Daughter of Shiloh. Ilene Shepard Smiddy

       Chapter I

      

       Autumn 1790—Holston River, Virginia

      

      Shading her eyes with one hand, the young girl looked west toward the Appalachian foothills. Her slight frame shivered. The chill wind whipped tendrils of dark curls about her expressive face. Dusk came quickly here, on the banks of the Holston. Straining to see, she searched the narrow ribbon of roadway for any sign of her two oldest brothers. She hoped they would come soon, before the sun slipped behind the westernmost rim of the blue mountain range.

      How beautiful the autumn leaves are, she thought. Their special light illuminated the towering slopes with color. The luminous glow lingered briefly, flickered and was gone. Silent shadows crept across the valley, erasing the last vestige of day. Clarinda knew that somewhere beyond those distant peaks lay a wilderness called Kentucky. She wondered how far.

      Thinking back, she recalled the last time she had seen David. He had taken her to Fort Patrick Henry. There at the trading post they talked with a buckskin-clad hunter. He was unloading furs, taken during months spent on the frontier. He spoke of Kentucky in a hushed voice filled with awe.

      David told him about the war, and how his company had marched to the Cherokee towns on the Tennessee River. Seeking firsthand knowledge of the region now, David had prodded the old man with questions about Kentucky. He asked his opinion on the likelihood of trouble continuing between the settlers and the Indians.

      The old hunter had straightened his hunched shoulders. His words painted a vivid picture of the fertile land in the Cumberland Plateau, the finest hunting ground of the Cherokee domain. He described luxuriant grass that covered the plains, and told how deer, elk and buffalo grazed as far as the eye could see.

      The hunter spoke softly, nodding his grizzled head. “There likely will be more Indian wars son. Many of our red brothers believe their Great Spirit is angry. They say long dead ancestors cry blood because the Long Knives have violated their sacred places.”

      Clarinda remembered the conflicting rush of feelings his words brought. His stories, and today’s events seemed a harbinger of things to come. Her oldest sister Rebecca and her family had arrived with all their household goods piled high on a new wagon. That was strange enough, but Rebecca told her to watch for their brothers. They were coming too.

      “Clarinda,” her mother called, interrupting her thoughts.

      Clarinda’s mother emerged from the darkness, heading toward the back door of the cabin. Fresh milk sloshed from the heavy pails she carried.

      “Ma, did Old Beauty give all that milk?”

      “Yes indeed” Martha said, setting the buckets on the stone steps. “The Lord blessed us with that Jersey cow.” Pausing to catch her breath, Martha tilted her head back, scanning the dark sky. “Wind smells like snow. I was hoping not this early. Mind the door, Clarinda, and keep the dogs away.”

      Holding the unwieldy door open while kicking at the yelping hounds, Clarinda helped to carry the milk pails inside. Rebecca, heavy with her fourth child, came to their aid. She was busy preparing the evening meal.

      After some simple preparations, Martha placed a clean cotton cloth over each pail and strained the milk through the cloth into a large metal container. Clarinda admired her mother’s smooth efficiency. The rich, sweet smell of warm milk filled the room.

      Nancy and Sarah, the middle sisters, came into the kitchen to help. They talked excitedly while carrying the bowls of steaming food to the table.

      “Jake and John are in here Ma.” Nancy called out, nearly tripping over her long-legged brothers. Sarah placed lighted candles on each end of the heavy oak table.

      “I wonder what keeps Jonathan and David?” Martha worried. She had heard talk that a marauding war party was terrorizing pioneer outposts along the Holston, Watauga and French Broad Rivers.

      “Supper is almost ready,” Sarah answered. “I hope they come soon.”

      Clarinda was surprised to see their table set with her mother’s Sunday dishes. Martha reserved her dinnerware, decorated with sprays of blue flowers and gold rims, for the important events in her family’s life.

      “Is this some special day? What’s going to happen?” Clarinda asked her sisters, holding up one of the plates.

      The loud barking of dogs announced the arrival of the two missing brothers. William climbed down from the loft where he had put his and Rebecca’s three children to bed. Walking past Clarinda, he playfully tousled her hair. Clarinda adored her only brother-in-law, and he her.

      After amiable greetings all around, the three men took their seats beside the others. Jonathan patted Martha’s hand and took his Pa’s place at the head of the table. William set on the opposite end by Rebecca.

      William B. Rice and David Allington had become friends while serving together in the colonial army. When David introduced William to Rebecca, her beauty captivated the young patriot. Although the country was in turmoil, William found time to court Rebecca. She found the woodsman, turned soldier much more exciting than the planter’s sons who came to call.

      With one accord the family followed their mother’s lead, joining hands with each other in the old way. Jonathan bowed his head and asked the blessing. His voice broke. Unashamed, he did not try to hold back his tears. Each family member understood, and shared the sharp pain of their recent loss.

      Martha’s eyes misted over as she guardedly observed her children. Having been a widow for so short a time, she realized how dependent she was on her sons. They would have to care for her and their sisters. Rebecca and William had their own brood to see to. Martha felt it was a lot to expect of them, and knew it would not be easy. What lay ahead may take more courage than the hardships they endured during the country’s struggle for independence.

      For a time the family ate in silence, reflecting on their memories. Each was aware of the void left by Jacob’s death. The knowledge that his familiar, commanding presence would never again join this circle was hard to accept.

      Clarinda’s sweet, but insistent voice broke the stillness. Fixing her blue-gray eyes intently on Martha’s face, she asked “Ma, are we all going with William and Rebecca to Kentucky?”

      Earlier, Rebecca’s eight-year-old Davey had confided to Clarinda that he knew a real good secret. He had overheard his parents talking about a long trek west, while they unhitched the wagon and fed the horses. Davey’s secret pleased Clarinda, who loved to hear William’s stories about Kentucky. She childishly envisioned a beautiful new home across the mountains. A wondrous place where dreams come true.

      “Nothing is settled yet, Clarinda,” Martha answered. “David and William have some news they heard in Fredericksburg last week. It seems fitting that we all hear it at the same time. I’m glad everyone is here.”

      “Well,” David began, “there are lots of rumors floating down the Rappahannock and Potomac from Federal Hall in New York. Washington and the Congress have started putting together a democratic form of government. We, the citizens will have some say in how it’s run.”

      “So America, is now the United States of America,” Nancy offered.

      “Is General Washington king?” asked Clarinda.

      The family roared with laughter. Clarinda wondered why they thought her question so funny, but was happy to see them all relax.

      “No, silly,” Jacob teased his little sister. “He’s the first president of the republic, elected by the people.”

      “We found out,” David said, “that some Indian headmen have signed peace treaties with our government. Their tribes have agreed to move west and south onto other land set aside for their use. Millions of acres of former Indian land will be opened up for settlement.”

      “What