Suddenly Ian moved, rising onto one elbow; she heard him breathe in, sharply, and by reflex did the same. Tobacco. In the next instant, he’d slid out of bed and padded naked to the door.
She let out her breath with a sense of relief; a friend, then. Soft voices on the porch, then Ian stuck his head back in, smiled briefly at her, and snatching a folded blanket from the top of the chest closed the door behind him.
Oggy, disturbed by the sense of movement, stirred and made snuffling noises. She rose with haste in order to make use of the chamber pot before he roused all the way; he wasn’t a patient child.
Her shawl round her shoulders and the baby at her breast, she stole up to the window by the door. It was covered with an oiled hide, tacked down against drafts, so she couldn’t see anything, but sounds came through from the porch fairly well.
Not that it did her much good. The visitors—she made out at least two different voices, besides Ian’s—were Indians, and speaking in their own language. Perhaps Standing Heron Bradshaw and a friend from the Cherokee villages, come to help hunt the catamount that had been seen near the creek. That was a merciful thought; the more men there were, the safer they’d be. Presumably.
She was just about to go and check the porridge in the pot, in case the visitors needed breakfast, when she heard a word that froze her in her tracks and made her squeeze Oggy so hard that he emitted a small, surprised hoof! and stopped feeding for an instant.
He latched on to her breast again with instant ferocity, but she barely noticed. Not Cherokee. Not at all. They were Mohawk, and the word that had caught her ear was “Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa.”
SHE DIDN’T WAIT to put the child down or dress. When she stepped out onto the porch, the boards were icy under her bare feet, and the light was just beginning to fade into view. So were the interested faces of not two but three Mohawks, all of whom looked at her and nodded politely.
One of them said something that made Ian cough and glance sideways at her. He was wearing the blanket wrapped about his waist, and the sight of his bare chest, the nipples gone small and hard with cold, made her own nipples do something in sympathy that made Oggy choke and cough, spluttering milk all down the front of her shift. The Indians looked away as though nothing had happened.
“Thy friends are welcome, Ian,” she said, trying not to grit her teeth. She smiled at them. “Will they eat with us?”
They understood English, for all three at once went into the cabin. Ian made to follow them, and she grabbed his arm with her free hand.
“What’s happened?” she said, low-voiced.
“A massacre,” he said, and she saw now that he was upset, his face tight with worry. “There was an attack on a settlement—only a few houses, but all Whigs. It was Joseph Brant and some of his men. But then some fighters from Burk Hollow made a raid on a Mohawk settlement. In revenge.” He tried to turn toward the door, but she tightened her grip enough to stay him, not caring if she bruised him.
“Thy wife?” she said. “I see they came to give thee news of her. Was she in that settlement? Does she live?”
He didn’t want to answer, but to his credit, he did.
“I dinna ken. She was alive, when Looks at the Moon saw her—but that was near five months ago.” His eyes shifted past her and she knew he was looking toward the peak of the distant mountain, where a faint dusting of snow had appeared a week before. Works With Her Hands—and her children—were far to the north. How far? she wondered, and drew the shawl over Oggy’s round, bare head.
LOOKS AT THE MOON swallowed the last of his turkey hash and gave a loud belch of appreciation in Rachel’s direction, then handed her his plate before resuming the story he had been telling between bites. Fortunately, it was mostly in Mohawk, as the parts that had been in English appeared to deal with one of his cousins who had suffered following an encounter with an enraged moose.
Rachel took the plate and refilled it, envisioning the light of Christ glowing within their guests. Owing to an orphaned and penurious childhood, she had had considerable practice in such discernment and was able to smile pleasantly at Moon as she placed the newly filled plate at his feet, not to interrupt his gesticulations.
On the good side, she reflected, glancing into the cradle, the men’s conversation had lulled Oggy into a stupor. With a glance that caught Ian’s eye, and a nod toward the cradle, she went out to enjoy a mother’s rarest pleasure: ten minutes alone in the privy.
Emerging relaxed in body and mind, she was disinclined to go back into the cabin. She thought briefly of walking down to the Big House to visit Claire, but Jenny had gone down herself when it had become apparent that the newly arrived Mohawks would spend the night at the Murrays’ cabin. Rachel was very fond of her mother-in-law, but then she adored Oggy and loved Ian madly—and she really didn’t want the company of any of them just now.