~ From The Heart ~

by

Renee Hultin

In late July, 1729, the last of the sun’s rays showered an orange glow over the hilly land and the ten cabins that occupied it. Twenty yards west from a steep wooded ridge, sat the first cabin, a new bedroom built on the cabin’s rear that faced the ridge. Seventy paces south stood a shed that sheltered a cow and a young chestnut mare. Tucked inside the cabin, a family of five sat at a rough-hewn table, the area scented with burning wood and remains of roast duck, carrots, and wild raspberry tarts.

“Chelsea dear,” said her mama, Elene. “It’s your turn to read the scriptures tonight.”

Spry and intelligent, a girl of sixteen with cinnamon hair and turquoise eyes, stood. A gold cross necklace hung about her neck, sparkling in the fire’s flickering light. The necklace, a special gift from her Grandmamma Walker in London, England, had arrived today. Chelsea knew of London yet held no memory of the place even though she had lived just outside the city until she was three years of age.

She lifted the Bible from the candle lit table and began. “We have thought on thy loving kindness, O God, in the midst of thy temple.” She glanced at her papa, sitting opposite her, brushing a fox pelt, one of seventeen skins he had acquired during his last trapping expedition up in the Canadian region. Seeing his attentive expression, she continued. “As is thy name, O God, so is thy praise to the ends of the earth; thy right hand is full of righteousness.”

Pleased with her reading, Chelsea smiled. Her gaze went to her shy, younger sister, Dawn, who had mispronounced several words during her reading the night before. Chelsea dismissed Dawn with narrowed eyes and wrinkled nose. She considered sticking out her tongue as well, but instead, placed the book back on the table.

Anson slightly frowned. “Chelsea,” he said in a firm tone. “How do you expect to turn into a well-mannered young woman if you continue to behave like a child?”

“Papa’s quite right,” said Elene. “You are the eldest and your two sisters’ example. Remember that.”

Shamed, Chelsea lowered her head. “Yes, ma’am.” She glanced guiltily about and sat in her seat.

“Papa, how many pelts do we have now?” asked Dawn, almost as tall as her older sister. She had blond hair and pale blue eyes, like her mama.

“We have thirty pelts. I plan on selling them at the Albany trading post come September. I hope to have enough to purchase a stud for the mare. I want to start a breeding farm. We have the land, now all we need are the horses.” He looked at Elene and together they shared a smile.

“Time for bed.” Elene stood and picked up the Bible. “Chelsea, do remember to take off your necklace before you get in bed. The last thing I want is to have it end up broken.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Bed,” whined Elizabeth. “But I’m not a bit tired.” A gangly nine year old with auburn braids and hazel eyes, she behaved more like her papa, and insisted on being called Beth.

“Tomorrow is going to be a long day with chores and the baking to do.” Bible in hand, Elene went to the maple mantel, the edge of her skirts swishing across the plank floor, and set the book in its usual place.

“Papa, sing us a hymn,” Dawn pleaded.

A twinkle formed in his brown eyes. Elene took her seat next to Beth. “Which one did you have in mind?”

“I want ‘Praise Ye The Lord The Almighty’. It’s my favorite.”

“Then your favorite it is.” After Anson set the pelt aside, he stood and began to sing, his tenor voice loud and clear.

Beth slid into her mama’s lap and settled against her soft chest. She closed her eyes soothed by his every note. Before Anson finished the chorus, Beth sat up, eyes popping open, a queer look on her face.

“What are those strange noises?”

Chelsea sat up straight. She could hear them, too. By now Anson had stopped singing. Everyone remained silent and listened.

Chelsea angled her head toward the window. The sky was dark now. She could see the glow of the full moon shining through the glass. “Sounds like men... yelling.”

The yells quickly turned into shrills and got louder and closer.

“Good God, Indians! We’re under attack!” Anson rushed into the bedroom. Elene and the girls sprang from their seats and raced to the window. What they saw was a long line of human silhouettes skittering down the moonlit ridge, some holding flaming torches, some muskets, others tomahawks and war clubs.

Face pinched in fear, Beth clapped her hands over her ears. “Papa, make them stop! Make them stop!”

Elene grasped Beth’s arm and pulled her from the window. Anson, now armed, flung the door open. “Run girls, run!”

“What about you, Papa?” Worry etched Chelsea’s face. She lifted the skirts of her brown dress with one hand, and snatched Dawn’s hand with the other.

“Don’t you worry, I’m right behind. Now go, girl, go!”

Hand in hand, the two sisters headed out. Anson aimed and fired into a group of attackers. Several Indians, holding lit torches, ran up and set fire to the far side of the cabin. The blaze quickly spread, engulfing the logs in fire and smoke, orange yellow flames shooting into the starry sky.

Chelsea stopped and stared; her stricken face lit by the fires eerie glow, the scene a mass of smoke and confusion. One Indian slit the cow’s throat while another roped the horse and led it away. More Indians came and set the shelter on fire. In the distance other cabins were ablaze. Indians attacked the occupants with tomahawks or fired their muskets when the people ran screaming from their burning cabins.

Chelsea started to run again, pulling Dawn behind her like a rag doll. The tip of Dawn’s shoe caught on a protruding rock and she fell with a yelp. Chelsea stopped and turned just as an Indian grasped her younger sister. Musket ready, Anson ran toward him. He stopped and aimed. A shot exploded. Blood gushed from Anson’s forehead. Chelsea watched him fall, his weapon breaking loose from his hand. She turned in the direction of the discharge and spotted a tall painted Indian lowering a smoking musket. Blood crept over the dark, bare earth. Chelsea froze. The tall Indian crouched by her papa’s body and sliced his knife across the scalp. He stood, raising the bloody mass, giving a chilling shout. The atrocity sent pains through her stomach.

“No!” Elene ran to the Indian and beat on his bare back. With a surprised gasp her fists stilled. She dropped to her knees and struck the ground face first, a tomahawk lodged deep in her back.