Daughter of Shiloh. Ilene Shepard Smiddy

part of the station, from corner to corner. The stable was next to the big gate they had driven through last night. The second blockhouse was on the other side of the gate in the northeast corner.

      James Wade, walking his rounds, stopped by to offer assistance. “Morgan took your menfolk out to look over the land, so I thought maybe I could give you ladies a hand.”

      “If you don’t mind, Mr. Wade. We do have a few heavy things to unload,” Sarah replied, brushing back her long brown hair and smiling up at the scout.

      James Wade was around twenty years old. Tall and muscular, his frontier garb of buckskin pants and open-necked muslin shirt caused an unfamiliar catch in Sarah’s breath.

      While Wade worked, Nancy noticed the sidelong, admiring glances Sarah bestowed on him. “In which cabin do you live, Mr. Wade?” Nancy asked.

      “Right now I’m living with two other men. Morgan hired me to act as a guard and hunter. He felt it might help to strengthen the place against an Indian attack.”

      “Indians, are they troublesome?” Clarinda asked, feeling a slight shiver of fear. She stopped working to hear what he had to say.

      “Don’t mind Clarinda, Mr. Wade. She is obsessed with talk about Indians.” Sarah said, giving her youngest sister a playful shove.

      The girls noticed the grievous look of sadness change the man’s face. James Wade’s gaze rested on each of the Allington sister’s comely features. He dreaded to think what would happen if any one of them fell into the hands of a Shawnee or Wyandot warrior. His job was to protect the fort and see that it did not happen.

      “I’m afraid so, Miss Allington. My parents live over at Peeled Oak, about three miles from here. We just buried my older brother, John. He was ambushed as he rode from the station to the beaver pond to set out his traps.” There was a tremor in Wade’s voice.

      “Mercy me, we’re so sorry to hear tell. You poor boy,” exclaimed Martha, who had heard the conversation from her doorway. “In Virginia the Indians have been quiet since the treaty, excepting a few renegade raids. We hoped that would be true in Kentucky as well.”

      “For the most part it is, ma’am. We’re close to the Ohio Territory though. The Wyandot, Shawnee and Chickasaw don’t abide by any treaties. Small war parties make forays into Kentucky sometimes. They’ll kill a white man, not so much out of hate for him, as for his possessions. They covet guns, hatchets, anything of value. We couldn’t determine which tribe this culprit came from. In the old days it was easy to tell by the type of arrow used. Now they all have rifles. No way to tell unless you see them use it.” Wade looked off into the distance, trying to hide his hurt.

      “That’s too bad, son. Convey our sympathy to your folks.” Martha felt genuine sorrow that such a tragedy had befallen his family.

      “Thanks, ma’am. I appreciate your kind words.” James Wade thought he was going to like this Allington family.

      Standing there, talking with Wade, Martha came to the realization that she had held a false sense of security coming west. She recalled Jacob’s commenting on the fact that the ink was hardly dry on the treaty papers before land-hungry pioneers were illegally settling on Cherokee land.

      Would the treaty not hold up here? The Indians might try to reclaim the land they had ceded over to the American government. She felt tired and alone in an alien place, and wished with all her heart that Jacob was here to help keep their family safe.

      Retreating to the security of the house, Martha sank down on a bench, holding her bent head in the palms of her hands. Clarinda found her there a few moments later.

      “Ma, are you sick? Ma, what is it?” Clarinda asked.

      “Don’t fret, child. I’m just resting. Come, let’s get fresh water from the spring. The men will need to wash up when they come in.” Reaching for the buckets, Martha handed one over to Clarinda, forcing herself to smile.

      While the other two girls and Wade finished the unloading, Martha and Clarinda found their way to the spring. Leaving the station by the back gate next to their blockhouse, they followed the well-worn path into the woods.

      “How green and fresh it is here,” Clarinda skipped ahead. The crystal clear, cold water bubbled up from the bowels of the earth. It was a lovely spot, with moss-covered rocks piled high to form a deep pool. Watercress grew profusely along the spring branch. They gathered some of the tangy greens for a salad. The bright green leaves and mint-like taste would add a welcome variety to their meals.

      By the time Clarinda set the brimming buckets on the table and handed her a refreshing drink from the dipper, Martha felt better. Her whole life had been lived near the forest. She was familiar with the various activities of Indians. What reason did she have now to be so afraid? Maybe it was because Kentucky seemed different, wilder and more uncivilized.

      Their first Sunday at Morgan’s the Allingtons took a much needed rest. The fort’s womenfolk confided to Martha there were no church services ever held at the station.

      Martha decided to do in Kentucky as her family had always done. “We can’t abide not having church” she told them earnestly. “When the sun goes down and all the chores finished, bring out the fiddles and banjos. Tell everyone to come over to our place for prayer and singing.”

      She sent Clarinda to visit the cabins, and spread the word that all were welcome. At sunset William, Rebecca and the other family members converged on the blockhouse.

      Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,

      Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;

      Waiting for the harvest and the time of reaping,

      We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

      Hearing the sweet sound of young voices singing the familiar hymns started the neighbors drifting toward the gathering. First the Martins and Cutrights, then the Arthurs, their children in tow. The Becraft’s large brood arrived. Robert Craig and his wife strolled over. The grass in front of the blockhouse soon filled with people who had all but forgotten what life before Kentucky was like.

      Jonathan, as his Pa had done, read from the worn Bible in which Martha recorded their family history. William, standing beside Rebecca, a toddler clinging to each hand, asked everyone to bow their heads in prayer.

      The sharp crack of a rifle broke the reverent stillness.

      James Wade, who Sarah had noticed was not at the service, came running from his cabin, gun in hand. His dog bounded toward the sound of the shot. Grabbing their weapons, the men followed Wade to the north gate.

      Martha hustled the women and children inside the blockhouse to safety. Clarinda rushed to one of the lower portholes. She watched Wade’s shepherd dog race across the cane field, and wondered what was causing the dog’s ferocious barking.

      “Indians,” Wade shouted, while slamming down the bar on the gate. “I know that bark.”

      Ralph Morgan, David and William reverted to their past military training and ordered defense positions set up.

      Peering over the stockade Wade explained “I didn’t attend the prayer service because I’ve been watching all day for Mr. Reynolds, the manager of the Furnace, to ride in.”

      The smelting furnace was about five miles away. A number of soldiers were stationed there to protect the ore being processed.

      “At my brother’s funeral, Reynolds inquired about buying some beaver skins from me,” Wade said. “He fancied to make himself a fine hat. I was anxious to sell the skins and waited in case he did show up.”

      The men patrolled the inside perimeter of the fort, keeping a lookout for any sign of trouble. The evening wore on. No more sounds were heard until the shepherd returned, scratching on the gate and whining. Wade opened it wide enough to let the dog squeeze through.

      Throughout the night the dog kept up a pitiful moaning