendant of the real life Johan and Susannah Rousch, who spent a season or more in Holman Fort, Shenandoah Valley.)

The long building that served as barracks rattled with each gust of wind outside. Icy sleet pelted the wooden structure drumming a tattoo in Johan Rousch’s head as he stared at their latest newcomer.

“So we are free to return home?” He ran a hand back through his hair. Suzanne would be delighted, as would the children. As for himself, he would no longer have the easy cameraderie of the other men inside the fort.

            The young man who’d surveyed their land, years earlier, stood before him in military uniform. “Governor Dinwiddie has sent me to Pennsylvania for discussions with the French. And we believe, based on our scouts’ reports…”  The lieutenant glanced from William Christy to Shadrach Clark, both men attired in buckskins, standing just inside the barracks building. LaLoup entered through the center door, chill air accompanying him and stirring the fire.  He nodded at Johan and the other scouts but fixed a wary gaze on their newcomer.

            “No sign of continued activity.” Colonel Christy, dressed in uniform, shifted and tugged at his collar. “But I shall leave it at your discretion.  May be easier for the people to pool their resources inside Fort Providence and return home come spring.”

            Johan would miss his friends’ company.  “Ja, but already the women, my own included, long to be home.  And we have many travelers here whose journeys have been interrupted—they must be allowed to go on their way.”           

“We will join with Lt. Washington and his Virginians and follow him into Pennsylvania.” Christy’s crisp tone held a warning.

            Johan swallowed.  He’d left the Palatinate, a land torn by war—had lost all his older brothers due to invasions from the French.  Now, in this new land, he had the sensation of standing on a precipice, one which could affect his entire family and his friends. 

            The young officer nodded. “I appreciate the company, colonel.  Shall you return to your home in Philadelphia, then, after my meeting with the French envoys?”

            William Christy’s dark gaze fixed on Johan’s former surveyor.  The two men had much in common, yet by appearance one would never guess.  Young George Washington, dressed spotlessly, despite his long travel, gave the air of one born unto nobility.  Yet it was Christy’s father who served in parliament and held the title of Lord. And the grandson, dressed in buckskins, with a long rifle propped nearby, appeared sprung from the very woods of Virginia. 

            The two scouts exchanged a glance. Shad caught Johan’s eye.

            “Ja, you wish to say something?”

            “We’ll take our leave now, if’n you don’t mind—we’ll need our rest.” His lips curved into a disdainful smile, his eyelids half lowered. “Mighty good to see you again, Johan. I’ll be headin’ north as soon as this storm ceases.”

            Washington cocked his head at the men. “Under whose order?”

            “We don’t take orders.” William’s words were accompanied by the thump of his rifle on the wooden floor of the barracks.

            The lieutenant flinched. “You are not attached to a unit?”

            Shad sniffed loudly. “Our own unit. We’re scouts—not army nor militia.”

            Colonel Christy gave a short laugh. “Perhaps you are asking who is securing their services.  I am.  My wife still remains with a rebel tribe of Shawnee and Shad and William will be scouting for her.”

            The young officer’s face, already pale, blanched further. “Your wife, sir?”

            “Yes. And with word coming that many branches of the tribes begin to gather, I wish to ascertain whether she wishes to yet remain among the rebels.”

            “Remain?” Washington’s word came out as a croak. “Do you mean she willingly accompanied them.”

            “Exactly.”  Christy winked. “But perhaps she’s changed her mind by now.”

            George lost some of his authoritative veneer which accosted by Christy’s revelation.  Johan chuckled. “Don’t worry, lieutenant, she lived among the Indians her entire life.”

            Color returned to Washington’s face.  “I confess I had no idea. My pardons.”

            Christy held up a hand. “No need. What of you, LaLoup?”

            The big scout grinned and affixed his gaze on Johan. “I believe after I am wed I will become Mr. Rousch’s neighbor. I am about to take up farming.”

            Shad lifted LaLoup into a bear hug and once he released him, William shook the soon-to-be-married scout’s hand.

            “I wonder if I surveyed that land, too?” Lt. George Washington whispered into Johan’s ear.

            Johan drew back and the two men grinned at each other. He clasped the younger man’s hand. “Ja, probably so—but I have a feeling you are beginning a new stage in your life.  May God bless and keep you.  And now, I go to check on my wife and new baby—a girl, something new for me, too!”

The End

We sincerely hope our readers have enjoyed our anthology!  Many blessings in the year ahead!!!

           

           

           

            

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!