The Saga of Caty Sage

Chapter 2

Chapter 2The Abduction

The stranger waited at the edge of the creek, raising himself in the saddle to peek over the crest of the bank. He expectorated the thick brown tobacco juice to the ground, never taking his eyes from the mother as she talked to the child. While he waited, he thought of the many reasons he might be doing this. Truth was, though, it simply boiled down to one thing; his hatred for the girl’s father. The raging, fire-red, hot as a blacksmith’s forge hatred. The kind of hatred that felt like a knife being twisted in his gut. James Sage did not know him, but he knew James Sage very well. Even before Sage had moved to this new farm, the stranger had to listen, from the outside bench of the Cripple Creek Mercantile, to Sage’s crowing of his exploits with the Montgomerys during the war, and how he would boast of the hardships he had spent with Washington at Valley Forge. Christ! He had heard Sage was no more than a damn baker. How much hardship could that have been?

They were all traitors. Every one of them Rebels. They had come to these colonies as English subjects and the fresh air had rotted their minds. And those cursed Scots and Irishmen had caused it all. They were nothing but hillbilly rednecks in the old country and that’s all they were now. The stranger spit in disdain. The Duke of Cumberland should have wiped out both countries back in ’46, along with their cowardly Bonnie Prince Charlie.

He himself was proud that he had served with Lt. Colonel Banastre Tarleton, a true hero. Aye, now that was a man that struck the fear of God into those traitors! He had ridden along with Tarleton throughout the southern colonies. He was sure they would have whipped the whole country if the King had given Colonel Tarleton the command instead of that old-granny Cornwallis. Yes, the Colonel was a real hero, always attacking under a black flag, never to give or expect quarter. They even began to call this Tarleton’s quarter. Just the sight of the man made many an enemy lay down their weapons and run. Sometimes it bothered him, about the children and women they would kill, but hell, just like the Colonel had said, they were rebels too.

He would have been there with the Colonel until the end if it hadn’t been for Cowpens, he thought as he subconsciously rubbed his left thigh. It had looked like victory was theirs. The militia had fired upon the British, but when they saw Tarleton, they turned and run like scared children. Redcoats were all over the mountain, turning the battle into a rout. Then, out of nowhere, came another Rebel attack led by that cursed Colonel William Washington. That coward never had the courage to fight face to face like real soldiers are supposed to do. He would always attack from the flank, or from behind trees. Colonel Washington knew no more about fighting a battle than his brother General Washington knew. He still couldn’t believe that the British lost to that bunch. They wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Cornwallis.

The stranger’s attention to the child was interrupted as he remembered the nightmare of the battle as the Loyalists found themselves surrounded. Then the horror as he saw the Colonel’s horse shot from beneath him, dropping him to the ground. Washington was upon him in seconds, slashing a sword at the colonel’s head. But Tarleton had used his regal British-steel sabre to deflect it. Washington’s inferior sword had broken at the hilt. Ah, what a lovely sight to see the glint of victory in his colonel’s eyes, as he prepared to lay open the Washington’s chest with the next s***h.

Then that damn slave of Washington’s had changed the day when he shot Colonel Tarleton, barely missing his heart, but ripping a hole in his shoulder. The boy then would have surely killed him with the second shot, if he himself had not ridden down on the black heathen, taking the bullet into his leg which was intended for the Colonel’s chest. But he had made the slave pay for his savagery. He smiled, as he saw in his mind’s eye the dust turning as red as Madeira after his own sabre slashed into the slave’s neck. He cherished the horror in the dark eyes as the slave fell to the ground.

He recalled himself then falling to the ground in pain. He was sure that his Colonel thought him dead, or he would never have left him behind. He would have died, if it had not been for the action of other Loyalists in the mountains who took him in. By the time he had recovered, the war was over.

So he came back to his old home on Elk Creek a cripple, and to what? To an empty house because his wife and children had returned home to Pennsylvania, and they had made it clear he was not to follow as a Loyalist wouldn’t be welcomed. He had come back to fifty acres of land that had totally been overtaken by brush in the four years he had been gone, and with no money left to farm it. And now, here was Sage, sitting on his thousand acres, with a houseful of kids to help him farm it. It looked like the mother was big again. He’d noticed the swelling beneath her apron when she gave him those measly rations the day before. Maybe he should slice her open before he left.

So, he had to keep his past a secret, in these mountains filled with so called patriots. He was now a man on the run, a shadow that could never be seen. But he wasn’t a rabbit, scurrying from brush pile to brush pile in the light of day. No, he was a panther, the black cat hunter of the night; a cat whose shrill scream struck fear into the heart of the bravest man. A predator that only came out during the daylight if there was sure prey to be had.

Only last month, his two friends had been caught, turned over to the magistrate and having been found guilty of horse-stealing, were now in the Grayson County jail waiting to be hung. And who helped capture them? That damned James Sage. But it was their own fault! They may be stupid, but he wasn’t. He had stolen Sage’s horses in the dead of the night. He had ridden on the same road, crossing Elk Creek, continuing for five miles, and then doubling back to Elk Creek along a shale bed that concealed his tracks, back to his enemy’s farm. He had arrived just in time to see Sage leave, and was now just waiting for the right time. Sage would hate losing his prize stud and brood mare, but he would be devastated losing the golden treasure that was frolicking in the field before him. The stranger had already formed his battle plan. When the time was right, when the woman was out of sight and the girl was near the creek, he would ride Sage’s horse up and over the bank, tell the girl that he was a friend of her father, and her papa had sent him, on his own horse, to come get her to look at a beautiful sight.

He rose up in his saddle, his heart pounding. The fog had left the creek bank. It was slowly drifting over the meadow. The mother’s view of the girl was obstructed by the haze. His hands began to shake; the girl was walking toward the creek. Her mother had just disappeared around the house to draw two more buckets of water from the spring. He needed to act quickly; he would only have a few seconds. He spurred the horse. It jumped, with a snort, over the bank’s rim.

Lovi lifted her apron and wiped the sweat from her forehead as she climbed the steep hill from the spring to her wash tub. But at least this was her last two buckets. The fire was already starting to boil the water. Then she realized Caty had not brought any more wood. This did not surprise the mother though because the fog had begun to lift, which meant the butterflies would be in the meadow. Caty could never resist chasing them. The first thing she had noticed when the girl was born was the birthmark on her shoulder, in the perfect shape of a tiny butterfly.

“Caty,” she called. “You leave those butterflies alone and bring me that firewood.”

A sharp discord penetrated the haze. Lovi lifted her head to listen. The sound had a familiar resonance. She then remembered the snort made by the deer as they rose from their sleeping places in the field in the mornings as they made their escape into the woods.

Lovi poured the water into the vat, stirred the smoldering embers to re-k****e the fire, and then turned, holding her hands over her eyes to block out the sun breaking through the fog to look for her daughter. A sound reached her ears, causing her to c**k her head.

Who is that talking?

She pulled her apron to cover her arms, as she began to shiver. There was another snort and a rustling.

I guess it’s just the deer leaving for the woods.

If Caty did not arrive soon with the firewood, the fire she had started would be lost. She saw some broken branches laying a few feet away. She gathered these, broke them over a rock, and placed them on the dying fire. The aggravation began to simmer her German blood.

“Caty. You leave those butterflies alone, and bring me that firewood,” she called.

Lovi walked to the top of a crest to look out over the meadow and saw nothing.

“Catherine Sage, you’d better answer me right now or I’m going to get a willow switch.”

She started toward the trees. By this time the sun had begun to burn the fog away. At the edge of the woods she found a pile of firewood the girl had gathered. About fifty feet away, in the direction of the creek, she could make out another smaller pile. She looked to the creek. Caty knew not to go near the bank, surely she wouldn’t. Lovi found herself being drawn toward the creek as if an imaginary rope tugged on her. When she reached the edge, she looked down into the swirling currents. What she saw made her legs weaken. There on the banks of Elk Creek, which was still swollen from the spring rains, lay her daughter’s corn-husk doll. Holding her breath, she looked over the edge. A sickening knot began swelling in the pit of her stomach when she saw where the bank had given way into the creek.

With a scream, Lovi jumped into the stream. The flood-waters were only up to her knees, but the current was strong. She fought to find her footing on the slippery creek bed. Oblivious to everything around her, she floundered down the stream, screaming her daughter’s name. Just when she was ready to succumb to the exhaustion, she saw Elk Creek spilling into the New River. Grabbing the root of an overhanging oak tree, she pulled herself up the slippery slope and ran to the house of William Jones, who operated the Jones Ford Ferry. Her frantic knocks on the door were soon answered by Mattie Jones.

“Well, sakes alive Lovi, what’s wrong? You’re soaked. Come in and let me dry you off.”

Lovi grasped her neighbor’s arm and stumbled into the house. Still out of breath, she struggled to rush the words.

“Mattie…Caty…My Caty…She fell into….the creek. I can’t find her.”

“Oh Heavenly Father,” Mattie Jones said, clasping her apron to her face in silent prayer. She then turned to her young son, “Ernie. Quick. Go fetch your father. He’s down by the barn.”

By the time William Jones had reached the house, Lovi had caught her breath and was drinking a cup of tea between sobs. She quickly explained to Mr. Jones what she had seen at the creek bank and that James was out chasing a horse thief.

“Come boys,” he called. “You walk this side of the river. I’ll cross over in the boat to walk the other. Keep in sight.”

“Is there anything I can do for you, Lovi?” Mrs. Jones said, after her husband had left.

“No, I guess not, I’ll just…” then Lovi Sage screamed. “Oh my God, I left the babies by themselves. I forgot all about them. I’ve got to run home.”

“We were just getting ready to take the wagon over to the Cox’s, so it’s harnessed up. Wrap this blanket around you and I’ll drive you home.”

Lovi arrived home to find four-year old Lovis leaning over baby Sampson’s cradle, her finger temporarily pacifying the infant’s desire for mother’s milk. Mrs. Jones took the girls inside as Lovi unbuttoned her dress. As she raised the infant to her breast her mind rushed back to when Caty was a suckling. How she would smile and coo while she was feeding. Lovi then remembered the screech owl from that morning and a tremor swept over her.

“Oh God, please let her be safe,” Lovi whispered. “I don’t think I could stand losing my Caty.”

Five years of memories swirled through Lovi’s consciousness. She thought back to the day her daughter was born. A blizzard had struck and left two feet of snow on the ground. The midwife could not come so James had to deliver the baby. But it was such an easy birthing. It was as if the child had just slipped from the womb into the world. She remembered the first step Caty took. It was in the field, down at the Cripple Creek home. The family was lying on a quilt, having a picnic. A butterfly lit on the blanket and when it flew off, Caty stood up and took two steps after it. Lovi then thought to the Christmas just the year before. The crops had been bad, and there had not been any money for presents. She and James had made gifts for the children, including the corn husk doll. Lovi thought of the wet muddy doll out on the creek bank. I must remember to go get it, she thought, and then again began to cry uncontrollably. In spite of her sobbing, Sampson had fallen asleep. Lovi placed him in the crib. She then fell, trembling, across the bed.

She woke up a few hours later when she heard Mr. Jones and his sons enter the house. She jumped to her feet and ran to the front room.

“Did you find her?” Lovi asked, but then saw her neighbor’s face, wretched with grief.

“No ma’am, I’m sorry to say we didn’t. We went all the way to the falls calling out her name, and she was nowhere to be found. I’m sorry, Mrs. Sage, is there anything more we can do?”

Lovi felt her heart sink, but she knew she had to keep her wits.

“Thank you so much Mr. Jones. Could you do one more thing for me? Please go over to Lieutenant Vaughan’s and tell them to have James come home as soon as possible.”

“Yes, we will do that. And when he gets here, tell him to come down to the house and we will have lanterns and help him hunt the rest of the night.”

Soon after the Joneses left, the boys and Polly arrived home from school. Lovi sent them to feed the animals, and to do their father’s evening chores. When James Sage arrived an hour later, Lovi told him of the disappearance. He immediately ran to the creek bank. In a few minutes he came back into the house.

“Lovi, I don’t think she fell into the creek,” James said in a voice that showed a strain seldom heard. “I think she was taken. I found horse tracks along the bank.”

“Do you think it was Indians? I thought things were peaceful.”

“Well, there’s still renegades out there, but no, I don’t think it was Indians. I think it was just one horse. Usually Indians travel in groups. The tracks seem to go down the creek. I’m taking the boys with me and I’m going to get the Joneses to go with us up the river to see if we can pick up any more signs.”

Lovi tried to find peace of mind by returning to her tasks. It was too late to do the wash, but she used the water she had gathered to give the children a bath, prepared their dinner, and put them to bed. She then sat down by the firelight and started the mending. She simply could not concentrate on the needlework and, laying it down, picked up the Bible. She turned to her favorite verse, Psalms 121, and began reading silently.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is thy keeper: the LORD is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.

She laid the open Bible in her lap. She lowered her head to meet her clinched hands and began praying.

“Oh God, please don’t let my precious Caty be dead. I know James and I haven’t been as faithful as we should be. I know we should travel to church when it’s held, even if we do have to drive to Cripple Creek. I promise God, just let Caty be ok and we’ll be better Christians.”

She wanted to pray more, to give God assurances of the sacrifices she and James would make if God would just make everything alright. But more words would not come. Then Lovi felt a peaceful calmness come over her and she felt certain that her daughter was alive. She laid the Bible down to the side of the rocking chair and was, in a few minutes, dozing peacefully.