A Forted Frontier Holiday:
A Colonial American Fiction Anthology
While harvesting, the German settlement near New Market, Virginia,
receives warning of an impending attack by French and Indian 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 on CQ for the next two months!
ENJOY!!!
This is our Christmas gift to our faithful followers on Colonial
Quills. Many blessings to all of you during this season. And may God
bring provision to our northern neighbors hit so hard by the storm.
Part Two
A
Providential Proposal
Shenandoah Valley, November 1753
Climbing out of the
back of the covered wagon that had been her family’s home for a month, Allison
Cameron gripped the wagon bed and searched with the toe of her boot for the
step-down slat. Entangled in her skirts, she careened backward, stifling a yelp
when a pair of hands clasped her waist, lifted her like a feather, and settled
her to the ground.
She whirled around to find her
nose planted against the buckskin-covered chest of the wagon master. Rabbit fur
tickled her nostrils as she breathed in the pleasant aroma of pinewood campfires
and tobacco. Her eyes traveled upward, past the collar of his linsey-woolsey
shirt, to the blue flannel scarf bunched around his neck. A strand of his
shoulder-length hair, the color of cattails in the fall, clung to his bottom
lip, a bit fuller than the upper one. She gazed into familiar eyes, blue like
the flowers that top flax stalks in June. A closely planted field of those
flowers so resembled water that flying ducks would try to land on them. As
flummoxed as those birds, she swallowed the words of chastisement she’d been
prepared to wield against the liberty taken upon her person.
Douglas McCallum grinned and
ran his finger along the brim of her ruffled cap tucked underneath the hood of
her cloak. “You must take better care, Miss Allison.” A mist punctuated each
word as his warm breath mingled with the freezing air.
Weeks ago, after she had
repaired a tear in his jaw ripped by an angry bear, they’d given each other
permission to use their given names. But he insisted on adding the Miss; his way
of teasing her. She studied the scar. It would soon fade, for she had used the
tiniest of stitches fashioned with a silky thread of her finest hetcheled flax.
Though her fingers ached to caress his face, their relationship had only begun
to blossom, and she felt too shy. Instead, she clasped the bear claw hung
around her neck with a length of rawhide—his
thank you gift.
Allison frowned. “Delayed
again. Will we ever reach South Carolina?”
“Aye, lass. ‘Twill take time.
For now, we must wait out the weather.”
Allison caught his furtive
glance toward the fort’s gates. “It isn’t simply the weather, Douglas. I’ve
heard about the threats of attack."
“Allison?”
her sister, Katherine, called from the wagon. “Are you ready for Drew?”
Allison turned around. “Yes,
dear.”
“Allow me,” said Douglas.
Allison hovered, unsure if she
could trust arms powerful enough to lift a log that had crashed down in front
of their wagon to handle her one-year-old nephew. When he cuddled the
blanket-wrapped bundle against his chest before depositing the sleeping babe
into her arms, her worries vanished.
“Now, you, Mrs. Hutchinson.”
He swept her from the wagon and cradled her as tenderly as he had her child.
If anyone else but her sister
had clasped his neck, Allison would have bristled with jealousy, but she
glimpsed the dark circles under Katherine’s eyes and the newly etched wrinkles
in her forehead. Her sister had endured the unthinkable. Her young husband had
succumbed to a fever on the first leg of their journey. For two long days and
nights, Allison had nursed her sister back from the brink of death, but the
loss of her adored husband had almost broken Katherine’s spirit. She looked so
forlorn dropping her head against Douglas’ shoulder.
What a dependable, rock of a man.
Someone easy to cling to.
She had witnessed his broad
shoulders taking on much responsibility during their journey from Philadelphia.
Midway through Virginia, steady rains had turned the Great Wagon Road into a
river of mud. Sparing the horses, travelers unloaded their cargo and toted it
up the hills. Douglas, knowing how much she treasured her spinning wheel,
disassembled and tucked into straw-lined crates in her parents’ wagon, had
moved the boxes personally. He had also carried the kegs of flax seeds which
had survived her family’s voyage from Ireland and meant more to them than gold.
Each evening around the
campfire, Allison’s dah shared his dreams of harvesting those seeds along the
Catawba River. Allison would spin it. Her mah would weave it into
linsey-woolsey or crisp white linen for cravats. Katherine would tat the
silkiest yarn into lace. The men would fashion the fibers into sails and ropes
for ships and church bell towers.
Allison couldn’t believe how
quickly she had come to respect—and
yes, love—the
kind, steadfast wagon master. For his part, he had taken every opportunity to
position himself by her side, engaging her in conversation or simply passing
time with her in comfortable silence.
Do his feelings match mine?
Drew wriggled in his sleep,
wrenching Allison from her woolgathering. She tightened her grip on him and
noticed her parents a few paces ahead. They hastened toward a sturdy
looking building amid a spattering of lean-tos and military tents that made up
the hastily erected Fort Providence. Members of their small group joined them
after circling their wagons around the fort’s perimeter. Her dah waited for
her, while her mother walked alongside Douglas and fussed over her daughter.
Mr. Cameron, a tall, wiry man with
warm, moss green eyes, held open his arms. “Give him to me.”
He hiked his grandson up onto
his shoulder, but before continuing on, he gazed at Allison with one of his
auburn eyebrows raised.
Strange, he looks at me as if
he knows something I don’t, she thought with a shrug.
Relieved of her burden, she
offered assistance to a woman who labored under the weight of a sack draped
across her chest while she hung on to her twin boys. Allison slipped the sack
onto her own shoulder and grabbed the elbow of the nearest boy, who scuffled
until she dug her fingers into his skin and glared at him.
Douglas chose that moment to
come through the doorway in time to see the scowl on her face. “Let me.” He
took the bag from her and bent down to whisper, “I can’t abide unruly children
either.”
She chuckled, released the
boy, and stepped inside where the aromas of roasted sweet potatoes, cinnamon,
rabbit stew, and rhubarb pie wafted around her.
She sighed. “Heavenly.”
Douglas stood beside her, and
they watched refugees from the impending danger plop down on the floor, happy to
be inside, even happier to be alive. A man even larger and taller than Douglas
stood and, in a heavy German accent, introduced himself and his wife, a
diminutive woman far along in her pregnancy. Following his lead, the head of
each family made their acquaintances. Allison curtsied when her father called
her name. Douglas acknowledged his introduction with a nod.
They’d been standing a while
when Allison realized that Douglas stared at her intently as if studying her. A
sudden warmth pulsed through her veins and her cheeks flushed so hot she
pressed her cool hands against them. Searching the room for an escape, she
spotted her mah waving. She approached her family as they made themselves
comfortable near the fireplace where a woman bent down to stir the bubbling
contents of a pot hanging from a hook and swung it back over the flames.
Claire Cameron, a petite
woman, barely reached her daughter’s shoulder, but her body was the only thing
wee about her. Her love of God could fill the universe. Her voice boomed with
laughter, and back home in Ireland when she chastened her daughters, children
two doors down in the borough cringed. Mr. Cameron often spoke of drowning in
his bride’s big, dark eyes. Allison prayed that one day she would be blessed by
a love like theirs.
Claire cupped Allison’s cheek.
“A stór, you will go to our wagon and return with bear meat and the makings for
dumplings? We must offer our fair share.”
Allison found her mah’s lilt
pleasing as well as the way she formed her requests into questions, as if one
had the choice to obey.
“I’ll accompany her,” said
Douglas, startling Allison who hadn’t realized he was so near.
Outside, they stopped next to
her parents’ wagon and leaned against the wheel.
Douglas removed her mitten and
circled her palm with his thumb. “Your mother called you something. A stór?”
“Yes. It means my treasure.”
“Ah.” He took a deep breath
and let it out slowly. “I desire so much to call you my treasure.”
Allison’s heart fluttered like
the pedals of her spinning wheel. “I—”
“I love you and have, I think,
since the moment we met. Your serenity. Your lovely expressive eyes. Your
generosity.” He raced on. “I even like it when you’re cantankerous. Which you
can be. You know?”
She laughed.
“What’s even more splendid. I
like you.” He kissed her palm. “Will you be my wife …my treasure?”
Joy spun its way through her
like gossamer threads weaving a tapestry of images so delightful she buried her
face into his neck. “Yes. Oh, yes, my love.”
He scooped her up, and they
laughed with such abandon the people across the compound laughed with them. He
captured her lips in a kiss that warmed her to her toes.
“Day after tomorrow we
celebrate Thanksgiving.” He paused. “I hear a parson is coming to bless the
meal.”
She trembled from his meaning.
“’Twould make a glorious wedding day.”
He put her down and tucked her
into the crook of his arm. “I plan to thank God in a mighty way. Today,
tomorrow, and each day for the rest of our lives.”
The End, Part 2
Look for Part 3 of A
Forted Frontier Holiday on Nov. 19th.
Giveaway: A copy of Susan F. Craft's award winning book "The Chamomile" will be given away to one commenter. Drawing will be done November 23 and announced that day at our Tea Party. Skip Black Friday shopping, put your feet up, and enjoy tea and colonial treats with us instead!
QUESTION: Do you think that a wedding really will occur inside Fort Providence or not? Why or why not?
______________________________________________________________
A history lover, Susan F. Craft researches for her novels with the same excitement as Alan Quartermain hunting for King Solomon’s Mines and with the persistence of Lewis and Clark. She enjoys the chase when a clue leads her from one “treasure” to the next, to the next .... Her novel, The Chamomile, a Revolutionary War romantic suspense, takes place in Charleston, SC. Susan, who lives in Columbia, SC, has a degree in Broadcast Journalism. Her 40-year career includes working for SC Educational Television, the SC Department of Mental Health, the SC College of Pharmacy, and currently for the SC Senate. This is the fourth book she has authored. The first two were S.C. State Library award-winning professional works in the field of mental health, and the third, published in 2006, was A Perfect Tempest, a historical fiction set in Columbia during the Civil War. Susan is represented by Linda Glaz of Hartline Literary Agency.
