The Gardener (27 page)

“Are you all right?” His voice was gruff.

“I made it, didn't I?” Somehow she managed to smile.

To her surprise, Tom smiled back, showing his white teeth in his tanned face and altering the lines of his face in a way she had rarely seen. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, you made it. Well done, Abigail.”

For a moment she thought he would say more, but after holding her arms a moment longer, he released her abruptly and strode away to tend the horses.

Cromwell made the crossing without incident. The big dog loped up to her and shook himself vigorously, showering her with more muddy water, but she was already so drenched that it made no difference. Laughing, she put her arms around him and squeezed, grateful to feel his warmth under the cold wet fur, smell his familiar doggy smell. He was a piece of home, a loyal friend in a new, uncertain world.

Just then, she heard a distant scream. A few yards away, Tom heard it too. As one, they turned toward the river to see another wagon much like their own, which must have gone into the water soon after theirs. This one was not so lucky. Three quarters of the way across it had overturned, and several dark heads bobbed in the flowing water, a family of emigrants splashing for their lives.

Despite her fatigue and the mud anchoring her skirts, she scrambled toward some nearby trees to seek a fallen branch, one long enough to reach into the water but not too heavy for her tired muscles to wield. Finding one that would serve, she rushed back to the bank only to see Tom plunge into the water. With the clumsy but powerful strokes of a self-taught swimmer, he paddled out to the overturned wagon, the water threatening to wash over his head. Within moments, she saw him reach the screaming woman and begin pulling her toward safety.

Abigail heard another shout and turned. It was a small boy, trying to swim against the current. He nearly reached shore but now appeared to be losing the battle. As she watched in horror, the boy’s head slipped under the water, then resurfaced.

“Over here!” she called, waving to him.

As the stream swept him toward her, she strained to extend the branch. Just in time, the weary child managed to reach out and clutch it. She could see the whites of his terrified eyes.

He was no more than seven or eight years old and could not have weighed much more than the branch to which he clung, but the strength of the current nearly pulled him from her grasp. Bracing herself as well as she could, she tightened her grip and carefully hauled him toward safety.

Silently she prayed the boy's grasp would not slip. If he let go, he'd be swept downstream. There would be nothing she could do to save him.

H
He clung on determinedly, like a leech on a wound. When she pulled him to the shallow water by the riverbank, he immediately clambered to his feet, turned to face the river, and shouted in a high, thin voice, “Mama! Mama!”

Abigail followed his gaze, and saw with relief that Tom had nearly succeeded in pulling the boy's mother to the side of the river. Soon they were ashore, the woman lying on the bank coughing weakly, while the boy ran and buried his face in her waterlogged dress.

“Zebulon! My Zebulon!” The woman's voice was a bare whisper. Water-darkened hair fell across her pale cheeks as she reached for her son.

Without pausing to watch the touching reunion, Tom turned and dove back into the water.

“Tom!” Abigail took a running step toward him but it was too late. Held back by her heavy, wet skirts, she anxiously watched his progress toward the pitching wagon. This time he was swimming slower, struggling against the current and exhaustion.

Fool!
Fear vied with rage inside her. Tom had already spent nearly an hour in the near-freezing water. That first rescue was a superhuman effort—she was sure no man less powerful could have done it—but now to attempt a second? Despite his strength, her husband was only mortal, and she worried that he would be swept away by the roiling water just as the boy had been.

Her eyes glued to the dark-gold head as it journeyed toward the overturned wagon bobbing in the waves, as if her willpower could keep him afloat. Now she saw a second head bobbing in the water next to him. Cromwell plunged into the water and swam toward them, to help his master.

Now Tom was shouting something to the other wagon's driver. Together, the two men worked to right the foundering conveyance. The air filled with shouts and curses and the terrified whinnies of the horses, while the wagon rocked and threatened to overturn again.

By now, the woman had caught her breath. Holding her son tightly in her arms, she joined Abigail on the bank, where the two women stood watching fearfully as the dog, men and horses struggled toward shore.

Now that the wagon was upright, the men dove back in the water to rescue the boxes and kegs that had not already floated away.

“No Obadiah! Leave them go!” cried the woman. “'Tis foolishness!”

The man did not respond. Abigail understood. There was no replacing the possessions out here, so far from civilization. His family would starve without the means to farm.

Progress was slow, however, and although the stranger made it to shore, immediately enfolded in the embraces of his small family, Tom lagged far behind. Seeing his strokes lose their sureness, his head sink for longer moments beneath the water, Abigail turned and ran for the spare farm horse, its coat still wet from its recent swim.

The woman looked at her aghast. “What is thee doing?”

Abigail did not spare her an answer. She kicked off her petticoats and tried to clamber onto the horse’s back, but kept slipping off.

“Hast thee lost thy mind?” The woman stared.

“Help me!”

Something in her tone made the woman reluctantly step forward and give her the boost she needed. “’Tis madness. The horse isn’t even saddled, and the river….”

Without responding, Abigail dug her heels into the animal’s side. The horse resisted at first, reluctant to reenter the water, but under her urgent insistence, it neighed and plunged into the water.

Farther from shore, the river ran smoother and swifter. Its power threatened to suck the horse away from under her. Abigail wound her hands into the wet mane and clung on as tightly as she could, without removing her eyes from Tom's head, bobbing in the water. When she neared, she reached down toward him.

“Hold on to me!” she commanded.

Wordlessly he grasped her hand. Their hands fumbled, held, broke apart, and clung again. Belatedly, she realized it was hopeless to try to draw him onto the horse’s back.

“The tail,” she screamed. “Hold onto its tail!”

He nodded and complied. Kicking her heels against the horse’s side, Abigail urged the animal toward the shore until finally the exhausted farm horse stumbled up the bank, flinging water from its coat and mane. Tom collapsed onto the bank, too tired to shake the water from his dripping head and clothes.

Abigail ran and found dry quilts to wrap around him. The woman had already found a tinderbox and started a small fire, over which a kettle would soon boil. They all could use hot drinks. Abigail shot her a grateful glance and an answering smile crossed the woman's face, which was already creased by the sun although she could not have been more than thirty years old.

“Least I can do,” the woman said bluntly. “Thee saved my son's life back there, with the Lord's help.”

“Your boy would likely have made it to shore on his own. He's a very good swimmer,” Abigail said.

“Maybe he would have made it alone, maybe not. Thanks to thy help, we need never know, praise God.”

The men gratefully drank the hot liquid from the tin mugs, and their shivering gradually abated.

“We are the Mullers,” the other man said at last, raising his head. “Obadiah and Ruth Muller. Quakers, from South Carolina. Bought us sixty acres, not far from here. Guess we'll be neighbors. Looks like we couldn't have asked for better.”

The woman smiled again at Abigail. “Maybe we can be of use to the both of you, in a few months. Pay back your kindness. I have experience with birthing.”

Abigail felt her cheeks grow hot.
How did she know?
She had just found out for certain, and she wasn't even showing yet.

Tom gave her a quick look and his face grew pale, but thankfully he said nothing.

*     *     *

Over coffee, Tom and Obadiah Muller became fast friends. They discussed the same topics that interested all emigrants: the price of land, the advantages of living in one of the towns that had sprung up near the country's two forts, and the potential for Indian retaliation.

“The agent at the land office told me the Indians left these parts,” Tom said quietly after listening to Obadiah speak.

“Most of 'em signed it over and left peaceably. But there's always some who do not accept the treaties. If we treat 'em fair, they're like enough to leave us alone. I'm not saying there ain't risks, but I think 'tis safe enough.”

Tom nodded but remained silent. Abigail thought he must be absorbing the fact, as she was, that the land they were moving to was not, after all, uninhabited land, “free for the taking.”
Still, all that business happened long before we came along
, she told herself firmly, trying not to think of the Indian women and children forced to leave their homes. She and Tom had nothing to do with it. Those events had already happened, and turning back now would change nothing.

The two families rested near the river until their gear dried and, having discovered that the land they’d bought was within the sound of a gunshot from each other, agreed to travel together the rest of the way. “Safer that way,” Obadiah explained.

They soon found reason to be glad they had joined forces. Obadiah was an experienced backwoodsman, and each day the men would go off together for an hour or so, never failing to bring back a pair of fat rabbits or a small deer to supplement their food. Tom admitted he would never be the crackshot Obadiah was, but it was clear that he was proud of his growing skills, and he cleaned and polished his rifle each night after putting the animals to bed.

Abigail remembered when she first saw the longrifle, how the smooth maple stock felt like silk under her fingers. What if Tom had drowned in the river, she wondered, leaving her unprotected? What if one of the wild animals growling in the underbrush attacked while he was away? Although she did not admit it to herself, most of all, her fingers itched to try her hand at shooting. Why should men have all the fun?

She approached Obadiah when Tom was off gathering firewood. In halting phrases, she explained what she wanted.

“And what does thy husband say?” Obadiah directed an intense light-gray gaze into her eyes.

She looked down at her mud-caked boots, unable to meet his look. “I do not want him to know. He is so stubborn.”

Obadiah studied her for a moment, the creases by his mouth deepening. “There should be no secrets between a husband and wife.”

She raised her head at that. “No, not a secret. A surprise! Once I've learned, I want to show him that I can shoot so he’ll understand how useful I can be.”

Obadiah looked reluctant, but he nodded. “I taught my Ruth to fire our rifle lest something happen while I was away. A little knowledge never hurt, that is if thou dost not count what happened in the Garden.”

It took Abigail a moment to realize he was referring to the Garden of Eden. Well, she wouldn’t cause as much trouble as Eve, that was certain! Just the opposite. All she wanted to do was help Tom.

Lessons were by necessity short, but Obadiah proved a good teacher. Abigail learned how to measure the powder, ram it and the ball down the long stock, and steady the heavy thing against her shoulder. The first time she fired it, the recoil was so strong that she thought her bone had dislocated. The red mark on her skin took days to fade. She would never be an expert markswoman, she decided, but there was comfort in knowing that if she needed to, she could protect herself and anyone else who needed it.

Two weeks later, at the crest of a hill, the two couples' paths parted. “But we'll see thee again,” Ruth said, holding Abigail's hand and smiling kindly into her eyes. “Trust me.”

*     *     *

A few hours later, Abigail and Tom drew to a stop and looked down at a green patch of land that spread in an unbroken stretch toward the horizon, lined by a thick grove of elm trees along the stream they were following. Tom pulled out the map he’d received at the land office and ran his eyes along the horizon, noted the wood posts pounded into the ground by the surveyors, and nodded. The breeze ruffled his gold hair sticking out from under his wide-brimmed hat.

“This is the place,” he said rolling up the map. “Just as I imagined it! Our land runs up to that creek and is bounded by those hills over there. One hundred sixty acres.” For a moment, he fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice had altered, and she suspected he was speaking to himself. “Bigger than Lord Marlowe’s estate I wager, and richer land, too.” He chuckled. “Who'd have thought it?”

She stared at him, wondering if she’d heard correctly.
Lord Marlowe?
Was that really what he had said? Her question would have to wait, however; she did not dare interrupt him now for fear he might stop speaking, and he so rarely voiced what was going on inside his head.