Part 8 - Christmastide by Carrie Fancett Pagels, Susan F. Craft, and Elaine Marie Cooper
Christmas eve
“Riders!” Nicholas Zerkle called down to Johan from his perch
by the gates.
“Who?” Johan called up. Suzanne had begun her
laboring and now they had arrivals. He rubbed the ache in his temple.
“Militia.” The shout of militia circulated around the fort, accompanied by the sound of
moccasins and shoes skimming over packed dirt.
Finally—Colonel Christy’s request had been answered.
Johan gazed around at this varied group that somehow
he’d been asked to commandeer. Dear God please
have sent some real help, provisions, and some good news.
The colonel strode out from the barracks, which were
being decorated for tonight’s festivities. “Open the gates.”
A contingent of men, perhaps thirty total, brought
their horses to a halt just outside Fort Providence.
Their leader, an aristocratic-looking man but
dressed in Virginia militia clothing dismounted and headed into the fort—Wyatt
Scott, their old friend from New Kent.
The men remained outside. Perhaps
a good sign—if they were pursued they’d come in. Or were they on their way?
Christy pulled Wyatt into a brief embrace.
The militia officer rubbed his chin. He turned toward Johan, his eyes widening.
“Suzanne invited me to celebrate a French-style Christmas sometime, you
know—elsewise I’d not be here.” He
chuckled then turned and motioned for the men to begin carrying in boxes of
provisions.
“Ja, I think
you are confused. I think you just wanted to be here for the new baby,
Wyatt?” Johan clapped the militia
lieutenant on his shoulder.
“Another?” He arched on eyebrow then glanced around.
“Where is Suzanne?”
Johan’s older kinder rushed toward them and wrapped
their arms around Wyatt’s legs. He
hugged the oldest two and lifted the younger, one in each arm.
“Mama’s having a baby.” Adam squared his broad
shoulders. Only seven, his height made him appear much older—how long till he
looked like the young militia men outside the gates?
Wyatt grinned and removed his tricorn hat. “Well
then, I have just the thing for babies—good food for their mother’s.”
The boy sniffed and cocked his head. “And their
brothers and sisters?”
Colonel Christy mussed the boy’s tawny hair. “Yes.”
Reaching into a pouch strapped across his chest,
Wyatt retrieved a chocolate bar and handed it to Adam. “Take this and divide it
for you and your brothers.”
Suddenly Johan’s limbs were empty as the others
clambered toward their brother. He caught a whiff of the spicy dark chocolate
and his mouth watered. He’d not seen
chocolate like that since he’d been to Williamsburg a year earlier. A chill
breeze gusted across the yard, chasing the children toward the cabin.
With a wink, Wyatt reached in and handed a bar to
Christy and to Johan. “We stopped at Shirley Plantation—young Carter loaded us
up when he heard what was happening up here.
He’s been a great help rounding up the militia, as well.”
A muscle in Christy’s jaw twitched. “Have you
provisions for all of us?” He raised his
chocolate bar.
“Mr. Carter was most generous—he’s sent a case of
chocolate, though some is already grated for hot chocolate drinks.”
He couldn’t resist any longer—Johan unwrapped the
thick bar and took one bite, savoring the taste until Nicholas Zerkle scowled
at him.
Wyatt Scott fixed his gaze on the man. “If you wish
to receive your own, I suggest you get back to work.” He held Nicholas’s gaze until the younger man
stalked off outside toward the militia.
“We have
extra guns, powder and horns, and we’ve brought salted fish, ham, squash,
potatoes, corn and meal. All crated. And apples we secured not far from here at
an abandoned farm.”
“Phillip Sehler’s farm, most likely.” Johan gestured
toward the sentry craning his neck to get a better view of the militia. “He’ll
be glad for relief from your men, Wyatt.”
“Which we’ll be happy to provide—once they’ve had a
little rest.” His glance veered toward
the large central building within the compound.
The minister
emerged from the barracks building.
Earlier it had been swept clean and was now being decorated with
trinkets the ladies had gathered. Although the pastor moved slowly, he had
survived his severe case of flux that hit just after his arrival. The young
couple who were to marry that evening had been separated so that the ladies
might prepare the bride as best they could. And the Baptists had announced that
although they would attend the wedding they would not dance afterward.
Suzanne came out of their cabin, Sarah at her side,
as the children pushed past them, inside.
“Reverend Saks,” Christy called out. “I fear that as
soon as the wedding and celebration as completed tonight we will need to get
the pallets set up for our militia. I hate to rush the events of the evening
but I suspect they’ll need to rest.”
“Indeed.” Wyatt rubbed his chin and turned to look
through the open gate at the men tending their horses. Boxes and crates were being brought in and
stacked in the center of the yard. People
began to gather around them and carry them toward the barracks.
“Johan!” Suzanne called out.
When his wife placed her hand on her swollen abdomen
and gasped, Johan moved toward her. She’d overdone her preparations for the
French Christmas celebratory feast for that night after the wedding and dance.
Sarah, eyes wide, placed a hand under Suzanne’s arm
and lowered her onto a bench. Johan ran
to her and spied the ground beneath his wife’s tiny feet darkening with the
baby’s fluid. Tears filled his beautiful
wife’s eyes.
Ja,
the baby would come soon. Here, in this
place.
***
SFC
Two
Shall Become One, A Fort Providence Wedding
Walking beside her dah, her arm curled through the
crook of his arm, Allison Cameron gave her attention to the lace dripping from
the elbows of her wedding dress. Her sister, Katherine, had tatted the lace that
had adorned her own bridal gown. Allison’s quilted petticoats rustled
underneath her finely hetcheled linen skirt that billowed around her legs like
a pale blue cloud. Overcome by an awkward shyness, she dropped her gaze to the
toes of her boots, one of which held a silver sixpence for good luck. Drawn by
an irresistible urge, she lifted her chin and stared straight into her groom’s
eyes. Blue like flax flowers in summer, they studied her with powerful emotions
-- adoration, pride, and desire – stirring sensations that whirred in her
stomach like a spinning wheel.
Douglas.
Soon to be “My Douglas.”
How handsome he looked in his chocolate brown
waistcoat, crisp white shirt, buff breeches, and shiny black boots. His dark
auburn hair usually free flowing around his shoulders was secured in a brown
bow. The clan McCallum sash, its green and muti-hued blue stripes that
reflected the color of his eyes, draped across his chest. In the few weeks they
had known each other as passenger and wagon master, Allison had never seen her
husband-to-be in anything but buckskins and moccasin leggings. This new Douglas
took her by surprise. Her heart thrummed, and she barely felt her feet touching
the ground.
When they stopped in front of Reverend Saks, Mr.
Cameron, his moss green eyes twinkling, leaned down, kissed her forehead and
whispered, “May God bless you with great joy, my dear sweet lass.”
She caressed his cheek and swallowed the lump in her
throat. She looked up at Douglas, who must have heard the exchange for his Adam’s
apple bobbed beneath his superbly tied cravat.
Her pulse fluttering in her ears like the pedals of
her spinning wheel, she barely registered the pastor’s words, and made her
proper responses in a daze, until Douglas gripped her fingers.
“It’s time, dearest,” he prompted.
Stunned, she realized she had missed the pastor’s
proclamation of their marriage. Trying not to stammer, she began the first
verse of their traditional blessing, “God to enfold me. God to surround me. God
in my speaking. God in my thinking.”
She stared at his full bottom lip as he spoke the
next verse in a strong, vibrant voice. “God in my sleeping. God in my waking.
God in my watching. God in my hoping.”
She caught the gleam in his eyes and her lips
trembled. “God in my life. God in my lips. God in my soul. God in my heart.”
Holding hands, they spoke the last words together.
“God in my sufficing. God in my slumber. God in mine ever-living soul. God in
mine eternity.”
Douglas released her hands to pull the tartan from
his body. “I’m sorry my mother isn’t here to perform this honor, sweetheart.
She would have loved you, I know.” He arranged the sash across her right
shoulder. “You are my family now, a stór.”
His family. His treasure. Her heart leapt.
Suddenly they were surrounded by revelers, their
fellow refugees who had sought shelter at Fort Providence. All seemed ecstatic
for a short respite from the dangers lurking outside the fort’s walls. They
began clapping, shouting, hugging, laughing, and, much to her chagrin, pulling
her apart from her husband. Her mah, her eyes misty with unshed tears, asked
her to lean down so she could kiss her on both cheeks. Loud peals of laughter
tumbled from the tiny woman as she pulled Allison across the room to Katherine,
who, still recovering from a near death bout with fever, sat in a chair,
holding her one-year-old son in her lap. Allison kept craning her neck, trying
to spot Douglas, who was doing the same thing while good-naturedly bracing
himself against the slaps on his back. She caught his eye and they laughed when
she found herself surrounded by the ladies who oohed and ahhed over her dress.
When finally the laughter died down, the crowd
escorted Allison and Douglas to a table where they sat together and marveled at
the bounty laid before them, venison swimming in gravy, succulent rabbit stew,
cinnamon sweet potatoes, dumplings, vibrant green snap peas, walnuts, baked
pumpkin, and rhubarb pie.
Allison had been too nervous to eat anything all
day, and the food made her mouth water. “Such a feast, Douglas.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and place small
kisses across her knuckles. “You are all the feast I want.”
His words and the longing in his eyes wiped away her
appetite, and she could feel her eyes growing wide.
Sensing the others watching them, he dug his fork
into a dumpling and brought it to her lips. “I suppose we should make the
effort?”
She took the morsel in her mouth, chewed, and
swallowed, all without taking her eyes from his. When he reached across to her
plate and cut the venison for her, she wondered what his tan, scarred hands
would feel like on her person. She took a sip of ale and nearly choked when he
drew his thumb across her lips to catch a stray drop of the fiery liquid.
Johan Rousch, a bear of a man, lumbered into the
center of the room and in a thick German accent announced, “Now, we dance. That
is except for my wife and I, for await a new member of our family. But all is
going well. Please, all of you, we have much to celebrate this night—dance!”
He
scanned the room and joined Colonel Christy and his son, William, at the far
end of the room where they chatted with the newly arrived militia captain.
The oldest Zerkle
sibling stepped from the crowd and adjusted a fiddle under his chin. One of the
soldiers pulled a fife from his pocket, and another man dressed in buckskins
sat on a chair and began to pluck a dulcimer. The men and women opened up a
circle and stared with anticipation at the newlyweds as the musicians sought
out a tune that Allison recognized as Eriskay
Love Lilt.
“I apologize that I
couldna find a piper, my love.” Douglas held out his hand. “Shall we?”
On the makeshift dance
floor, her husband – what a lovely sound – surprised her once again by leading
her through a slow reel with grace that belied his large frame. The others
joined in, some dancing and some singing.
Douglas stopped with
Allison at the edge of the circle and stood behind her to watch the couples
weave in and out of the intricate reel. His chest vibrated against her back as
he recited one of the verses –
Thou'rt the music of my heart,
Harp of joy, o cuit mo chridh,
Moon of guidance by night,
Strength and light thou'rt to me.
The song came to an end, and Douglas leaned down and
whispered, “Beloved, I should like very much to leave now, but if you desire to
stay longer, we will.”
“We are of the same thought.”
“I’ll find your cloak.”
Allison made her way to the door where her mother and
father greeted her with such happy faces she wanted to shout for joy. Douglas
helped her with her cloak, taking the piece of dried heather from her curls and
tucking it into his shirt.
“Ha! I see they are making their escape,” yelled one
of the men.
The man standing next to him poked him in the ribs. “I
seen where he set up their tent. Far away. So’s they can make as much noise as
they please.”
Some of the men guffawed.
“Oh!” Mortified, Allison threw her hands up to her
face and dropped her head against Douglas’ chest.
“They do naught but jest, my love.” He wrapped his arm
around her shoulders. “Now, look here. It’s the foundling, come to present us
with the traditional horse shoe.”
Allison uncovered her eyes and dropped down on one
knee to receive the good luck charm from the young orphan who had recently lost
his parents in an Indian attack. Her heart had gone out to him the moment they
met.
“Thank you, lad.” She rumpled his thick hair the color
of corn silk and he smiled at her, his bright blue eyes sparkling.
When she stood, Douglas
glanced from her face, to the boy, and back again. “’Tis another thought we
have in common, my dear. We shall talk of it later. But now….” He swept her up
into his arms to the delight of the ladies present.
Several of the men
moved toward them, causing Allison to wrap her arm around her husband’s neck,
her lips grazing his ear. “They will not follow, will they?”
“No. That is another
tradition we will dispense with.” He nodded toward two sturdy fellows who
approached the door with Mr. Rousch. “They will keep the rogues inside.”
Douglas hoisted her up
closer to his chest. “And so we are away, my sweet.”
She laughed and
snuggled her face into his neck.
Yes, away to a new
life, a new adventure. She could not wait to see what life had in store.
***
EMC
Christmas morn
Comfort
carried the swaddled infant out the birthing room door. Her eyes rested on a
distressed looking Johan. “Here you are, Mr. Roush. Your new daughter. She is
well—as is your brave wife.”
A look of
relief mixed with parental love flooded the father’s face. Comfort smiled as
her own tears welled.
Such love! Would Jonathan look like
that when he beheld their child?
Jonathan
approached her from a group of men standing in the large room. “Comfort! Are
you all right?”
Holding
him with her eyes, she managed a muffled “Yes.” Inhaling deeply she grasped his
arm. “It was a miracle. Perhaps the Virginians are correct—a true Christmas
miracle!”
Her
husband’s arms enveloped her waist as he led her towards the door. He lifted a
cloak from a hook, wrapped it around Comfort, and gently drew her outside. The
light snow barely announced its presence as it danced, then found its home on
the wool before melting into the warmth of the material. The look on her
husband’s face brought a shiver of delight, far warmer than the cloak.
“I was so
worried about you. You’ve not been well.” Jonathan touched her cheek with
tenderness.
“Jon, I am
not ill.” Comfort drew his hand over her belly that was beginning to make its
presence apparent. “We shall have our own child soon. I…I did not wish to worry
you.”
Tears
brimmed Jonathan’s eyes. “Our own child?” His face contorted and trails of
salty tears blended with the melting snowflakes on Comfort’s cloak.
Comfort
bit her lip. “Are you distraught, Jon?” She fought the moisture that welled in
her own eyes.
Jonathan
leaned toward Comfort and kissed her tenderly. “No, Comfort.” His lips touched
her cheek. “Thank you, dear one. Thank you for our new family.”
***
CFP
Suzanne
sucked in a shaky breath—the night had been long, but Comfort had proven capable
and competent in assisting Sarah in the delivery of her first daughter and
seventh child.
“Noela—I
wish to name her Noela, Johan.” Suzanne
released their precious daughter to her husband, his face tender, awed. How she
loved him, he'd truly journeyed through so much with her.
“She is
really a girl? Ja? You are sure?” He
began to unwrap her.
“Oui, Johan!” What a silly man. “Of
course I know she is a fille. Leave our
daughter be—she is all wrapped fine. Bien.”
He settled
next to her on the bed. “Noela—I like the sound of this name. Noela Marie?”
“Noela
Marie.” She squeezed his hand, so warm and sure. “A daughter, after all those
boys—I cannot believe it. I would not
allow myself to hope for a girl this time.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
Johan
leaned forward, his hand cradling the baby’s head and protecting her as he
kissed her forehead. “You look beautiful, Suzanne, and so does our daughter.”
He pressed
a gentle kiss to Noela’s little cheek. She was so tiny and perfect. Tiny rosebud lips began to move. She’d want to eat soon.
Suzanne
sighed. “We missed the wedding. I love weddings.” And the bride would surely
have been radiant.
Standing,
Johan patted the baby’s back. “Ja, and we missed the celebration you worked so
hard on--the Christmas feast. Well, you missed it anyway.”
Her
husband never missed a meal. She laughed. “I think you felt it your
responsibility, n’est pas? To be
there to oversee?”
A soft
knock on the door stopped her from teasing him further. Johan opened the door,
grinning broadly. “Did you hear? I have a daughter—a girl this time!”
The
Ingersoll men appeared stunned. “After six sons?” They cast a speculative
glance in her direction.
Johan
rocked back on his heels. “Six sons now a daughter. God is good.”
“Congratulations. We’ve brought her a present.” Nathaniel and Jonathan Ingersoll carried in the cradle they’d
crafted for the baby.
“May I see?” Suzanne had viewed the
cradle earlier in the week but not the piece had been completed.
The men brought it closer. On the head
and foot board, Nathaniel had carved a cherub, his workmanship superb—Suzanne
had seen the work of master craftsman at Versailles whose work paled in
comparison.
“Beautiful. Merci
beaucoup.”
Jonathan patted the bedding in the
cradle cradle. “Constance’s contribution. She embroidered the Rousch name,
too.”
Suzanne raised her head and could make
out the faint outline of Rousch in white work thread. Constance’s work was
excellent.
“Lovely. Thank her for me.”
Nathaniel licked his lips. “’Twas sad
that the fabric came from the wagon belonging to the foundling's family. But it
very much pleased the little boy to see it used for the new baby.”
She smiled. “Tell him Noela thanks
him.” Reaching for her daughter, she
caught the hesitation on Johan’s face. When the baby began rooting around on
his shoulder though, he handed her back.
“Gentleman, I think we go now to assist
with the Christmas feast and bring Suzanne back a nice plateful, ja?” Johan
clapped an arm around each man’s shoulder and steered them toward the door.
Giveaway: Susan Craft is giving away a copy of her beautiful book "The Chamomile" to one reader. This made my 2011 Top Ten Favorites on my personal blog Overcoming With God.
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