Follow the River Read Free Page B

an’ then suppose ten times even farther than
that
 …”
    And little Georgie, two years old, trying to match his brother’s concentration and understanding, held up his hands in imitation at the word
ten
.
    “…  An’ then still ten times
more
 …”
    Tommy nodded with satisfaction now, knowing those were the numbers of tens in her recitation.
    “And beyond all that water, ten times ten times ten, with neither tree nor hill to be seen, y’d find a wee land called …”
    “Ireland!” he cried.
    “Ireland. And up in Ireland ye’d find a place called …”
    “County Donegal!”
    “County Donegal. And that is where y’r grandfather George Draper an’ me come from on a boat, twenty-six years ago …”
    “George! Me!” interjected Georgie, his namesake.
    “Aye. When I were a young lass an’ pritty just like y’r mama be now …”
    “An’ sh’ll I ever go over the ocean to County Donegal?” That was the question Tommy liked to ask each time at this point in their reverie.
    “Ye might; aye, ye might. But rather, I see ye goin’ still farther th’
other
way. Ten times ten times ten,” she said,pointing westward, “right over that mountain there, and on, Tommy, as we ha’ been a-comin’ bit by bit by bit since y’r grandfather an’ m’self was young like y’r own mother an’ father …”
    She stopped talking suddenly.
    Screams, wordless, terrified screams, were coming up from the cabins. Elenor Draper’s face turned nearly as white as her hair. It was the voice of her daughter-in-law.
    “What’s wrong with Auntie Bettie?” asked Tommy. Little Georgie ran into his grandmother’s skirt and hugged her leg. The awful tone of the screaming voice had scared him speechless.
    “Come,” Elenor Draper urged. She put down the pail of berries and grabbed the children’s hands, hurrying them out of the brambles onto the path down to the cabins. Bettie must have hurt herself somehow, she thought.
    Elenor and the boys emerged from the thicket onto the meadow by the cabins just as the Indian yells and gunfire broke out. She stopped suddenly, a shiver of terror pouring through her, and turned to drag the boys back into concealment.
    But it was too late. Three Indians running with guns had seen them and now came bounding up the path with quavering mad howls.
    Elenor Draper thrust the children ahead of her into the path among the berry bushes. “Go hide!” she hissed, then turned to face the pursuers.
    She had nothing to fight with but her fingernails. Not even teeth.
    The first Indian was upon her at once. His dark eyes glittered with the hunter’s thrill. Old Elenor Draper struck into them with fingers hooked like claws. The Indian bellowed and, blinded, dropped his gun and tomahawk to capture her wrists. Then another Indian came close and she felt a blade go into her side, under her ribs. She heard her own gurgling animal growl as she sank.
    She felt fingers pulling at her hair, pulling hard, felt herself hanging above the ground with all her weight depending from the roots of her hair. Naked, greasy brown limbs—legs andarms—moved around her, struggled with her. A knee smashed into her face and her nose caved in. Then she felt another blade slice into her scalp. Blood ran down over her eyes. She felt her scalp separate from the skull with a
pop
and then she was lying on the bloody green grass, a distance of ten times ten times ten from the green grass of County Donegal, all her life running hot and wet out of her.
    Footsteps ran away through the brambles, faint and more faint until she could hear nothing but the rushing of an ocean.
    Mary Ingles stood in the blood-spattered yard in front of her house. Her wrists were bound tight behind her with leather thongs and an Indian still held her erect by his grip in her hair. Her scalp anticipated the slash of the knife. She was praying silently, moving her lips.
    Dear Heavenly God I do not want to die. But if Thou’ll spare William and our