Oct 14, 2013 6 min read

? Chapter SIX

THE STORY SO FAR. A few days after leaving Illinois, the Damron children’s mother dies of milk sickness. Now their ailing father has dictated a letter for the children to carry in case he dies, too.

June 22-24, 1828. Posey County, Indiana.

We wait while Papa signs his name with awkward letters. He calls to Moses, “Bring a candle and the flint.”

Moses lights the candle and lets the wax drip onto the letter. Papa dips his heavy signet ring into the melted wax and presses hard, leaving his initials, W.J.D. – for William Jesse Damron – next to his signature.

“Now the Bible, Jesse,” he says.

I do as Papa asks, although I wish he would rest. Drops of sweat stand out on his forehead. He lays his hand on the leather cover and swears that he has written the truth; then he folds the letter and hands it to me. “Keep hold of this,” he tells me.

Moses steps between us. “She’ll lose it.”

Papa shakes his head. “Not if she puts it in her bodice. No decent man or woman will take it from her there.”

I’m not sure who has the redder face, Moses or me. I turn away and slip the letter under my chemise. It’s scratchy against my skin.

Papa twists the signet ring off his finger. “This is yours now, Jesse. It belonged to your grandfather, Jesse Damron. He was as tough as you are. That’s why you carry his name.”

The ring is too big for my fingers, so Papa ties it around my neck on a cord, his hands trembling. The warmth of Papa’s fever lingers against my skin.

Then Papa explains the route home. “Take a riverboat to Shawneetown. This trail is too muddy, following the Wabash. You’ll cross the Ohio into Kentucky.” He tells us the towns to head for. “Henderson, Hardensburg,” he says. “To Lexington and Paris and the Blue Lick – “

“Wait!” I cry. “You’re going too fast.” He repeats the names and I write them down on the back page of our Bible. Papa and Moses draw a map in the Bible, too. Papa names the roads, the mountain passes, even the trees and taverns, all the way to the Big Sandy River. “Pass the gristmill,” he says. “Two miles to the white oak. It’s the second turning – “

“I know the way from there,” Moses says. My brother’s fists are clenched, as if he might punch somebody. Papa makes us repeat the route three times.

“Good,” Papa says at last. He holds out the Bible. “Place your right hands on the holy book.” We do as he says, resting our hands on the leather cover.

Papa’s eyes are red and wild looking, like a colt that’s never been broken. “Swear you’ll bring Solomon and Louisa home to your grandma,” he says.

“I swear,” I whisper.

Papa waits for Moses. “Son?”

Moses’s voice breaks. “I swear, Papa. But how?”

To my surprise, Papa takes Moses in his arms as if he were a little boy. “You’ll find a way. You’re strong children.”

When Moses stops crying, Papa asks us to help him pull off his boots. We unlace them and wiggle them off one at a time. Papa reaches into the toe of his right boot and takes out a wad of bills. “I’ve kept all our money in here,” he says. “Wear my boots now, Moses, and guard them with your life. They make a good hiding place.”

Papa’s voice is weak. He points to the gun, standing against the tree. “Your grandfather’s rifle kept him safe during the war. Sell the silver gunstock if you need money. Your grandpa said it was worth two hundred dollars.”?

I stare at Grandpa’s gun. I can’t imagine so much money. Later I study the list of herbs and medicines in Mama’s diary. I make a tea for Papa from dried boneset leaves, which Mama notes will bring out a fever.

“Can I help?” Louisa begs. We gather mullein, sprouting on the prairie, and wrap the fuzzy leaves around Papa’s neck, like flannel. We make a soft bed in the wagon and take turns sponging his forehead, but nothing helps. Just like Mama, Papa’s tongue turns brown, his hands and feet get cold as ice, and his voice chokes when he tries to speak.

In two days we’ve lost Papa, too.

Moses can’t build a coffin alone, so we wrap Papa in the wedding quilt. Papa is heavy and tall. Moses and I stagger as we carry him to Mama’s oak tree. How can we dig a hole big enough for Papa?

At dusk, when the little ones have cried themselves to sleep, we start on the grave. Moses breaks the sod with an ax, and I shovel out the dirt behind him. Soon my hands are raw and blistered. I’m cold as ice inside. Neither one of us cries or says a word.

Suddenly we hear rustling in the grass. “Who’s there?” Moses calls.

No one answers. Moses grabs the ax, and we edge close together. A stocky man strides toward us, his cheeks and eyelids painted scarlet. His long, crow-black hair brushes against a hatchet dangling from his belt.

“A Shawnee,” Moses whispers. “Don’t move.”

As if I could. My feet are stuck to the prairie. Could he be the ghost of Tecumseh, the great Shawnee chief? After Tecumseh was killed, Papa told me, “That chief stomped his foot so hard, he made an earthquake that sent the Mississippi River running backward.” No one ever found Tecumseh’s body after he died. Does he still haunt the forest, the way people say?

The Shawnee in front of us seems real enough. He’s silent as he folds the quilt back from Papa’s face. He tamps Mama’s grave with his moccasin and reaches his hand out to me.

What does he want? I can’t even swallow. I drop the shovel and hold out Papa’s ring. “Jesse, don’t,” Moses groans. “We might need it, to get home.” But I don’t care. Anything to keep us safe.

• NEXT WEEK: Orphans