If you would like to start reading from the beginning, follow this link to Chapter One, Scene 1.

La Belle Christiane

By Lyn Cote

All rights reserved.

Chapter Three, Scene 1

August 1776, Rumsveld

Sitting astride and clothed in her stepson’s spare buckskins, Christiane urged Jakob’s mare Nancy to enter the forest just north of Rumsveld. Christiane had taught herself to mount and dismount without aid and ride astride, all very unladylike behavior. Her grandmere, who’d insisted Christiane take elegant sidesaddle lessons, would have been appalled. Christiane drew what satisfaction she could from this bit of rebellion.

Sliding off, she looped the reins around a nearby sapling, and hung Jean Claude’s Indian baby carrier on a low branch where her son could finish his after-supper nap. She must hurry before the lowering sun unleashed swarms of mosquitoes, thirsting for her blood. She’d come to harvest wild raspberries, ripe and thick on the prickly vines. A small oak basket over one arm, she began quickly gathering the soft, red berries. The thorns of the raspberry bushes snatched at her leather and would have ruined her only dress.

But what Jakob would say if he saw his bride wearing Jon’s deerskins? His bride. As always thoughts of Jakob leaving her for Washington’s Army chafed, dragged her down. She’d been so certain she could change his mind. But he’d reminded her of his deep personal reason for fighting for freedom. So he, and surprisingly Tom also, had left in early-June for a six-month enlistment. Just her few days as Jakob’s wife had convinced her she’d married the right man. But had he reached the army? Had he been in battle? Was he well, alive? “Jakob,” she whispered to the leaves fluttering on the wind, sounding like callous laughter, “I miss you.”

Suddenly distant sounds interrupted the peaceful twilight. Swatting away a fly, she eased up from the bushes and scanned the horizon through the trees that hemmed her in. Smoke. Smoke was billowing from the direction of the settlement. Fire? Snatching Jean Claude from the tree, she hurried closer to the edge of the forest, ready to mount Nancy and ride to help put out the flames.

But then she recognized the sounds. She’d heard those cries in Canada. Mohawks. Mohawk war cries. Musket shots echoed on the wind. But so few men were left. More war cries. The muskets fell silent. “No,” she tried to deny it.

Her heart raced, pounded and she turned, crashing through the brush, fleeing. A low branch slapped her cheek and Jean Claude cried out. Terror jolted her. Less than quarter of a mile separated them from the village. Would his cry be heard? Would the Mohawk find them? She pressed her hand over her son’s mouth. He squirmed and twisted. Her heart throbbing in her ears, she murmured hushing noises to him. She dropped to her knees. “God, please don’t let them find us.” I don’t want us to die.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing away her memory of the one scalping she’d witnessed. Her hand over her son’s mouth enraged him, he struggled against her. On shaky legs, she rose, moving silently to Nancy. She managed to lead the mare deeper into the forest.

Minutes, then hours crawled by. The commotion at the start of the raid ended, spawning an eerie silence. She had a time keeping Jean Claude quiet. Nearly ten months old, he wanted to get out and crawl. Finally she let him down but watched him closely, so he didn’t get snarled in nettles or thorns and perhaps cry out again. She fed him raspberries and nursed him—anything that would keep him quiet. Her mind brought up Jakob’s fear that the British would bribe the Iroquois tribes to war against them. Had this happened already?

Deep in the sheltering trees, she faced night alone without fire. She paced back and forth, holding Jean Claude and fanning away mosquitoes. The hellish glow from the fires in Rumsveld died down but did not go out. All was still. Only insects clicked, buzzed and whined. Finally with a sleeping child in her arms, she crept to the forest’s edge. Was there any movement at the smoldering settlement? Should she chance it? Past images of war-painted Mohawks sprinted through her mind, nearly freezing her in place.

Torn between a need to see what had taken place and a horror of finding what she feared, she hesitated a long time at the edge of the sheltering trees. Then the bright full moon rose high. She strapped Jean Claude to her back once more, took up her courage and mounted the mare.

Her stepson Jon had been alone, cultivating his rows of corn. Had he escaped into the forest, too? As she approached Jakob’s familiar acres, she saw the charred ruins of her husband’s cabin. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she held back a sob that threatened to sweep away her reason. I’ve lost another home.

She scanned the nearby moon-silvered field of high tasseled corn, the locusts and cicadas buzzing and shrieking, insistent in her ears. The back of her hand still pressed over her quivering mouth, she rode down the end of the rows, hoping, praying that she would not find Jon. Then by the bright moonlight, she glimpsed his mocassined feet protruding at the end of a row. I can’t go . . . can’t.

She forced herself to approach and face the stark carnage. Jon’s scalped body lay in its own blood. A scavenging animal scurried away from the lifeless form. She slid from her horse and was sick. On her back, Jean Claude jarred, bawled loud against the night sounds, but she could not think what to do. The child squalled on. She held herself with her arms and shook with nausea and horror. At last, she forced herself to mount again. She shivered in the muggy August night, but pressed on. Someone might yet live. Please let someone, be alive.

In front of the smoldering ruins of the tavern, she could find no sign of Sarah. “Oh, Sarah, why?” Her friend’s ruddy face glimmered in her memory. Christiane dismounted, forcing her mind to shut down. If she allowed herself to open up to this, she’d be lost. And be no use at all. The Mohawk had been thorough in their killing, stealing, burning. A night owl screeched overhead, spurring her to action. She couldn’t let the dead suffer further desecration.

With brands from various fires, she fed the embers, blowing on them to make the flames high, but not too high. Who knew how far away the Mohawk had gone? On this clear night, a bonfire could be seen for miles. She dragged the remaining bodies to one large fire. Most were unrecognizable and shadows hid faces. She choked back a persistent need to gag. Her shoulders ached and her empty stomach heaved.

As she pulled one of the last forms to the communal pyre, a young voice shrieked, “Stop! Don’t touch my ma!” Two small fists pounded the base Christiane’s bent spine. She turned to grasp them and discovered Anson, a boy of ten. She yanked him to her and gagged him with her hand. “Quiet. They might hear you.” The quivering child quieted in an instant. She groaned softly with relief. I’m not alone. Realizing the boy mistook her in buckskin, she made her voice cool and decisive. “I’m not an Indian, Anson.” She lifted her hand from his mouth. “I’m Mrs. Kruger, Jakob’s wife. You know me.”

The hysterical child collapsed against her, sobbing. To muffle this, she knelt and held him against her. Then his little brother, Phillip, came running from the trees to join them. She offered him a place in her embrace and he shyly clung to her. She did not urge Anson to be still, but kept him against her. His raw, unrestrained sobs shuddered through her, nearly unleashing her own. But now she had two more depending on her. At length, his sobs became small gasps. Anson stepped back and using his sleeves, rubbed his eyes and nose and stared at her, his shattered heart in his eyes.

“Where were you two hiding?” she asked in a calm tone, turning them away from the flames.

“We were…we were playing in the woods,” Anson answered, between intermittent gasps. “We hid.”

“That was very clever of you,” she said, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “I was picking raspberries. Why don’t you boys lead the mare down to the creek and let her get a drink of water?” Christiane’s dry throat also begged for water. But she must finish here and she wanted the boys away, so they would not have to witness their mother consumed by flame.

Though Anson’s eyes glanced one last time at his mother’s still form, he took his brother’s hand and led the mare away. Christiane turned back to her gruesome task in order to escape this haunted place. Yet danger would dog them. The Mohawk had taken no captives; that meant they could still be on the prowl–not heading home with plunder. She would have to be clever to elude them. Her mind scrambled to bring up everything about Indian raids she’d learned when with the Algonquin and from her first and second husbands. Pitiful bits of facts.

“I’m hungry,” Phillip’s little voice complained. She stood still for a moment planning. Then she led the horse, carrying the boys, to Jakob’s well where she filled the empty water skin she’d brought with her earlier. With brands from the ashes of the cabin, she started a fire over and around her stepson. Then she hurried the boys back to the berry patch. After the boys devoured fistfuls of the berries, she settled one of them in front and one behind her on Nancy’s back and with Jean Claude secure in the carrier on her back. They turned away from what had been their home. Exhausted, weeping inside, she tried to think of the direction to the nearest fort.

She reeked of sweat, smoke, and the odor of burning flesh. The combination was repulsive and launched an overwhelming desire to flee the frontier. She’d left Canada to escape the wilderness, but Rumsveld hadn’t been far enough for protection’s sake. She straightened her spine. I don’t want to be here or anywhere like here ever again. And the sooner the better.

#

A ragged sigh of relief, a bubble of hope escaped Christiane. After two frightening, hungry days passed, she saw, at last, the outline of a fort ahead. Behind her the sunset hung in long trails of magenta, purple, and blazing gold. She halted at the gates of the small rugged fort. From above, a grizzled man aimed a musket down at her. “Who are you? Where you from?”

“Mrs. Jakob Kruger. Rumsveld,” she croaked, her throat parched.

“A woman?”

“Yes, and I have children with me. Please let me in. We’ve had no food . . . .” Relief had weakened her. She lowered the two boys and slid from Nancy before she fell.

The gate swung open. Men rushed out. Her knees buckled and one of them caught her. “What happened at Rumsveld?”

“Water please,” she muttered, gagging on her swollen tongue.

Gourds of fresh water were offered them. The warm but fresh water dripped down her chin as she gulped it. The boys drank and then hovered around Christiane’s legs, preventing her from moving. From the gate, a crowd muttered and murmured around them.

A tall militia officer stepped forward; everyone else fell back. “Mrs. Kruger, I’m Captain James Rupert,” the young officer addressed her with a bow, “I would like to hear your account of the events at Rumsveld.” He offered her his arm.

Weak, Christiane clung to him, nudging the boys forward. In the captain’s office, venison stew was brought to them and Christiane recounted the bare facts of the raid at Rumsveld. As soon as the boys emptied their wooden bowls, they dozed off before the fire, lying against one another. Jean Claude nibbled from Christiane’s bowl, then nursed soundlessly and fell asleep. The light from a low fire on the hearth sent shadows, streaking and flickering against the rough log walls. Christiane felt sleep sneaking through her body bit by bit, stealing away sensation, focus.

“What are your plans, Madam?” the captain asked at length, his eyes on her, almost caressing her.

His unwelcome forwardness brought her back. “First I will have to find a home for the boys. Then I will join my husband with the Continental Army.”

“But, Madam,” he said, sounding startled, “that is hundreds of miles from here. And with the Mohawk and two armies abroad, you will hardly be safe.”

Christiane closed her eyes. “Safe?” she whispered. Where was safety? She’d felt secure in Rumsveld, but hadn’t been. A memory flowed through her senses, Jakob clasping her in his strong arms, pressing her close to his uncompromising chest. That was safety. The officer leaned closer, his warm breath fanned her face. Jolted, she staggered to her feet.

The captain rose also. “I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

Scrabbling to pull herself together, Christiane shook the boys awake and lifted Jean Claude onto one arm. The captain scowled at the children, ranged around her as a shield. “You’ll sleep in my quarters.”

“Your quarters?” she balked.

“I’ll sleep in my office.” He bowed, again the gallant.

She murmured her thanks and forced herself to let him guide her. She’d keep the boys with her in bed and make sure the door was barricaded. When Captain Rupert bid her goodnight, his hot gaze singed her. Fool.

#

A few days later, at the gate of the fort, Captain Rupert caught up with her—she astride Nancy with the children around her and him looking up. “Madam, where do you think you’re going?”

The proprietary tone in his voice nearly made her snap back at him. But instead, the smile she gave him was a false coin. “I’m spending the night with the Hastings.” Mrs. Hastings had treated Christiane with kindness, unlike the other women crowded into the fort. She’d given Christiane the neat homespun dress she wore today.

“The Hastings left the safety of this fort prematurely.” He had the gall to touch her leg. “I don’t like to see you exposed to danger.”

She moved Nancy forward, disengaging the man’s hand. And you keep thinking that you will wear me down and I’ll agree to stay here as your mistress. Overweening fool. She smiled again, another false coin. “You’re gracious to concern yourself about me, but it is unnecessary. Good evening, Captain.” And good riddance. With the eyes of the whole fort on them, what could he do, say to stop her?

Nancy carried them through the open gates and Christiane suppressed a shout of victory. The few miles to the Hastings cabin passed quickly. The boys sitting before her were silent. She’d already told them they would be staying with the Hastings and even though both the husband and wife had been kind, the boys were still fearful. That couldn’t be helped.

She had her own fears to contend with and her nightmares. She’d go to sleep exhausted and they would begin. A war-painted Mohawk brave would reach out and pull up her hair. Just as she watched him begin to slice the top of her scalp away from her skull, she would wake to her own screaming. Jean Claude would also be crying frantically, so she knew she had been screaming loud enough and long enough to be heard. She would be drenched in her own cold sweat and shivering.

Other times she would merely awaken, expecting to be in Old Sarah’s bed at the tavern. She would reach over to touch her friend to stir her and the bed beside her would be empty except for her son. Then the loneliness, grief and loss pierced her like the sharpest needle. Perhaps these would end when she was far from the wilderness.

The sun was low, casting the corn fields in an amber glow. She rode up to the Hastings’ cabin and slid from Nancy’s back.

As if on cue, Mr. Hastings bustled out of the small thatched barn and relieved her of the reins. “Why don’t you boys come help me with the milking?”

His chin down, Anson nodded. Mr. Hastings led them away.

Christiane turned and found Mrs. Hastings, plump and about ten years older than Christiane, in the doorway of their cabin, welcoming her inside. “Supper’s ready and waiting for Kyle to finish the milking,” the woman said. Inside, Jean Claude yelled at his being restrained and Christiane took off the carrier and let him down to crawl.

Mrs. Hastings grinned at him and then motioned to Christiane. “Come here I have some things that you may be able to make use of.”

“You’ve already been so kind—”

Mrs. Hastings tutted her to silence. Atop a large trunk, the woman had laid out some baby dresses, diapers, knitted sweaters, caps and booties. Also a worn quilt and knife. “I hope you will be able to use these. It’s hard to think of winter already, but you’ll be needing these things for your little one and this quilt is so old, it’s nearly ready to go to the barn to cover the cow in winter. My John said you’d need a knife. He sharpened it fresh for you.”

The couple’s generosity clogged Christiane’s throat. Until she reunited with Jakob, she was again a penniless wanderer. “Thank you,” she whispered, shame at needing charity burning her cheeks.

The woman put an arm around her. “You’ve given us so much more. Two sons.”

“You and your good husband were the only ones who looked at Anson and Phillip as sons, not just two more pairs of hands to work.”

Mrs. Hastings rubbed her neck and looked away. “We buried three sons, all gone before they reached a year old. And then I fell barren. You know we’ll treat them like our own blood. It’s good to have sons to pass the land on to.”

Unable to imagine the toll of losing three sons, Christiane embraced the woman. After a plain tasty supper, she spent the night on a pallet by their fire.

The next morning at dawn before the boys awoke, Christiane and Jean Claude waved farewell to the Hastings and headed away before Captain Rupert would know of their flight.

From Rupert’s scout, Christiane knew that she only needed to head due east till she reached the Hudson River and then to follow it south to New York City. Even the thought of the journey that lay ahead of her did not daunt her high spirits. Jakob was waiting for her. All would be well when she was in his arms again.

Do you think she’s right? Don’t miss the rest of Chapter Three, posted on Wednesday and Friday this week!–Lyn