Dear readers, when I started this chapter I had everything worked out in my head about how I wanted it to flow. But I've struggled with it. So let me know what you think. And thanks for the reviews!
2.
When William Tavington woke the first morning in his new home, it was with an eagerness to meet the day that he hadn't felt in ages.
He took his time getting dressed; mentally listing the things he intended to get done that day. He combed his dark hair back, braiding it into his customary queue but instead of wrapping it as he normally did in uniform; he let it hand down his back. He also made a decision not to shave. As an officer he had been expected to and never let that part of his daily hygiene go undone. But he had no one to answer to now and by God, he decided, if he wanted to let his beard grow to his knees, he would.
Tavington made a small pot of the precious coffee he brought with his supplies. Just enough for himself to enjoy. He had also brought tea, but English or not, he much preferred the richness of coffee. Tavington had no idea if there was another trading post closer than Chillicothe or any idea of when he might be able to get in to trade again. So he would ration his coffee as well as his other supplies as only his soldier's discipline would allow.
After seeing to his horses, he left his cabin that morning with his gun and ammunition determined to have something for dinner other than hard tack and salt pork. It was a beautiful spring morning and he was certain he would find something tasty in the woods. He also wanted to explore the property a little more. And as he set off, he almost whistled.
Tavington made quick work of bagging a couple of pheasants, and after stringing them to his satchel, he consulted his map. He found the creek to the west and made the border of his land. It wasn't too far from the house-only about a half mile away and he looked forward to taking a swim after the weather warmed up.
He found his fields without any trouble, most of which were partially cleared. He knew he had his work cut out for himself though. The cleared fields were just as overgrown as the clearing around the house. But if he worked hard and fast, he could have a garden planted by May to sustain him through this first winter and his fields would be ready to plant by next spring.
As he neared his cabin once more, he felt the strange sensation of being watched. He knew there were Shawnee in the area and it was a little unsettling to think they were already making an appearance. He stopped for a moment to check that his gun was still loaded, reaffirmed that his hunting knife was still strapped to his side and proceeded on.
Tavington was busy dressing his birds outside and looking forward to roasting them over the fire when a voice behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin.
"Those are some nice lookin birds ya got there, Mr. Wallace."
Tavington turned in a combative stance, his knife gripped tightly, ready for a fight. He was shocked even more when he realized his would-be attacker was nothing more than a mere boy.
He relaxed his stance and the two continued a staring contest of sorts in silence, as if sizing each other up. The boy finally broke his gaze from Tavington and shifted uncomfortably, kicking the dirt at his feet. He was a small, scrawny looking boy with sandy hair and brown eyes. He was clean and dressed in the typical fashion Tavington had seen most children wearing near the Frontier-homespun clothing and moccasins. Half his teeth were missing and the other half were growing in, giving his mouth the look of a tottering picket fence.
Tavington wondered where this brat had come from and better yet, what he was doing there when the boy looked up at Tavington again and said, "You're not Mr. Wallace."
"No, I'm not. My name is William Tavington. And you are?"
The boy stuck his hand out in a friendly gesture until he noticed the pheasant guts on Tavington's. He tipped his chip-straw hat instead saying, "I'm Jason, Jason Mitchel. My gran'pa and Uncle Bart own the place on the other side of the creek. I live there with them and my ma and my cousin Tim. But I don't like Tim much…he's mean. I thought Mr. Wallace was back so I came over here to see him."
Jason stopped his prattling and Tavington realized the boy was waiting for him to say something in return.
"Well, Mr. Wallace sold this property to me. So, it's mine now and I'm going to be settling here."
For some reason, Tavington didn't want the boy to know he won the property in a card game. He wasn't sure why- normally he wouldn't give a fig- but he chalked it to not wanting to make a bad impression on his new neighbors.
He turned back to dressing his dinner, pulling another fistful of feathers, hoping that if he ignored the boy he would grow bored and wander back to wherever it was he came from. Then the questions began. And Tavington couldn't help but wonder if the Spanish Inquisition would have been easier to tolerate.
"Where ya from?"
"When didja get here?"
"Didja see any Indians on the way?"
"Are ya married?"
"Do ya got any kids for me to play with?"
"What kinda horses are those? They sure are pretty…."
"What kinda gun is that?"
"Can I hold it?"
"Do ya got a cow? My ma has a cow, her name's Sweetie."
Tavington answered each question accordingly and finally managed to get a couple questions in of his own. As he rinsed the pheasants and his hands in a bucket he asked, "How old are you boy?"
"Almost eight," Jason said proudly.
Tavington sighed heavenward, "Almost eight."
God help me…. He thought.
He turned away and started into the house saying over his shoulder, "Didn't your ma ever tell you it's rude to ask a man so many questions?" Mocking the boy and his ma.
The little boy scampered after him. "Didn't your ma ever tell you it's rood to walk away when someone's talkin to ya?" He asked mocking Tavington's accent in return. For some reason Tavington found the child's audacity rather amusing and he chuckled.
Inside the cabin, Tavington hunkered down by the hearth and rekindled the coals from that morning. He stuck the birds on a spit he purchased with his other cooking equipment. He was glad he bought it too. Cooking over a spit was something he learned as a young officer out in the field and with all the abundant game in this new territory, it would come in handy.
He looked over his shoulder to find Jason watching him intently from the open doorway.
"Well, are you just going to stand there?" Tavington asked. "Are you coming in or not?"
Jason took a few steps inside the door, looking around the cabin as he did.
"I was waiting for you to invite me in," he said.
"Now you tell me," Tavington muttered sardonically. He placed the pheasants carefully over the fire and then took a ladle of water and slowly poured it over the meat to keep it from drying out. Then, he picked a few potatoes out of his crates and after poking a hole in each one, he shoved them under the coals to cook.
He felt Jason's eyes follow him the entire time, and he wondered again what the hell the boy was doing there. It could never be said that Tavington was ever fond of children. And now here one sat invading his sanctuary. It wasn't that the boy was doing anything wrong. That is to say he was simply sitting at the table rather than milling around or snooping. But it disturbed Tavington's peace none the less.
With his dinner cooking away, Tavington continued to ignore his visitor and turned his attention to the problem of his unwanted bedmates. He picked up the ash bucket and shovel and went to the bedstead with it. Lifting each corner of the blankets, he found the corner where a family of mice was nested with a whole mess of pink, squirming babies. He scooped them out of the hole in the ticking and dumped them in the bucket.
Tavington brought them over to where Jason sat watching and asked wryly, "Should I put these on the fire for dessert?"
Jason wrinkled his nose and Tavington couldn't help but laugh.
"Would you mind taking them outside and dumping them in the tree line so they don't come back in the house?" He asked.
The boy's face perked up at the idea of actually doing something worthwhile for his new neighbor and he jumped to the task.
Tavington knelt to turn his pheasants and change the position of the potatoes so they would not burn. Jason, back from his chore, set the ash bucket down by the hearth and took up his post at the table again.
"You know what my ma does with those? He asked. Before Tavington could take a guess Jason answered for him. "She stuffs em with apples and onions. It's real good that way."
Tavington had to admit it did sound good. Nevertheless, he begrudgingly told Jason that he had no apples or even onions since his garden had not been planted yet.
"Sure ya do," Jason said brightly. "Mr. Wallace planted some apple trees years ago- a long time before we ever came here. And he told my gran'pa and my ma that if we looked after the trees while he was gone, we could pick all the apples we wanted. And you know what else?"
Now Jason was smiling at Tavington as if he had the best gossip ever to share. Tavington was still a little shocked to hear he had apple trees. He probably walked right past them earlier when he was exploring the property.
"What else, Jason?" Tavington asked, now that his interest was piqued.
"I can show ya where they are and I can show ya where the ramps grow. My ma fries em with potatoes and they're so good….." Jason's words broke off almost dreamily as the boy thought of his mother's cooking. He rubbed his belly and licked his lips, making a little "mmmm.." as he did.
Tavington glanced at his roasting birds then back at the boy.
"I supposed you'll want to stay for dinner?"
"No," Jason answered, getting up and moving towards the door. "My ma'll skin me alive if I don't get home soon. But I can show ya tomorrow."
"All right then, until tomorrow," Tavington said before deciding to add, "And tell your grandfather and mother I send my thanks for taking care of the trees."
"Meh," the boy shrugged, flicking his hand as if to shoo the idea away like a pestering fly. "That's what neighbors are for."
Jason ran off in the direction of the creek before Tavington could say anything else.
When his food was done cooking, Tavington ate one of the birds along with a potato. He cleaned up his mess and set the rest of his culinary masterpiece aside for supper. He sipped on a little more of his coffee and flipped through some farm journals he had found the day before. He wanted to see what projects this Wallace person worked on during the spring season. But his mind kept going back his little Yankee visitor and some of the things he said.
Jason spoke fondly of his mother and grandfather; he readily proclaimed that he didn't care for his cousin. But what seemed to speak even louder to Tavington was that Jason didn't have much to say about his Uncle Bart and he never even mentioned his father.
As Tavington's thoughts came back full circle, he admitted to himself that Jason was likeable enough- for a child.
A/N; Just for the record...Chillicothe is derived from a Shawnee word meaning "council town." The council town was located wherever the Shawnee chief lived. While there is a city of Chillicothe in southern Ohio. The Chillicothe's of the 18th and 19th century moved from location to location according to who was chief. There was a Chillicothe located near present day Xenia and even one here in Piqua (another Shawnee settlement). But for the purpose of this story, I have also made Chillicothe as a place where settlers might be able to trade for goods. Because other than Loramie's Store (which was burned by Americans in 1782) I could not find any actual names of other trading posts in the area.
Also, ramps are wild leeks. They have a flavor of strong garlic combined with onions.