Wild Indigo

  Wild Indigo

  Judith Stanton

  To my parents, Clyde and Betty Jane Phillips, sixth and seventh generation descendants of Moravians, and oral storytellers of the first order.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  The lot said nein. No.

  Chapter 2

  Retha had thought she could bear blood.

  Chapter 3

  “Do you understand my question?” Retha felt Jacob Blum’s massive…

  Chapter 4

  Cries of “best wishes” and “a long and happy life”…

  Chapter 5

  Sun warmed Retha’s face, the mild heat of early morning.

  Chapter 6

  Retha swept the yard with a mind to murder dirt.

  Chapter 7

  “Ah, Blum. You have news about our grain?” Inside his…

  Chapter 8

  Faint harmonies drifted through the window, softly humming Jacob’s body…

  Chapter 9

  In the morning light, Retha lay across Jacob’s bed, abandoned…

  Chapter 10

  The man called Sim Scaife paced the clay floor. Four…

  Chapter 11

  Jacob’s kiss was firm, demanding, hot, but the day’s events…

  Chapter 12

  At home in the kitchen, Jacob smeared lard onto his…

  Chapter 13

  “Papa’s not never coming home,” Anna Johanna fretted.

  Chapter 14

  “The wagons, Papa, they’re here!” Matthias banged the door open…

  Chapter 15

  “’Tis right, Retha. And I will make it even better.”

  Chapter 16

  The menace in the voice was familiar, too. Her pulse…

  Chapter 17

  “Disappeared! What do you mean, my son has disappeared?” Jacob’s…

  Chapter 18

  “I’ll carry it,” Matthias insisted. With a poignant manliness, he…

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  Salem, North Carolina, June 1780

  The lot said nein. No.

  Not again, Jacob Blum thought in disbelief, palming the slender wooden reed that held the decisive slip of paper.

  Casting the lot had already denied him two possible brides—the one his fellow leaders in the Moravian community had recommended and another he had thought might benefit his children. With this third draw, the lot denied him even the opportunity to travel to Pennsylvania to seek a helpmate there.

  Expressionless, he handed the paper across the table to Elder Frederick Marshall.

  The senior Moravian’s face fell as he confirmed Jacob’s third rejection. “Perhaps we have failed again to ask the proper question, Brother Blum.”

  Sister Elisabeth Marshall, sitting beside her husband, discreetly cleared her throat. “’Tis not as if you were a Single Brother who could marry at his leisure. You have three children.”

  Jacob buried his head in his hands and laughed. His four fellow Elders shuffled in their seats, obviously uncomfortable with his outburst. Or perhaps with his awkward situation. Who among them had last sought a wife in vain?

  And who had ever needed one more?

  Jacob tried to muffle his laughter as Brother Marshall tapped the reed on the table and Sister Marshall coughed. Single Brother Philip Schopp paged noisily through his precious papers. Across the table, Single Sister Rosina Krause set her round face in disapproval.

  “I cannot think laughter seemly in this matter, Brother Blum,” she said in her soft German.

  “No, of course not.”

  But better to laugh than to rail against the lot. If this test of his faith or endurance continued, it would drive him mad.

  Two months ago, Jacob and his fellow Elders had first cast the lot in the hope of finding him a new wife. For the last hundred years, Moravians had cast lots to seek God’s will in important matters. Jacob had not yet been born when the lot ordained that they embark from Germany for Pennsylvania. He had been a lad when the lot granted them permission to seek a new settlement in the North Carolina wilderness. He had been a young husband and father when the lot approved his move to the new community of Salem.

  Once Salem was settled, Moravians continued to rely on the lot to decide where to build a house or store, whether to start a new school, whom to join in marriage. In a simple religious ceremony, an Elder would draw a reed containing a slip of paper marked ja or nein or left blank. The blank slip instructed them to ask the question later or frame it in a different way.

  Jacob had witnessed this ceremony many times—too many times of late, he thought. So far, divine wisdom had not guided him to the wife he sorely needed.

  The Elders had first put forward Eva Reuter, the comely Single Sister who taught in the fledgling school for girls. She knew something of children. The lot came up nein.

  Last month the Elders had begged him to propose someone himself.

  The widowed Sister Baumgarten, he had said.

  “That would put seven children all together under one roof, Jacob.” Marshall had raised his objection evenly.

  “You seem to think that seven under her care would be worse than my three alone with me,” Jacob had said. “At least hers mind.”

  Her ability with children had never been put to the test, for the lot said nein again.

  So on this hot June afternoon, the Elders had asked whether he should go to the Moravian settlement in Pennsylvania. There were suitable prospects there.

  Now the lot had squelched even that thin hope.

  “Brother Marshall, my children must have a mother.”

  The two women Elders nodded sagely. Frederick Marshall returned the reed to the deep wooden lot bowl that sat on the hand-rubbed oak table.

  “True enough,” Single Brother Philip Schopp spoke up. “After what Nicholas did last week, I may have to ask you to take him from our new school for boys.”

  Jacob stiffened in his older son’s defense. “What has he done?”

  The schoolmaster sniffed. “Nicholas has been…difficult.”

  Jacob met that accusation head-on. “Difficult! How?”

  “Your offspring denounced the little Tatum brothers as Tories and then formed an alliance with the other boys to shun them.”

  Jacob felt the tension in his neck. But the hothead had done worse. “Is that all?”

  “No. He did on one occasion pelt some other boys with pumpkin seeds launched from a spoon.”

  “Not smaller boys!” Jacob said, half wanting to thrash his son, but also amused by his antics.

  “No. Only boys big enough to fight back,” Schopp answered, his tone sardonic. “I recovered the spoon and told him to take it home.”

  Jacob could not hide a grin. So that was what had happened to their spoons. No doubt Nicholas had subjected his victims to more than one assault. Jacob would have to confront his mischief maker. It would be hard. His older son was much as he had been at twelve, smart and bored and full of beans. Jacob himself had never been made to mind, and he no longer knew how to control the boy, short of trussing him up and stuffing him in the loft.

  Jacob needed a wife’s advice. His son needed a mother’s softer influence.

  “Moreover,” Marshall interjected, “Brother Bonn says your second son is too thin. Is he sickly?”

  “Not sick,” Jacob said. “But yes, Matthias is thin. That is why I suggested Sister Baumgarten, who cooks for all those children.”

  Rosina Krause gave Jacob a self-conscious look over her imported spectacles. “There is one other problem.”

  Jacob shook his head, only t
oo aware of what was coming next. “My daughter.”

  Sister Krause lowered her voice. “Anna Johanna—” Almost involuntarily, she held her hand up to her face. “She—”

  “I know. She stinks.”

  Again the four Elders nodded as one.

  Jacob rubbed his neck uneasily. His sons posed problems, he’d admit it. But his four-year-old daughter’s peculiarity had defeated him. He did not understand it. He knew for a fact that the only adversity in her charmed life was the loss of her mother. Was that adversity enough to explain her fear?

  “She will not let me bathe her. I cannot even get her out of that dress. When I try, she screams.” The men grimaced, but the women muttered as if they understood. They couldn’t, Jacob thought. “No, I mean screams, then holds her breath till she turns blue.”

  Sister Krause leaned forward. “So what does Brother Bonn—”

  “Our esteemed doctor says naught. Or rather, he suggests naught. He says that in time she will recover from the death of her mother. He says in time she will grow out of it. At this rate, she’ll outgrow that dress first. Meanwhile…” Jacob shrugged.

  “Meanwhile, Brother Blum, you need a wife.” Frederick Marshall resumed control of the meeting. “Very well. We will consult the lot again next meeting.”

  “Next meeting!” Jacob exploded. “Two months have passed since we last cast the lot. We lost Christina a year ago.”

  “And you should be in mourning.” Marshall pursed his lips in admonition.

  “Believe me,” Jacob said sharply, “I’m in mourning every day.” Thinking of his sweet wife, his friend from childhood, he softened his tone. His flare of temper sullied her memory. This haste to marry did, too. But without her gentle guidance, his family had gone awry. “My children need a mother. I need the lot cast again—now.”

  “We never rush the lot,” Marshall reminded him.

  “We haven’t rushed it. We—I—have been very patient with the lot. All three lots. I will abide by its decision. But my children’s needs are foremost now.”

  Marshall whispered to his wife and then to Philip Schopp.

  “Brother Blum, ’tis unprecedented.” Marshall spoke in the voice reserved for Sunday service. “To seek the lot too often questions the Savior’s will. Waiting may be to a purpose. But if you will stand outside, we will consider your request.”

  “Very well.” Jacob knew what that meant. Elders had to stand outside whenever the Board pondered a matter that bore on them. He buttoned his coat and left the Gemein Haus, where the Elders had their meeting room and the Single Sisters also lived.

  Stepping into the afternoon heat in Salem Square, Jacob let out a frustrated breath. He could no more stand and wait than raise his hand and part the sea. Passing Brother Schopp’s modest house where the new school for boys was held, he smiled at the thought of Nicholas launching pumpkin-seed artillery. Inventive boy, like his father.

  Who should be a more sober father. Christina had kept them all in hand. He repressed pangs of loss and need. He missed her, and had little hope of replacing her sweet company and tender affections with this new bride.

  He passed the new cistern, which he had finished just last month. A farmer drew water for placid red oxen, perhaps safe now from the war. A British soldier filled a bucket for his sweat-streaked horse. His small detachment had arrived just this forenoon, part of the ceaseless flow of soldiers from both sides that alternately flooded the town, all but occupying it at times.

  Jacob’s hard work had paid off. The town’s water system—his design, his labor—was working. For all concerned, it seemed.

  He strode on, across the town’s spacious central Square, past a small structure that doubled as market stand and firehouse. His firehouse. An engine, ordered from England, had been delayed by the war, and he had designed an interim firewagon too.

  “Guten Tag,” an older neighbor addressed him in German.

  “Good afternoon,” said a younger Married Brother, one of the few men besides himself who had learned much English. At least now some in Salem could mingle with backcountry settlers and not stand out as foreign.

  “Jacob,” Samuel Ernst called out, bearing down on him from his little one-room leather shop. “Are not the Elders meeting?”

  “Yes, Samuel. At this very moment.”

  “You are not with them.” Samuel backed him up against the split-rail fence that surrounded the Square.

  “The lot,” Jacob said in a private voice. “They’re discussing whether to cast the lot for me.”

  “Ah. Again? Mine was answered first time.” Samuel, who had married Eva Reuter just last week, gave him a comradely punch in the arm.

  Jacob grunted obligingly.

  Samuel settled his short, compact body against the fence.

  “I still need a house for the night watch.”

  “We know that,” Jacob said, careful not to promise what he could not deliver.

  “Now more than ever.” Samuel furtively inclined his head toward two Redcoats walking up from the Tavern, spurs clicking on the plank walk. Jacob had seen them earlier. Their British detachment had fled a losing action near the South Carolina border and stopped here to replenish supplies. Their presence for days on end, and that of other soldiers, had led the unarmed Moravian community to increase the number of guards posted at night. The new guards needed a place to meet and organize. Alerting two hundred people to danger was no small task.

  Although Jacob understood his friend’s concern, he had to caution him. “That house is more a matter for my Supervisory Committee, which meets next week.”

  As town planner and builder, Jacob ran the Supervisory Committee and represented it to the Elders. To his thinking, the Elders represented the soul of their communally run society, and the supervisors its pulse. All business matters, including pricing goods and building structures, came to his supervisors first.

  Five years ago, when the town was new, he had relished his duties as leader, builder, dreamer. Now with familiarity and the war, he shouldered them.

  “All the more reason for you to press for it.”

  Jacob’s gaze followed the soldiers. “I will build you your watch house, Samuel.”

  “A simple log hut will do.”

  Jacob barely heard his friend. The soldiers had, very inappropriately, fallen in step with a young, pretty Single Sister, burdened with linens from the tavern.

  The woman gracefully acknowledged the men, her white collar and apron banners of purity against her modest rose-colored dress. Jacob saw the stouter man take her by the arm. She jerked away.

  “Samuel,” Jacob barked. “Come!”

  In ten strides, he blocked the two men’s way. Samuel caught up and stood behind him.

  “We will help our Sister, thank you,” Jacob said sternly.

  He wasn’t about to reveal a Sister’s name, although this one’s escaped him in the tension of the moment. He braced himself to protect her.

  Quickly the soldiers stepped back, hands down and palms facing outward. Sometimes he forgot how large a man he was. His anger waned as fast as it had risen. Up close, these men were young, their tired faces drained of color. Their red coats, which looked crisp and ominous from afar, betrayed their recent battle with a ragged rip, a dangling button, a torn epaulet.

  “We were just adding this.” Stepping up smartly, the young corporal held out a wadded-up garment stained with blood. “From our lieutenant.”

  “Very well,” Jacob said, and took it without looking. It had the feel of fine clothing, finer than he was wont to wear.

  The soldiers clicked back down the plank walk. Jacob watched for a moment, then glanced at the young woman, sure he saw alarm flash across her face. As suddenly, she hid it and favored him with gleaming amber eyes. Wild eyes. Wolf’s eyes. They danced, untamed, amused, and his heart pumped an extra beat.

  He looked away for modesty’s sake, and looked back for courtesy. Her eyes matched, he noted soberly, an errant wisp of amber hair that s
trayed from under the crisp white Haube that capped her head.

  Then he realized that noticing her hair was not a sober thought. He tried to suppress it, but his gaze swept her bright, framed face. He fought for control. Each and every Sister had to wear the Haube, he reminded himself.

  But few wore it to such effect.

  “I thank you, Brother Blum.” Her arresting, throaty voice contradicted her dancing eyes. “But they meant no harm.”

  “They had no right to threaten you, Sister Mary—” Jacob, caught off guard by his wayward thoughts, cast about for the rest of her name. Magdalena, perhaps. But Mary was all he could remember.

  “Margaretha,” Samuel prodded.

  Of course, Jacob thought. Mary Margaretha, the foundling. She had no last name. He remembered the fiery night when he had rescued her, a wild white child in a deerskin Indian shift, hoarding dried pumpkin and sweet potatoes in a stolen sack.

  Rescued or, some might say, captured. That night she had struggled wordlessly, clawing him and kicking her heels into his shins. He and his wife had calmed her down. Later the community had taken her in, giving her a home and a Christian name. But no surname. To this day, no one knew who she was, apart from the obvious fact that she was white. Not even she could say.

  Well. His little thief had grown into a woman.

  “…and neither do you, Brother Blum,” he heard her saying sweetly as his attention snapped back to the here and now.

  “Neither do I?”

  Her bold gaze trapped him, then dropped to her arm where his free hand gripped her sleeve. Her elbow. He let it go as if it were a stick that turned out to be a snake.

  “Forgive me, Sister Mary,” he muttered hastily. Single Brothers and Sisters lived separately—were kept separate—for a reason. To say nothing of overwhelmed Widowers. “I meant no—”

  “Everyone calls me Retha,” she said lightly, snatching the stained shirt from his hands and spinning on her heel, linens scooped up to her breast. Samuel Ernst bolted after her, opening the separate door to the part of the Gemein Haus where the Single Sisters lived. She disappeared inside, the her-ringboned wooden door banging behind her.