One Promiscuous Ruin (eBook)

A Novel of the Fort Mims Massacre

James Sturdivant (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
164 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-4924-7 (ISBN)

Infos

This novel follows the events of the Fort Mims Massacre in the Alabama frontier in 1813. This massacre had far-reaching effects on how the young United States treated Native Americans for the first half of the 19th century and eventually led to the defeat and exile of the Creek Nation under Andrew Jackson.

James Sturdivant lives in Birmingham, Alabama, where he is a practicing attorney who specializes in white collar defense and complex government investigations. His family is made up of his lovely wife Susan, four sons, and one granddaughter. This is his first novel.

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In the summer of 1813, an increasingly crowded group of settlers gathered in an improvised fortification located on the Alabama River in what is now Baldwin County. They strived to avoid attack by hostile "e;Redsticks,"e; Creek warriors who yearned to return to a way of life free from the advancing European and American cultures. Embracing the policies of Shawnee chief Tecumseh, these warriors, led by William Weatherford, banded together to inflict one of the most serious military defeats in American history. Such a victory was not inevitable or even likely. Rather, it was achieved due to a combination of hubris, ignorance, racism, and fickle fate. This is the story of that defeat. It is a work of historical fiction, but the broad outline of events and most characters depicted are based upon recorded history.

Textauszug

Prologue One

May, 1813

Crawley Farm

South-Central Tennessee in the Valley of the Duck Rivers

Martha Crawley smiled. She always did, anytime she held a newborn baby.

The baby, only a week old, stared vacantly up at Martha, and then began to squirm and grunt.

“Oh dear, Martha, you’d better give him to me,” said Virginia Manley, mother of tiny Joshua. “I’m quite sure you’ve done enough changing of infant wraps in your day without having to worry with one of mine.”

“Nonsense, Virginia, you just rest now. I don’t mind. After all, Frank and I may still have one or two more surprises before we’re done. I may need the practice.”

Virginia’s smile was tired, but warm. “Thank you, Martha. It is nice to be able to just lie back and rest for a while.”

Virginia’s pregnancy had gone smoothly, until the actual delivery. She’d lost blood and continued to lack an appetite. Martha was worried about her neighbor, and had sent her oldest son, William, to fetch Virginia and her children and bring them back to the Crawley Farm. Virginia could have a few days’ rest at the Crawley’s larger, and more airy, cabin while their husbands, partners now, were in Shelbyville trading for supplies with which to start a lumber and grain mill. They had left at dawn on Wednesday and were expected back Sunday. Virginia had gratefully accepted her offer to stay at the Crawley place until Saturday and had spent her first night there Thursday night. She enjoyed the breeze that came through the two windows that Frank had put in last summer. Virginia’s place had been built in the fall, and windows had not been a priority. Even though it was only mid-May, a windowless cabin was stuffy in a late spring Tennessee climate. Eugenia Mayfield, another neighbor, had also agreed to stay a couple of nights, while her husband accompanied Frank and Joseph Manley as a hired teamster.

While Martha changed Joshua’s wrappings, she saw Virginia close her eyes. After she finished with the baby, she laid him beside his mother resting on the frame bed’s rope mattress. Martha crossed the cabin to the large fireplace, in which a kettle of venison stew was slowly bubbling, with cathead biscuits on top. Next summer, Frank had promised, he would build a log kitchen out back to allow cooking to be done in a room separate from the living quarters. That would help with the heat of summer and be safer too, Martha thought. For now, the air still had enough coolness that the fire didn’t warm the cabin too much, so long as the windows were kept open.

Martha bent and scooped out a small spoonful. She nodded. It was ready. “Boys! Anna! Supper’s ready. Will, run down to the barn and tell Mrs. Mayfield to come in.”

Without too much complaining, Stephen, Samuel, and Jonah came running into the cabin, as usual, pushing and shoving each other all the way. Stephen and Samuel belonged to her; Jonah was the Manley’s other son. Minutes later, Anna, Virginia’s twelve-year-old daughter, came inside. She smiled when she saw her mother resting with her baby brother, and then looked up at Martha with bright blue eyes.

“Ma’s feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes, child. We’ll let her sleep a bit longer, and then we’ll all have us some supper.”

Anna’s face grew serious. “I want her to be able to move around again, like after Jonah came a few summers ago. This time, she don’t seem to be getting better like she ought to.”

“Anna, your mother lost a good deal of blood during the birthing. That makes a woman weak for a while. She’ll be better soon.”

Anna looked thoughtful. Maybe in a few more days, she’ll be stronger?”

“That is exactly right,” replied Martha. “Now, you help set these bowls out on the table, will you please?”

As Anna finished setting the table, Martha pushed aside the muslin curtain covering one of the windows and looked outside. Though the air had begun to cool noticeably, the sun still shone above the mountain overlooking the valley where the three families had settled. It was a beautiful day, thought Martha, and sunset would be in another hour or so.

That thought made her realize that William should have returned by now with Eugenia.

Eugenia was a pleasant enough woman, but the last few weeks had been most difficult for her, as she entered the last stages of her first pregnancy. Martha judged Eugenia to be about four weeks out from delivery. She and Rayford had been married two years, and had conceived in time to quell most, but not all, of the gossip surrounding how she and her husband got along after sunset.

Martha started to pull her head back inside, then stopped, suddenly realizing that she didn’t hear the dogs.

Odd. She had heard them quite clearly, a little while ago, and had even wondered if they hadn’t smelled a bobcat, given the unusual sharpness of their bark. They had been barking furiously – the way they did when the cows were let out after being milked. Distracted by the baby and her discussion with Anna, Martha had not noticed when they’d stopped their racket.

“Anna, did you see our dogs before you came in?”

“Yes’m, they were out by the barn.”

“Did you see Will or Mrs. Mayfield?”

“They were in the barn, I guess. I didn’t see them when I was coming inside. You want me to go down there and tell ‘em to come in?”

“No child. They’ll be along.” Martha frowned - they really should be up from the barn by now. Light from the windows was fading fast. This part of Tennessee hadn’t seen trouble with the Indians in fifteen years. But sometimes outlaws were known to pillage an undefended homestead. Although she could readily load and fire a musket, Martha began to feel isolated. Her eyes moved to the rough mantle where the family’s old smoothbore musket hung; Frank had taken the pistol and his new rifle on the trip, but the musket – when loaded with one of the buck shot and lead ball combination paper cartridges Frank had traded for last fall – would cut an intruder in half at close range. And she’d loaded it the day he left.

“Anna, I’m going out to call to them – I’ll be right back.”

Martha went to the door and reached for the wooden latch. As her fingers touched the wood, the latch fractured in her hand.

Puzzled, she simply stood still.

The heavy door burst open, striking her hard in the forehead and nose and then rebounding back into place.

Stunned, Martha fell forward toward the door, with the idea of somehow fastening the splintered door latch. As she moved, she heard Anna screaming.

Martha pressed her shoulder to the door and fumbled with the broken latch. Warm fluid seeped into her eyes. If she could just get a wedge of wood between the hasps –

The door flew open again – this time, Martha’s side and hip absorbed the force of the blow, strong enough to carry her in the path of the door as it swung on its hinges, jamming her against the cabin’s stout front wall. Blood from her cut forehead streamed into her eyes. A clamor filled the room. She couldn’t see but she could hear the screams of the children. She heard Virginia cry out:

“Oh God, no, please no, I beg you” –

THWACK. Then Martha heard a male voice howl in triumph. Other male voices shrieked terrible cries of fury and destruction.

The children were screaming. HER CHILDREN. Martha frantically wiped with her apron at the blood on her face, but she still could not see. She couldn’t breathe; her side felt like something stabbed at her every time she tried to inhale.

She heard more wet, thudding sounds. Now only Anna was screaming.

“Momma, wake up! Please wake up! Momma—” Another horrible sound, this one like a huge, wet egg being cracked open. After silence for a couple of seconds, the cabin filled with the sounds of exhilaration, a frenzy of noise celebrating a kill.

Martha fought the blackness that threatened to overcome her. But it was too strong. She slid slowly down the wall, bumping her back and head on the logs on the way down. Her feet pushed the door back around on its wooden hinges, out into the room, exposing her presence. She reached the floor. The blackness faded.

From very far away, she gazed up at about a dozen bronzed, shirtless men. Their faces were covered in paint, the top half red, the lower half black. Their hair was coarse and dark.

Creek warriors, she thought.

She looked at the children. Dolls.

All of them have been turned into dolls. They’ve become rag dolls, abandoned now that playtime is over. How did these men do that, she wondered.

Virginia’s head lay open down to the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were open, but glazed, dead. Fish eyes.

Martha became aware of two men, moving slowly towards her, one carrying a massive war club, its end carved into the shape of a wooden ball, the other with a steel tomahawk. Gore covered their hands and arms. They were smiling.

Oh my lord, she thought. Oh dear Jesus in heaven have mercy on my soul. I am about to be killed. Oh my redeemer, let all the wonderful promises be true. Let me see my children again soon. She put her hands to her face, closed her eyes. William.

Her one remaining child was still somewhere outside. Maybe he was still alive, had been able to run away...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 17.5.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-4924-7 / 9798350949247