The Man on the Park Bench
***
Aaron Reeder swiped the water with his oars. The sun felt good in spite of sweat that drenched his body and ran down his spine. That sweat had not come from the sun, but from the hair raising stretch of white foamed narrows they'd just passed through, where the banks closed in and the current raced faster. For almost two hours the Indians had trotted through the trees on both shores. They kept up with the current, firing arrows toward the settlers as the boats threaded among half hidden rocks that could slice his skiff up like a knife through fat. He and the others squatted low, clutching primed rifles, shooting toward running figures to keep them from stopping long enough to aim.
The river had just widened into a pool that put the boats out of arrow range from either shore. It was flat and calm ahead, and the morning wind had died down. A flash of memory came of the Virginia mountain lake where he and Sabra had lived until she'd died birthing Phoebe. Reeder sat back on his haunches and reached for his leather sack of parched corn. He chewed a kernel slowly to make it last.
"Aaron!"
Colonel Donelson waved him over from his flatboat deck. As Reeder paddled toward him, a scream sounded from way upriver, then another. A gunshot, another scream, then some whoops. The Indians were attacking the quarantined boat people. A rifle barked in the distance.
Donelson's grim face looked east toward the noises. He nodded at the tarpaulin covered bulge in Reeder's skiff.
"How's she doing?"
Reeder blinked. "What?"
"How's Phoebe? Rachel said she didn't feel well."
A chill gripped Reeder. "What the hell you talking about? She's in your boat."
Colonel Donelson's face turned white. He stared back up the river, then down at Reeder. "Good Lord, man! She isn't here. She told Rachel she was going with you."
Aaron's mouth dropped open. He looked back toward the screams. Snatches of the early morning came to him. Her silence. Grieving over the Stuart boy. Packing the boats. Stacking provisions for the smallpox people to pick up—
Oh, my God.
My God, she—she stayed with the provisions, to be with that boy!
Reeder crammed an oar against the flatboat and spun his own boat around. “Damn!” He muttered the word over and over again, in time with the powerful oar thrusts he made into the dark water. He felt lightheaded, like he did when he'd climbed on Colonel Donelson's barn to fix the roof, then looked at the ground so far away. He paddled furiously and angled toward the slower water near the north bank. He met and passed one, two, three flotilla boats, ignoring Colonel Donelson's yells to return.
His skiff bounced into the rapids. The trees closed in and passed by more slowly despite his strong, panicked surges against the swift current toward the screaming and yelling.
A cracked voice came from the quarantine boat. "You damned bastards! You—"
Loren Stuart stopped in mid sentence. A woman screamed. Reeder wiped a dirty sleeve across blurred eyes and rowed harder toward the north shore. The skiff rammed the beach, and he grabbed his rifle and jumped out. The boat slipped away and bobbed aimlessly down the river.
An Indian leaped up in front of him. Reeder fired and saw the slug snap his head back. He reloaded and stumbled eastward toward the screams.
Another Indian. He shot again. Blood gushed from the savage's side and splashed on slippery pebbles.
"You sons of bitches! You goddamned sons of bitches!" His frantic gaze locked on the Stuart boat. Loren Stuart laid face down, with an arrow in his back. Young Stuart was dead, too, or too sick to fight. His mama had either fallen out or was on the floor. His daughter Phoebe knelt helplessly against a smoking rifle. God, she doesn't even know how to reload! I raised her to be a lady, and now…
An arrow struck her right shoulder. She dropped the gun and grabbed at the shaft and struggled with it. Reeder drew almost even with the boat.
He could pull it out. He could do it! He dropped his empty rifle and plunged into the raging river. He kicked fiercely and stroked hard and closed the distance to the boat as the current carried them all downstream. He lunged at the Stuart boat and grabbed its side and tried to pull himself up.
The first arrow struck his back. He felt a small prick, a sudden heaviness. His legs wouldn’t move. Without power to tread water he was going under. He clinched the boat tighter and fought the current's pull. His weight tipped the boat and Phoebe's eyes met his for the first time. She reached for him, and her lips tried to form words. Talk to me! Oh, Phoebe, talk to me!
Another arrow tore into Phoebe's side. She pitched forward, eased down against the boat’s side, and rolled into the water. She slipped beneath the surface. Her body bumped Reeder's chest as he floated over her. He gasped and tasted blood in the red frothed water.
Silence.
Her silence.
The sudden silence of the battle, in spite of yelling Indians and waves crashing on jutting rocks.
No sound at all.
Sabra was gone, and now Phoebe. Arrows came in slow motion, bounced against the boat, stabbed its contents. Then one, with a sharp point and a trailing turkey feather, pierced his neck and ripped through the other side. His fingers relaxed, and cold water covered his face.
Silence.
Deliverance at Last
If God couldn’t save him, he’d have to do it himself.