Chapter 5
Brielle fastened her gaze on the stranger’s stalwart, linen-clad shoulders as if he could keep her upright.
For a few frantic seconds, scared witless, she’d feared this man was one of the warriors.
Concerned someone might think him a party to the massacre had her hurrying after him as he joined the grim-faced men combing the tavern grounds.
Though she didn’t know his name, his appearance proclaimed him of two nations.
Métis? She’d seen Indian delegations pass by on their way to Williamsburg to meet with the governor but few half-bloods.
This man was a striking blend of both worlds.
Beaded buckskin and linen. Moccasins and felt hat.
Midnight black hair. And his eyes—such a startling, striking blue that went straight to the heart, arrow sharp.
“Afternoon, Miss Farrow.” The local militia captain touched the brim of his tricorn. “Glad you’re still standing.”
“Thank you, Captain Draper.” She put an arm around Titus’s shoulders and brought him nearer. “We were in the fields when they struck.”
“A blessed escape, then.” He looked to the militia who’d finished searching the tavern.
“There’s seven inside,” said one. “All dead and two scalped.”
“I count twenty-two outside,” another man said.
Brielle gestured to the stranger. “That man near the stables happened by first. I don’t yet know his name.”
“Galant.” He approached, his gaze never settling. Did he think the Indians might return? “I found sign on the way here from Fort Pitt as did another scout. Likely a large war party—Shawnee and Delaware—moving fast.”
“Just as I reckoned.” Draper’s brow tightened. “Anything else?”
“This has the mark of Bemino—Killbuck, some call him.” Galant looked north. “Once he was friendly to the whites along the Wappocomo Valley, mainly the south fork of the Potomac, but has turned hostile since.”
“Killbuck, aye. A French ally during the last war.” Draper looked at him. “Where are you headed?”
“The Rivanna River. I usually travel north of here from Fort Pitt but once I picked up the war party’s trail, I kept south but too late to raise an alarm and stop the bloodshed.”
One man removed his hat. “Needs be we make a list of the dead though few of us are able.”
“I can read and write.” Brielle smoothed her rumpled apron with her hands. “I’ll get a quill and ink and paper from Mr. Griffiths’ office.”
Draper held up a hand. “Tell us what happened first.”
She took a breath, feeling like her knees might buckle again as she explained all that had transpired when she and Titus had been in the cornfield, from calm to chaos.
Would she ever be able to unsee the carnage?
“No captives taken?”
“They only took their dead. Four, to my reckoning. And several stolen horses.”
They fell silent and she went for writing implements.
Head down, stepping around the worst of it, she entered the tavern’s front door.
Returning with a lap desk, she sank down on the grass to record what needed recording as the men went round, identifying the dead.
The scratching of her quill continued as the list grew, the ink splattered.
Raising the hem of her apron, she swiped at her tears.
When she’d finished, the men began talking amongst themselves.
Duties were assigned. Some would ride out and notify next of kin. Others had burial detail. If they tarried, scavengers would encroach. Captain Draper would inform the Frederick County seat and the authorities there once Brielle finished the list.
Not wanting to return inside after what she’d witnessed, she hesitated. Mr. Galant looked at her in question and held out a hand. She handed him the lap desk in answer as he sent Titus to the outbuildings in search of shovels.
Turning back to her, he said, “Go inside out of the sun and find something to eat. You need your strength.”
She hesitated, afraid of what she’d find in the kitchen. As if sensing her struggle, he accompanied her to the back of the house. He went in first and then motioned her inside. The kitchen was blessedly empty. Cook had fallen in the hall.
Brielle’s concern returned to Titus. “The boy, Titus Owens … his sister was cut down on the porch steps. Could you cover her with a sheet?” Hurrying to the nearest linen closet, she retrieved one. “She’s red-haired. Young. You won’t mistake her.”
Stoic, he took the sheet and left the lap desk on the kitchen table before returning outside.
Lifting the lid of a pot in the ashes, she saw it held stew. A loaf of untouched bread sat on the open door of the bake oven. Butter and preserves and pickles waited on the table alongside a round of cheese. Oddly, the Indians had left the Sabbath meal untouched.
How was she to eat one bite?
At twilight, when all were buried in a common grave, the three of them sat at the kitchen table, Brielle and Titus across from the stranger.
Bowing their heads, they each said silent grace.
None of them had much appetite. They drank freely of the cider Griffiths had painstakingly made last autumn, its tang lingering on Brielle’s tongue.
A few militia members remained to stand guard outside, the tavern’s doors and windows shuttered and barred, the place barricaded as the dire news spread. Brielle wondered what would have happened to them had Mr. Galant not volunteered to stay.
Titus tore at a piece of bread, chewing in small bites. “When will you move on, mister?”
“Call me Bleu,” he said with a wink. “I feel ancient when anyone calls me mister.”
Bleu? Sylvie tried to keep her mind on her meal. Bleu Galant.
“I’ll move on once I learn what’s to happen here.” By here he meant the two of them, surely, for his glance took in Brielle. He continued, thoughtful. “For now, tell me how it is you came to be at the tavern and how much time you have left as indentures.”
Titus held his tongue and so she said, “I lack two years till my freedom dues.”
“And you?” Bleu asked him, pouring them all more cider.
“Seven. My parents are dead, and I was bound out with my sister since no one else could take us.”
Brielle listened, moved to tears again. No boy of eight should be bereft of everything, including the only family member he had left.
Bleu’s attention returned to Brielle. “You’re schooled.”
She met his eyes, struck hard by their vibrant hue all over again. “I learned to read and write long ago at a city school founded by Friends—Quakers. Since coming here, I borrow books from Mr. Griffiths’ library when he’s away.”
“The city?” He swallowed a spoonful of stew as if tempting them to do the same.
“Philadelphia.” She paused, realizing she hadn’t told him her name. “I’m Gabrielle Farrow.”
“Ah …” His eyes lit like candleflame. “Gabrielle … très francaise.”
“My father was English, my Mother French.” She sensed his pleasure at the revelation. “I go by Brielle.”
He continued eating without looking at her. “Do you speak francais?”
The musicality of his words reached soul deep. Her mother’s voice seemed to echo instead, bringing a sharp homesickness. For a moment she simply stared at him before she took up her own spoon. “Long ago I did. I’ve forgotten much of it. Few speak French here …”
“She taught me a few words.” Titus swallowed another small bite. “Merci. Pardon. Bon.”
A few, oui, if only to hold tight to her heritage. They continued to eat slowly in silence, more attuned to what was happening outside the kitchen.
Titus looked up from his half-finished meal as if eating somehow slighted his sister’s memory. “What do you think’ll happen to us now that the master’s dead?”
Bleu took another drink. “Your former bondsman may have an heir who’ll take his place or sell the tavern.”
Titus’s face fell. Brielle sensed his fear.
The unknown was always frightening no matter how many times you faced it.
Odd that this stranger had happened by when he did given he usually went further north, as he’d said.
She cast about for some deeper meaning to their meeting and came up empty.
He was simply another traveler, a frontiersman, who’d be on his way like so many who came to the tavern’s crossroads from all directions.
“Did you help bury all them folks?” Titus held his spoon aloft. “My sister, too?”
“Oui, I did,” Bleu said quietly. “In a clean linen sheet Miss Farrow gave me. A decent burial is necessaire, non?”
Brielle listened, torn between thankfulness and regret. Glad to be alive but still in servitude. Disbelieving despite death all around them. Would the shock of surviving simply because she’d followed Titus into the cornfield ever fade?
Might God have something more in mind for her?
Titus sighed. “I’m sorry for my sister but I know she’s safe in heaven.”
“Safe,” Brielle echoed, believing it with all her heart. “And happy and whole.”
“And we’re still together here.” His worried eyes met hers and she tried to smile in reassurance.
They were still together, for the time being, come what may.