PLUS
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE THIRTY-FOUR SOLDIERS, men, women, and children were buried in a common grave in the cemetery, which had been moved inside the fort's walls. Reverend Dunlap, whose wife had been slaughtered before his eyes, stammered through the ceremony.
Ruth had started to say something that morning about how terrible it was, Brian being buried out of the Church. Diana almost destroyed her with a look, but relented just in time. Ruth was nearly mindless with grief over her murdered nephew.
As for Diana, she had locked the horror away in the same strongbox she kept her emotions about Emmett in. Dead was dead. She had to think that way or it would be too easy to give up on the living: the child inside her. Farrell. Three other Shannons. And herself.
Ruth had started to say something that morning about how terrible it was, Brian being buried out of the Church. Diana almost destroyed her with a look, but relented just in time. Ruth was nearly mindless with grief over her murdered nephew.
As for Diana, she had locked the horror away in the same strongbox she kept her emotions about Emmett in. Dead was dead. She had to think that way or it would be too easy to give up on the living: the child inside her. Farrell. Three other Shannons. And herself.
Ruth turned from the grave, away from the hollow thuds, as the soldiers started filling it in. "Damn this," she hissed. "Damn Cherry Valley. Damn this wilderness. Let the red bastards have it." She spoke for most of the settlers.
That night, at a town meeting in the blockhouse, there was almost complete agreement. Cherry Valley was to be abandoned. The army would escort the settlers back to Canajoharie. Only a handful of people thought otherwise.
They were the stubborn; the poor with nowhere else to go; those whose relatives would be hard-pressed to take in a church mouse; or those who still had faith in the army. The Sixth Massachusetts had been ordered to remain in the valley and garrison the fort—now named after the late and rather unlamented Colonel Alden—and Diana Shannon.
They were the stubborn; the poor with nowhere else to go; those whose relatives would be hard-pressed to take in a church mouse; or those who still had faith in the army. The Sixth Massachusetts had been ordered to remain in the valley and garrison the fort—now named after the late and rather unlamented Colonel Alden—and Diana Shannon.
She'd talked to Ruth earlier. If they fled, they would be without land. A landless man—or worse, a woman—had no rights in this country. But we would have our lives, Ruth said. But if we leave, where can we go? Diana asked. Anywhere but here, Ruth retorted. Where's anywhere? There's nothing in Canajoharie for us. Albany? There's no work to be had. You've got money, Ruth said.
Not that much, Diana said. "Rent for a house for a few months. Food for the winter. We won't be able to carry any of the winter supplies with us. The Indians got the horses and cattle."
"What about your merchant friend?"
"My merchant friend—Emmett's friend—was closing his house. He planned to find new pastures. He told me he couldn't take Albany and the grab-fisted burghers any longer."
"What's wrong with returning to Boston?"
"Boston . . . any city . . . takes money."
"We can make it. There's no damned redmen there."
"No. But there is the workhouse." Ruth flinched. "Think, Ruth. As I said, if we run now, we will run with nothing."
"What's going to change a month from now to make us rich? Or when a year has gone?"
"We have seed. We can plant Mr. Bishop's land. There are still draft animals out there in the forest. Sooner or later they will come back to where their barns were."
There was no arguing with Ruth. Only fear of the work house—which had worn her mother down until she was an easy target for the sickness that killed her—tempered her views. "The Indians . . . they won't come back?"
"Not until spring at the earliest. And even then . . . who will be here for them to murder and rape? They won't attack the fort again."
"Until spring, then," Ruth finally said.
* * * *
Robert M'Kean also thought Diana was insane. He had little faith the soldiers were any better protection than they'd been before the massacre. She should take her entire clan and return to her parents' inn back in Easton. Diana was forced to admit she had no wealthy innkeeper parents. There was no one at all for her to turn to. If the tragedy weren't hanging close around them, M'Kean would have found the way Diana had foxed the Committee of Public Safety amusing.
He himself knew his only use to these landowners was as a soldier. When the Indians were gone… Cherry Valley would find him a nuisance. "I have nowhere I could put you for safety, Mrs. Shannon. Would that there was. What home I have is the army. But . . . when the war is over . . . I'll be back. I'll be needing someone beside me then. Someone named Diana Shannon."
He himself knew his only use to these landowners was as a soldier. When the Indians were gone… Cherry Valley would find him a nuisance. "I have nowhere I could put you for safety, Mrs. Shannon. Would that there was. What home I have is the army. But . . . when the war is over . . . I'll be back. I'll be needing someone beside me then. Someone named Diana Shannon."
He grabbed her and kissed her soundly. It was easier to kiss him back, watch the newly promoted major mount his horse and ride off.
* * * *
Now there were many things to do. Winter was closing in and Diana worked at a frantic pace. It had always been her way of dealing with crisis. Work until your body is numb. Think only about what's at hand. You don't have the luxury to mourn Emmett or Brian. There was much to be done. She armed Samuel with the rifle and put him to combing the woods with Mary. They rounded up six horses and a dozen cattle missed by the raiders.
Six horses . . . and Horse. Somehow he had wandered into the heart of a thicket sometime during the confusion, and evidently not been able to find his way out. Mary found him after hearing what sounded a great deal like a fart coming from thick brush. The animal was still dull-witted Horse. A little thinner and a lot shabbier, otherwise unaffected by Indians, snow, or being starved for some days.
And he expressed no visible affection or gratitude for being rescued, although Diana thought she saw his eyes widen when Mary unsacked oats for him back at the farm. Even though he was as useless a creature as could be imagined, Diana was very glad the animal hadn't ended up as some Indian's dinner cut or just lost in the wilderness. Horse . . . the musket ball hung around her neck . . . and the child about to be born . . . was that all the memories she would have? Diana stopped thinking of Emmett and fiercely told herself yet again there was no time for this.
And he expressed no visible affection or gratitude for being rescued, although Diana thought she saw his eyes widen when Mary unsacked oats for him back at the farm. Even though he was as useless a creature as could be imagined, Diana was very glad the animal hadn't ended up as some Indian's dinner cut or just lost in the wilderness. Horse . . . the musket ball hung around her neck . . . and the child about to be born . . . was that all the memories she would have? Diana stopped thinking of Emmett and fiercely told herself yet again there was no time for this.
Now she and Ruth started looting their ex-neighbors' property. Almost anything was or would be of value: a plough, furniture not too charred to be usable, cooking and eating utensils. Ruth wondered why they took as many plates and flatware as they did; they had enough settings for an inn, she said. Exactly, Diana thought.
There were other treasures: books. Emmett already had a good library—five volumes, including the still-to-be-kept-hidden, badly tattered Garden of the Soul that had belonged to his mother and been brought to Cherry Valley by Ruth. Shattered by the massacre, Reverend Dunlap had abandoned most of the books from his prewar academy. Although stained by mud and water, they were a rich find.
Too many of them were in Greek or Latin—languages neither Ruth nor Diana could read. They could not find a grammar that might make the books teachable. But the books were saved. The oddest find was a Douay Bible. Diana wondered what a Protestant minister, even one from Ireland, was doing with the Book of Papist Heresies. She was sorry she had not gotten the chance to know Reverend Dunlap more completely.
Too many of them were in Greek or Latin—languages neither Ruth nor Diana could read. They could not find a grammar that might make the books teachable. But the books were saved. The oddest find was a Douay Bible. Diana wondered what a Protestant minister, even one from Ireland, was doing with the Book of Papist Heresies. She was sorry she had not gotten the chance to know Reverend Dunlap more completely.
There were classics in translation, though, as well as Shakespeare. These could be useful. One book Diana decided could be done without: A TOKEN FOR CHILDREN, Being An Exact Account of the Conversion, Holy and Exemplary Lives and Joyful Deaths of Several Young Children. Death was something they could do without for a while. As well as the book's Puritan cant. Farrell was insisting Brian's death was his fault. There was no comforting him. The boy was eating little, and spending hours in the loft, staring at Brian's side of the bed.
In another burnt house they found two hornbooks and The New England Primer Improved. A religious alphabet book: "In ADAM'S Fall/We finned all . . . Heaven to find/ The BIBLE mind" all the way to, "While Youth do chear, DEATH may be near . . . ZACCEUS he,/Did climb the Tree,/Our Lord to fee." Still gloomy . . . but Farrell and the soon-to-be-born child would need to be educated.
Ruth didn't realize from the book gathering that Diana had no intention of leaving come spring. The next stage of Diana's plan would have to wait. December's storms slammed down on the valley. No one went out except for necessities and to milk and fodder the livestock. And Diana's time was drawing near.
* * * *
Months ago, in Albany, Diana had planned that her first Christmas in Cherry Valley would be a special one. Back in New Kent, Christmas had been a time of snarling fights, drunkenness and greed for the Hatches, days she dreaded even if Gramer Fahey tried to make the season as loving as she could. Now Brian was dead. Farrell behaved like a wooden windup toy.
Ruth and her children went about like whipped dogs, looking over their shoulders for the next beating. The few people remaining in Cherry Valley kept to themselves. The army wasn't eager to get more than pistol-shot away from the fort. When Diana encountered a roving patrol from time to time, she thought them even more terrified of this desolate valley than Ruth.
At night there was little conversation between supper and the time the candles were blown out. Except for the howling of the storms outside, silence reigned. The crack of a pine knot made everyone jump.
Ruth and her children went about like whipped dogs, looking over their shoulders for the next beating. The few people remaining in Cherry Valley kept to themselves. The army wasn't eager to get more than pistol-shot away from the fort. When Diana encountered a roving patrol from time to time, she thought them even more terrified of this desolate valley than Ruth.
At night there was little conversation between supper and the time the candles were blown out. Except for the howling of the storms outside, silence reigned. The crack of a pine knot made everyone jump.
Diana took to reading aloud. The Bible, Pilgrim's Progress. She struggled through Shakespeare, and found the sonnets far easier to cope with. No one seemed to be able to keep much in his or her mind for very long. This could not continue. She determined they were going to have a real Christmas. Even if it was only for the Shannons, there would be a feast as if the Indians had never come.
* * * *
Farrell heard Diana crying and stopped in his tracks. He was not sure what to do. Hours before, it seemed, she had gone out to the shed for some eggs. She had told him she was going to make him olykoeks. They had hog fat for the frying. This would be special, she said, and waited for a response. Farrell, raised properly, had said thanks. No more. Diana sighed, patted his cheek, pulled on a coat and went for the eggs.
After he thought she had been gone too long, Farrell went looking. He had to force himself. He knew what you found when someone didn't come back by himself. And then he heard the sobs. He covered his eyes with his hands. This would be . . . this would be something awful again. Like . . . like . . .
He turned to run back for the house and Ruth. No. This was his mother. The snow came only to mid-calf, but he had to force himself to walk forward as if it were chest deep as he waded down the hill toward her.
He turned to run back for the house and Ruth. No. This was his mother. The snow came only to mid-calf, but he had to force himself to walk forward as if it were chest deep as he waded down the hill toward her.
Diana was crouched in the snow, not heeding the cold. She was beside Horse. He was lying near some boulders, as if he had curled in a summer pasture, and the blowflies were not annoying him. They would never disturb him again. Horse was quite dead.
Diana heard Farrell's footsteps. She stood up, forced a smile, scrubbed at her eyes as he walked solemnly up beside her. It was no use. She started crying again. Farrell looked away. She was not the one who was supposed to cry. Not ever.
"Sorry," Diana said. "Dumb animal. It was just that . . . we bought him . . . bought him with counterfeit, and . . ." She snuffled, took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes.
"Was it Indians?" Farrell asked.
"No. I don't think so, anyway. He was . . . pretty old. I guess, I guess he just . . . just died."
"Oh . . . Why," Farrell asked carefully after a long silence, "why does anything have to die?" She started to answer him, then was silent. Farrell thought he'd said something wrong. He looked up at her. Diana was crying again. Quietly, but uncontrollably. Farrell took her hand. After a time he began weeping, too.
* * * *
The next day, Diana began teaching Farrell. Each day she took a small, smoothed oak plank and charcoal. "Farrell, today is the eleventh day before Christmas." She wrote the number 11 on the board. "Tomorrow will be the tenth day. Yesterday was . . . ?"
Farrell made only two mistakes before he began getting the numbers right. He is a bright one, Diana thought. He took to his sums as if he were born with a facility for them, gobbling up anything put before him on the subject.
* * * *
Three days before Christmas they had visitors. Samuel was the first to see them. A bright sun shone across the drifted snow. Samuel was supposedly trying to find a wild brood sow he knew had farrowed somewhere near the Hortons' place. In truth, it was an excuse to get out. He'd rather chance Indians than be cooped up inside any longer. Besides, he was carrying his Uncle Emmett's rifle—a weapon almost as big as he was.
Actually, he first heard them. It sounded like singing. Samuel crept to the edge of the bluff and peered down at the rutted, snow-covered road leading out of Cherry Valley. There were three men and a sled. Two men pulled the sled. They were blacks—young, possibly in their twenties. They wore ragged farmers' breeches and shabby hats. But they also wore, like the man in the sled, heavy, hooded, expensive blanket coats that might have been clean months and miles ago. The white man in the sled looked to be in his forties. Weather-beaten. All Samuel could see of his clothing was a large tricorner hat and high drover boots under the coat. In front of him, resting on one of the sacks that made up the rest of the sled's cargo, were two primed pistols and a curved long sword that, to Samuel, looked like what he'd read pirates carried.
What in the holy name of Jesus was this trio doing? Who were the black men? Slaves? Criminals? Renegades? Tories? And who was their guard? He puzzled even more when the white man dug a watch from under his coat, consulted it, thumped the sled's rail with the scabbarded sword and shouted: "Four bells of the dog watch! Turn out the watch below."
The two blacks gratefully dropped the rope traces. The white man jumped out of the sleigh. He picked up a canteen, uncorked it, and took a drink. Passed the canteen to the blacks, who also swallowed. Then one black clambered back into the sleigh, behind the weaponry, and the white man and the other black picked up the ropes and set off once more. Samuel realized from the zigzag track of the sled's runners that all three men were a little drunk. He checked the priming of his rifle, cocked it, and stepped out of the brush.
"Good morrow, sirs." All three men jumped. The man in the sled grabbed a pistol and the sword, then dropped the pistol in the snow and scrabbled for it. Samuel lifted his rifle—and all three of the men below became statues. "We mean no harm." From the white man.
"Where are you going?"
"Cherry Valley. But mayhap we lost our track. Navigatin' on land's a rough cob."
"May I ask your business, sirs?" Samuel had been raised as a polite young man.
"We're lookin' for the Widow Shannon's farm. If it's still manned."
Samuel blinked. "We are still there."
Now it was the white man's turn to blink. He recovered. And smiled hopefully. "Grand. Grand, indeed. Is there a Ruth Conners still living there? She, uh, might be calling herself Shannon?" Samuel took another chance— none of the three looked very threatening. He slid down the bluff to the road.
"She is, sir. Do you know her?"
Instead, another question: "Might I ask who you are?"
"I'm her son, Samuel."
The man beamed in pure joy. Then burst into tears. One of the black men patted him comfortingly. Samuel picked up the forgotten pistol from the snow and handed it to the other black. The man recovered somewhat, started to blurt, then stopped. A drunken, crafty look crept into his eyes. "Would you be willing to guide us to the farm, son?"
Samuel thought about it. Would Diana think he was being foolish? The blazes with what she'd think or do—any man who started crying with no cause was harmless. A bedlamite probably, but a harmless one. He pointed. "Follow that trail. It's about a mile." Keeping some caution, he fell in behind the sled, the rifle at half cock. He wondered why the man's voice was familiar.
* * * *
He found out quickly enough. Ruth, Diana, Mary, and Farrell boiled out the door. Diana, Samuel noted, kept one hand close to her side. Under her apron was the pistol. Ruth took one look at the white man and turned the shade of Diana's apron. The man grinned shamefacedly and began to speak. Before he could, Ruth took two steps toward him. "You bastard!" She slapped him as hard as she could. Then she burst into tears and fell against the man's chest. He put his arms around her. Ruth lifted her head.
"This . . . this is your father," she managed. Mary gaped, and started crying, too. Samuel's eyes were misty. He rubbed a sleeve across them. Farrell, seeing that tears were the order of the day, began bawling as well. Diana tried to think of something to say. The two black men were looking uncomfortable and touched.
"Inside," she finally managed. "The Prodigal Son looks to be needing a rum punch." Although she felt she herself would shortly be needing the solace of alcohol more than any of the others. Once again her plans seemed to be unraveling.
* * * *
As the Shannons trooped inside, one of the blacks tentatively smiled. "Could we take shelter, lady, in your barn?"
Diana was perplexed. Then she realized what he was getting at. "I asked everyone inside," she said firmly. "No one shelters in my barn unless the house has burnt." Two very broad smiles, and the men started for the house. "My name is Diana Shannon."
The two men also introduced themselves. They were brothers: Moses and Aaron. "Your surname?"
"We have not decided."
Diana knew what that meant. The two blacks were runaway slaves. Slaves who had been given—or rather, forced to take—the last name of their owner. The situation was becoming more and more peculiar.
* * * *
The three travelers poured down the rum/sugar/boiling water/nutmeg punch. Isaac Conners tentatively asked if there might be another such fine animal about. By that time Ruth had recovered enough to get angry again. Mary was still leaking tears. Samuel had no idea what to think or do. "It has been eight . . . no, more . . . years, Isaac," began Ruth ominously.
"Will you hear me out before you break my heart and tell me to leave?"
Ruth simmered a moment, and grudged a nod.
Isaac began his story. He had not abandoned her. Isaac maintained that he had been hopelessly stranded on foreign shores for all these years. That privateer he'd originally signed on had been wrecked off the coast of South America, "before we ever sighted a prize." The handful of sailors that survived struggled ashore to face savages. Samuel's jaw was on his breastbone. His father had been a pirate! Captured by headhunters!
Farrell had just realized that now he was the only child in the house without a father. His face started to twist. Isaac noticed. "Here lad. I'm not speakin' loudly enough." He hoisted Farrell onto his lap. The boy forgot about crying.
The sailors had been guided to a port by the savages, who turned out to be friendly. Eventually, Isaac found a small smack headed south. Then another. This one, too, sailing south. Then he was ashore, in a larger port. But not large enough for American or European ships to ever call at. "I lived on the kindness of the natives. And worked in a boatyard. Buildin' what they called a . . ." Isaac gargled a word no one else in the room thought could roll off the human tongue. "... which is like what we used to see on the Charles, Ruth, my love. 'Ceptin' with twin masts. I learned a trade there. And a likin' for their food, and even learnin' their heathen language." Ruth was angry again. She didn't want to hear what was rapidly turning into a taproom sea story. Conners cut it short.
"Finally I was able to find my way to Rio. It took near a year for me to find a coaster headin' for America. Landed near the mouth of the Delaware. Hopin' against hope, Ruth darlin', that you were well and happy. But I was without a half-disme. I could not return to Boston after all the brave words I left with.
"There was another privateer signin' on. Looking to take prizes just off the coast. And we took 'em. Near half a dozen in as many weeks. Ruth, I said I was going to come home rich. And…" He took a leather bag from his coat and dropped it on the table. It had a solvent clink to it.
Ruth remained unmollified.
"I made my way ashore and afoot to Boston. I was told you'd gone to join your brother near Albany. I got what provisions I could and started north. I"—he cleared his throat—"umm, encountered these two friends on the road, and we agreed to travel together for safety.
"In Albany my friends were, umm, forced to change their plans, and agreed that instead of continuing north, they would allow me the pleasure of their company. And here, by God's grace, I am. I do not expect you, Ruth, to allow me to return as your husband. But I ask I at least be allowed to guide you—all of you—to a place of safety." Ruth melted.
"In Albany my friends were, umm, forced to change their plans, and agreed that instead of continuing north, they would allow me the pleasure of their company. And here, by God's grace, I am. I do not expect you, Ruth, to allow me to return as your husband. But I ask I at least be allowed to guide you—all of you—to a place of safety." Ruth melted.
"All of us, Mr. Conners?" Diana asked.
"So I said. So I meant. And help you find lodgings and victuals with a bit of the money I took a-privateerin'." Isaac might be every bit the self-doomed dreamer she'd gathered from Emmett and Ruth's descriptions—but he also appeared to be a good man. Diana understood better why Ruth had fallen in love with him. Then Isaac frowned. Diana's advanced pregnancy had registered for the first time.
"My apologies, Mrs. Shannon. Sometimes I'm thick about seeing what's in front of me. Without bein' indelicate, might I ask ..." and he gestured. "Soon, I pray."
"Then ... if we could sleep in the bam . . . I'm sure we might be of assistance. Strong backs and weak minds and that." He glanced pointedly up at the sagging roof beams. "When you're fit to travel—I warrant the weather shall be better then, as well—we could be on the road."
Samuel and Mary were waiting for their mother's reaction. But Ruth was avoiding everyone's gaze—especially Diana's. Diana considered. A lot of assumptions were being made, up to and including whether she was for rescue, or planning to go anywhere at all. She turned to the blacks. "Does he speak for you?"
"Perhaps, lady," the younger man said, "we should keep traveling."
"Let me be open. I was once indentured. Not that different from you. I hold no man has a right to hold anyone else in bondage. I ran away. No one else in this valley knows this. I do not wish it to be spoken around. Where did you run from?"
"Outside Boston. Near Brainard."
"You were going to Canada?"
"Canada. Or the redcoat army. Whichever came first." Samuel glared. How could they admit to wanting to be Tories? "They say the British set a man free if he serves with them."
"I've heard," Diana said, "that when we win this war, slavery will be made illegal."
"We heard the same. But suppose it is not? Or suppose we . . ." Diana hid a smile at Moses's slip. ". . . don't win? We met Isaac, pardon, Mister Conners, along the Hudson. He told us he'd served with sailors in every color but green, and didn't give a . . . care about things like that. We determined to travel together. He can vote for us, lady. We're strong workers. Don't eat that much. Won't be a bother."
Diana, unconsciously, touched the pouch hung around her neck. "We'll have to think and talk about that. But . . . would the three of you be our guests for Christmas?"
Isaac smiled slowly. "I'd hoped ... to be with the ones I love for the birthday of the Christ child. Not to mention bein' glad to have a roof over my head and a fire at my feet." He smiled at his family. "And it'll be the best one I've had for more years than are worth re-memberin'."
Diana Shannon could not ever remember a good Christmas. . . .
* * * *
Diana carefully charcoaled the menu on Farrell's plank:
Haunch of Venison… Roast Chine of Pork
Roast Turkey Passenger Pigeon Pastries Roast Goose
Onions in Cream Winter Squash
Potatoes
Mincemeat Pie
Pumpkin Pie Apple Pie
Indian Pudding
Plum Pudding
Oranges
Raisins
Cider
Rum
The deer had been ambushed by Samuel. He'd decided to teach his father how to be a Wilderness Ranger—like his late uncle Emmett. Isaac said he was a man of the city or the sea—he could catch a fish, but deer were out of his province. In Boston, where he grew up, only rich people hunted. Samuel had laughed. "Huntin' is what you do for fun when you ain't worried about the table,"
Samuel whispered. "We're cuttin' harvest . . . Father. We're sittin' here wantin' a deer for Christmas. That's why we come out before dawn. Deer'll come down there to that spring to drink. They'll be thin. Not the best eatin'. You get them in spring. What we want is a barren doe. Best we can do."
Samuel whispered. "We're cuttin' harvest . . . Father. We're sittin' here wantin' a deer for Christmas. That's why we come out before dawn. Deer'll come down there to that spring to drink. They'll be thin. Not the best eatin'. You get them in spring. What we want is a barren doe. Best we can do."
Isaac, fascinated, whispered, "How do you know they'll be at this spring?"
"Last fall I stole me a salt lick from Mister Campbell. Wired it to a tree down there. They'll come." Six deer ghosted through the dawn mists. Samuel aimed and triggered the rifle. The ball smashed the deer's shoulders. The animal staggered a few steps and fell. "That's that," Samuel said. He took his mother's butcher knife from his belt. "Now I'll show you how to dress the animal. Not much different than cattle."
He dealt similarly with the turkeys—except Samuel wasted no powder. That spring, he'd found a glade that wild turkeys frequented. He'd baited the ground with corn mast all that summer. Now he was ready to reap his harvest. He strung out a narrow meshed twine net on twigs about a foot above the ground.
The turkeys clucked their way into the clearing and pecked their way under the net. When they were correctly positioned, Samuel shouted. The turkeys jerked their heads up, through the holes in the net, and well and truly trapped themselves. Samuel staggered back lugging three gutted, plucked, twelve-pound turkeys.
The turkeys clucked their way into the clearing and pecked their way under the net. When they were correctly positioned, Samuel shouted. The turkeys jerked their heads up, through the holes in the net, and well and truly trapped themselves. Samuel staggered back lugging three gutted, plucked, twelve-pound turkeys.
The pigeons had been trapped in September. Tree limbs had been limed, awaiting the annual passage of the sky-darkening flocks. They roosted on the limbs, stuck there, and had their necks twisted. Then they were gutted, plucked, and salted down in barrels. Passenger pigeons were one of the few guaranteed meat sources the settlers had every year.
The pork and geese came from the Shannons' own domestic supplies, as did the vegetables, mincemeat, cider, and fruit. Isaac still had two jugs of rum left, which he contributed. He also decided he would make the pie crusts. Diana was glad, and hopeful he knew what he was doing. She hated baking. Ruth loved it—but fretted too much at it.
The pork and geese came from the Shannons' own domestic supplies, as did the vegetables, mincemeat, cider, and fruit. Isaac still had two jugs of rum left, which he contributed. He also decided he would make the pie crusts. Diana was glad, and hopeful he knew what he was doing. She hated baking. Ruth loved it—but fretted too much at it.
Isaac also provided raisins—from the Indies. Diana had tasted them but once. He said they cost him naught. A shipmate he'd run into in Boston owed him a gift. Diana did not ask particulars. He also brought a grand present: a sack of oranges.
Diana had never seen an orange, nor had any of the other Shannons except Ruth. Aaron and Moses had seen one, once. It had been a present to their owner. About half of the sack had gone bad. Those with soft spots were discarded. But those that had dried were studded with cloves— another marvel from Isaac's pack—and handed around. "Keep these with your clothes," Isaac instructed. "Better sachet than lavender."
They ate until they could not move. Then ate more. Late in the afternoon, Diana brought presents out. She didn't know what the Christmas custom was in Cherry Valley nor with the Shannons, nor did she care. If she was part of this family, she wanted to show her gratitude. Ruth got the lace Diana had been making on the journey from New Kent—and was stunned. Only the rich owned a piece of lace, let alone a lace shawl. She cried, babbled, then sat smiling happily, holding the shawl to her cheek and occasionally sniffling.
Mary was given a sewing kit: needles, pins—all terribly expensive on the frontier—even a palm and porcelain thimble. Diana promised to show her how to use them. Samuel got a tiny compass—a blunt-ended, magnetized iron needle, floating on a bed of oil and cased in varnished hardwood.
The compass had belonged to Mister van Ruysdael, who'd picked it up on his travels. Diana had offered to purchase it from him. The Dutchman had thought a moment, then had laughed and given it to her. He knew where he was going—a large city—and certainly would never find any desire to navigate the wilderness again. Isaac, Moses, and Aaron got presents—mittens that Diana had hastily and secretly knitted after their arrival.
Farrell received two gifts. One was a spinning, whistling top. The other Diana explained. It was paper, a quill pen, and ink. "This was meant for Brian," she said. "But he would have wanted you to have it. Use it well." She felt a pompous ass saying that.
The compass had belonged to Mister van Ruysdael, who'd picked it up on his travels. Diana had offered to purchase it from him. The Dutchman had thought a moment, then had laughed and given it to her. He knew where he was going—a large city—and certainly would never find any desire to navigate the wilderness again. Isaac, Moses, and Aaron got presents—mittens that Diana had hastily and secretly knitted after their arrival.
Farrell received two gifts. One was a spinning, whistling top. The other Diana explained. It was paper, a quill pen, and ink. "This was meant for Brian," she said. "But he would have wanted you to have it. Use it well." She felt a pompous ass saying that.
But a few minutes later Farrell, after scribbling, announced there were only six days until New Year's, and would he get more presents then?
Christmas was food, cider, rum, the crackle of a warm fire, and the quiet drift of snow outside. Late that night, Diana heard the door latch lift. She half woke, pistol in her hand. It was Isaac slipping softly into his wife's bed. She settled back to try to sleep—aching for Emmett.
NEXT: A New Life In The Wilderness
*****
S.O.S. ALLAN'S NEW NOVEL
Between February and May of 1942, German U-boats operated with impunity off the Florida coast, sinking scores of freighters from Cape Canaveral to Key West and killing nearly five thousand people. Residents were horrified witnesses of the attacks—the night skies were aflame and in the morning the beaches were covered with oil and tar, ship parts and charred corpses. The Germans even landed teams of saboteurs charged with disrupting war efforts in the factories of the North. This novel is based on those events. For my own purposes, I set the tale in the fictitious town of Juno Beach on the banks of the equally fictitious Seminole River—all in the very real Palm Beach County, a veritable wilderness in those long ago days. Among the witnesses were my grandfather and grandmother, who operated an orchard and ranch in the area.
*****
A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY
The year is 1778 and the Revolutionary War has young America trapped in the crossfire of hatred and fear. Diana, an indentured servant, escapes her abusive master with the help of Emmett Shannon, a deserter from the desperate army at Valley Forge. They fall in love and marry, but their happiness is shattered and Diana Shannon must learn to survive on her own. From that moment on she will become a true woman of her times, blazing a path from lawless lands in the grips of the Revolution, to plague-stricken Philadelphia, to the burning of Washington in the War Of 1812.
*****
TWO NEW AUDIOBOOKS ONLY $4.95!
Tales Sometimes Tall, but always true, of Allan Cole's years in Hollywood with his late partner, Chris Bunch. How a naked lady almost became our first agent. How we survived La-La Land with only the loss of half our brain cells. How Bunch & Cole became the ultimate Fix-It
Boys. How an alleged Mafia Don was very, very good to us. The guy who cornered the market on movie rocks. Andy Warhol's Fire Extinguisher. The Real Stars Of Hollywood. Why they don't make million dollar movies. See The Seven Pi$$ing Dwarfs. Learn: how to kill a "difficult" actor… And much, much more.
THE TIMURA TRILOGY: When The Gods Slept, Wolves Of The Gods and The Gods Awaken. This best selling fantasy series now available as trade paperbacks, e-books (in all varieties) and as audiobooks. Visit The Timura Trilogy page for links to all the editions.
NEWLY REVISED KINDLE EDITIONS OF THE TIMURA TRILOGY NOW AVAILABLE. (1) When The Gods Slept;(2) Wolves Of The Gods; (3) The Gods Awaken.
*****
A NATION AT WAR WITH ITSELF: In Book Three Of The Shannon Trilogy, young Patrick Shannon is the heir-apparent to the Shannon fortune, but murder and betrayal at a family gathering send him fleeing into the American frontier, with only the last words of a wise old woman to arm him against what would come. And when the outbreak of the Civil War comes he finds himself fighting on the opposite side of those he loves the most. In The Wars Of The Shannons we see the conflict, both on the battlefield and the homefront, through the eyes of Patrick and the members of his extended Irish-American family as they struggle to survive the conflict that ripped the new nation apart, and yet, offered a dim beacon of hope.
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm- ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
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