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The Heart of Courage: A Novel of the French and Indian War

By Lynne Basham Tagawa

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Chapter One

To thee I lift my soul:
O Lord, I trust in thee:
My God, let me not be ashamed
Nor foes triumph o’er me.
—Psalm 25:1-2, Scottish Psalter

June 1753

Susanna Russell bounded out the door, grabbed the bait bucket and fishing pole from the shed, and loped down the rutted path. At last she was free.
Free from her baby sister’s fussing, free from the admonitions of her father, and from the house itself, whose walls had seemed to close in upon her all morning as she fruitlessly tried to console the newborn. Mother was in the garden, and of course her brothers were at their lessons with Grandda, unable to help.
Lessons. She was too old for lessons, and that was another thing.
A sudden gust threatened her hat, and Susanna clapped one hand upon it as she trotted toward her favorite place, descending the slope, past nodding leaves of Indian corn growing thick beyond the split-rail fence and friendly golden ragwort crowding the footpath. Only the ancient stonewall marking the property line seemed properly sober and grim, its mortar crumbling, the structure abandoned by some long-ago inhabitant.
Foliage cloaked the river ahead. She made her way along the bank to the fishing spot marked by willow branches leaning over the water, their long leaves skimming the surface.
She kicked off her moccasins. Her straw hat, no longer needed, went sailing underneath the willow. Her hair—she’d leave that up. Wisps of breeze floated past, cool on her neck. She squished her toes in the soft brown clay of the riverbank and inhaled deeply, but even the sweet scent of tulip tree blossoms failed to settle her.
She sighed and fingered her red linsey skirt. There was no way to sit on the riverbank without getting it muddy. Unless. She’d slipped on her snug breeches underneath before she left—somehow they’d shrunk drastically over the past year—and decided that if she slipped her skirt up just so, she could sit. Only the hem of her skirt would get soiled, and she could rinse it afterward in the river.
She eased herself down and slipped a grub on the hook. Casting firmly, she managed to land the cedar bob midstream, where the water ran slow and clear, glimmering silver and turquoise in the sun. She breathed deeply, trying to absorb the peacefulness of her favorite place. But her father’s words nagged at her.
“Susanna, we need to speak with ye.” Her father’s voice had cracked strangely. Mother seemed worried. Both pairs of blue eyes were fixed on her. John Russell, tall, strong, a fine shot and the bravest man she knew, was having trouble. “Dinna be alone with a lad.”
What did he mean? Mother was studying the table—no help there. “You can’t mean my brothers.”
Da choked. “No, no.”
“You are fourteen, soon to be a woman,” Mother said. “And—”
“Young men will come nosing about, like stags in—”
“John.”
Her father’s mouth opened and closed. “Aye,” he said, nodding at Mother then looking at her. “It is too soon for courtship. Until then I want ye safe.”
Susanna’s face burned. She knew what courtship and marriage were, although those things still seemed far away. Why, only last year she’d wrestled Seth Robinson, who’d shoved a toad down her shift. He wouldn’t do that again.
“And no more wrestling the lads.”
Da knew?
She sighed. Her world was tightening around her. She and stared at the water, its twinkling current mesmerizing her. If only she could be free like the river, free to travel. Mentally she traced the path of the water as it made its way to the northern edge of Augusta County, joining two other tributaries and forming the South Fork of the Shenandoah.
Da had taken her once to a German settlement far up the valley to sell furniture and trinkets. They’d picnicked next to the Shenandoah, watching the birds dive for fish. He had pointed out the great loops of the river, playful rapids alternating with long shady stretches where fish abounded. But she’d never seen the ferry, only the place on the map where the Shenandoah poured itself like an offering into the Potomac River and headed to the sea.
Nor, for that matter, had she seen Williamsburg, the vibrant capital of Virginia. She imagined ladies in silk gowns dancing with men in bright waistcoats. According to the Gazette, a theater hosted plays. If only—
The float bobbed, once, then twice. Susanna jumped to her feet. The cedar disappeared, and a moment later, the fishing pole was nearly wrenched from her hands. A trout! And it had to be a big one.
She waded into the river, giving the fish room to run, then pulled up and back. For long minutes she repeated the process, battling the trout—if trout it was—the sun on her head, hands fighting for grip. Susanna shoved the rod into the soft silt of the riverbed and slid her hands higher. She refused to lose it, but her shoulders were beginning to ache. How long could she keep it up?
Suddenly the tension on the line vanished. Susanna lifted the pole out of the bed and retreated, taking in the slack. Was it still there? Had it stolen the bait? Fish were canny as some folks, her father said. She searched the still surface of the water.
Ripples erupted, followed by a splash.
“Caught you!”
Encouraged, she backed out of the water and up the bank a few steps, then braced the pole against the soft mud and waited. A tug—she jerked back with all her might, and a huge fish flopped on the ground in front of her.
She stared at the gasping mouth and gills, scales glistening as the body arched and wriggled, tail slapping the mud with as much force as Auntie Agnes beating a bearskin bedcover. That was no trout. She’d heard Arch May speak of bass, but had never seen one. Whatever it was, the fish was huge. She didn’t dare string it in the usual way—it would get loose. No, she’d—
A shadow fell over the fish.
Susanna turned and looked up. Sunlight stabbed her eyes, haloing a tall form. Who was that?
Hard dark eyes and brown cheekbones towered over her.
She gasped. An Indian.
***
James Paxton adjusted the leather strap holding his satchel against his hip, conscious of his cargo, a borrowed copy of a book the minister wished to return to John Russell: Samuel Rutherford’s Lex, Rex.
Translated, The Law and The King, according to Mr. Craig, the minister and also his tutor. With a lift of his bushy eyebrows, Mr. Craig had asked his students why law came before king. Why not Rex, Lex?
James stepped away from the well-beaten track through the knee-high grass, aiming for the cool shade of the trees near the river. Any first-year Latin student could translate that title, but his instructor always pointed out the implications of a statement.
“What does Caesar mean when he says, ‘Veni, vidi, vici’?” Mr. Craig had asked William Preston one winter day, the other student older than James but late to Latin.
“I came; I saw; I conquered?”
Mr. Craig snorted. “Aye, and we ken what he did. He won the battle! Tell me more. What does it reveal about the man?”
William ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. “That he was a good general?”
The minister’s piercing gaze fell on James. “Anything else?”
James wasn’t afraid to best his friend. The twenty-three-year-old Preston eyed James cheerfully, not jealous of his aptitude for languages. Preston’s uncle, an important landowner, had sent his nephew to the minister to learn the mathematics necessary for surveying. History and Latin were less important.
James cleared his throat. “From Plutarch we learn that while Caesar was self-disciplined and fair in many ways, he was ambitious. He had courage, intelligence, and ambition, and at the last, his ambition caused him to overreach, and his friends killed him.”
Mr. Craig leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to William. “A man’s words reveal the heart. Is there a connection?”
Young Preston sat straighter, his broad shoulders evident beneath his leather jacket. “It is a singular statement, sir. Definitive. He did not doubt himself, nor give credit to God.”
Mr. Craig chuckled. “And yet, he was superstitious. The Romans and Greeks tended to be, ye ken—what with their pantheon of gods and goddesses, as liable to play a trick on ye as help ye. Remember that when ye go to Williamsburg with your uncle. The whole Tidewater is mad for ‘the classics,’ and they name their slaves and animals after Romans.”
William’s eyes flickered toward James at that moment. Preston must be thinking about his fine bay colt Marius, named after a Roman general. The previous year the young man and his horse had departed with his uncle for Log’s Town, an important expedition, he’d said. Something to do with the Indians. And a treaty.
As for himself, he had no horse, nor mule, only a head crammed full of Latin and history and a smattering of Greek. En arche en ho Logos … He loved Greek; how could he not? Latin was the dusty language of dead emperors, but Greek was the language of the New Testament, and he longed to have more than a casual acquaintance with the sounds and shapes of the strange letters. He wanted to think in the language. Understand the Scriptures better.
James shook his head, focusing on the matter at hand. The Russells’ place must be close; he’d been there several times before and knew the landmarks. He fingered the satchel, remembering the man John Russell, who’d helped construct the stone meetinghouse across the valley, though he and his kin attended Tinkling Springs, where Mr. Craig preached every other Sabbath.
James scanned the rolling wooded slope and the Blue Ridge just beyond. He’d already spotted the Tinkling Springs meetinghouse, the dark log structure peeping out behind the foliage on a knoll to his left. To his right was the river, and somewhere ahead was the landmark he was looking for, an old crumbling wall emerging from the grass like the ancient artifact of a long-lost civilization. Perhaps it was, he mused.
Something moved near the river, obscured by foliage. He caught a glimpse of a red skirt, then a man’s hunting jacket. Then the naked brown back and black scalp lock of an Indian. A greeting froze in his throat.
James darted to his left, finding shelter behind the wide trunk of a large oak. Male voices carried on the breeze, but he couldn’t discern the words. There was a girl—he’d seen a skirt. He felt for his knife, but there were two men; best he run up to the Russell house. He scanned the rolling terrain for the landmark. Yes, a gleam of white shone through the grasses just ahead.
He crouched and scuttled crab-like through the tall grass to his left, aiming for a stand of poplar. He peeked back at the scene from behind a new hiding spot.
Yes, a girl. He could see her clearly now: dark hair, tall. Was that Susanna Russell? She didn’t seem to be hurt, but Indians took captives. He’d heard a few stories. Heart hammering in his chest, he made his way up the slope, careless of branches and clutching hawthorn. He had to tell her father.
He circled an apple orchard; there was not enough cover between the young trees. Having a vague sense now of where the house and other buildings were located, James plunged straight through the woods.
Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath his feet. Scrabbling and clawing, he fell into darkness. 

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