Part 8 (1/2)
Yet the wilderness must pa.s.s and we must build now for the days to come.”
”Go on, Mordecai,” encouraged his chief. ”What are your plans?”
”I know how eager you are to civilize the Indians in our region and teach them the arts of peace,” went on Mordecai. ”Thus far we have done nothing but trade with them for pelties and healing barks and oils. But could we not have the squaws raise the cotton and bring it down the river in their canoes and prepare it in our gin for the market in New Orleans?”
”Good.” Hawkins nodded approvingly. ”First we must gain permission of the Hickory Ground Indians for the erection of our gin, for it will not be wise to risk their enmity at the outset. But there is not another gin in the state. Where shall we find a pattern; where shall we get the workmen to fas.h.i.+on one for us; or the needed tools?”
”I have thought of that,” Abram Mordecai told him. ”There are two Jews of Georgia, Lyon and Barrett, who have both the tools and the skill for the task. I met Lyon when we were both young men serving in the army under General Was.h.i.+ngton. You can rely upon him for faithful service.”
A little smile curved the agent's lips. ”You Jews!” he exclaimed. ”Is there any enterprise in which you have not had a hand? Even back to the building of the pyramids in old Egypt! It is like a Jew to plan the first cotton gin in Alabama--and to bring two of his race to build it.”
”We are indeed builders,” answered Mordecai a little dryly, ”but not always for ourselves.” He rose. ”Shall I send for them?”
”The sooner the better. And it will be good to meet your fellow Hebrews again, eh, Mordecai?”
Abram Mordecai, already at the door, turned a moment. His eyes, a striking hazel in the tan of his roughened face, grew wistful for a moment. ”I am more Indian than Jew, more savage than white man,” he answered gravely. ”Perhaps it is a pity,” and he was gone.
Mordecai, the child of the wilderness, where the struggle against savage and beast of prey sharpen the wits and teach the pioneer the need for rapid decisions, lost no time in executing his commission. As soon as word could reach Lyon, he informed his old comrade of the work he had in mind for him. The next post told Mordecai that the two men with their tools, gin saws and other materials loaded upon pack horses, were already on their way to Alabama. He waited eagerly for their arrival. The gin meant more to him than a source of revenue, were he successful in the cotton market. For, as Hawkins had observed, the Jew was not content to be a mere trader and hunter, like so many adventurers of the back woods. He longed to build, to create something lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon and Barrett to arrive.
They came at last one evening near sunset, two brown-skinned rovers in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon, grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.
”_Shalom Aleichem_,” he began, his tongue faltering a little over the old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. ”I am glad you have come at last.”
”_Aleichem Shalom_,” answered Lyon. ”It is long since we have met, Abram Mordecai.” He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and indicated Barrett with a curt nod. ”My friend,” he said, briefly. ”He will help us build the gin.”
”You are both welcome,” their host a.s.sured them. ”Becky,” he called, and the Indian woman appeared at the door, ”unload the horses and bed them for the night with ours,” and he indicated a roughly constructed barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. ”But first bring a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash after their journey.”
Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the spring. ”My wife,” explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement.
”Yes,” half in apology, ”I know it seems strange to you. But for so many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was ill with malarial fever and she nursed me back to health, I was glad to lessen my loneliness and make her my wife according to the customs of her people. Yet,” and he smiled a little bitterly, ”yet, strange as it may seem, I still remember that I am a Jew.”
He led them into the little cabin with its one window and floor of clay. At one end stood a rude fireplace made of bricks where a huge kettle swung Indian-fas.h.i.+on above the logs. At the other end of the room several heavy blankets indicated a bed, the only furniture being a few rough chairs, a table and an old trunk half covered by a gayly striped blanket such as Indian women weave. ”A rough place, even for the wilderness,” confessed Mordecai, ”but I dare attempt no better. Of late, the Indians once so friendly, have grown surly and suspicious; they rightly fear that the white man will wrench the wilderness from them. Especially Towerculla, a neighboring chief, who hates the ways of the whites and has been murmuring against me ever since he has heard that a cotton gin will be erected through my agency. So who knows when I will be driven from this place by the red men--providing that they allow me to escape with my life.”
”And have you no white neighbors?” asked Barrett, who had seated himself upon the trunk, where he sat loosening his dusty leggins.
”There is 'Old Milly'.” Mordecai's hazel eyes twinkled a little. ”She is the wife of an English soldier who deserted from the army during the Revolution. After her husband's death she took up her abode here.
She is a woman of strong and resolute character and has considerable power over the Indians of this district, who stand greatly in awe of her. She lately married a red man and is really a great person in our little community, for she owns several slaves and many horses and cattle. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my only white neighbor. But here is Becky with the water,” as the squaw entered with the br.i.m.m.i.n.g pail. ”Wash the dust from your faces that we may sit and eat, for you must be nearly famished.”
The travelers, having washed in the wooden basin that stood on one of the chairs and shaken some of the dust from their garments, now came eagerly enough to the table, which the silent Becky had prepared for them. Upon the bare boards she had set several mugs and heavy crockery bowls, pewter forks and a large, steaming vessel of the stew which she had taken from the fire, as well as several cakes made of corn flour and cooked in the ashes. Such fare was familiar enough to the pioneers, but the two guests could not help staring at the book that lay at each plate, a worn _Sidur_ (prayer book), the ancient Hebrew characters looking strangely foreign in the primitive forests of America. Abram Mordecai saw the two men exchange glances and flushed a little beneath his tan.
”A foolish thought of mine,” he murmured. ”When I left my father's house in Pennsylvania I carried one of these in my pack, wrapped in the _talith_ (praying shawl), he had brought with him from Germany.
And later I found the two others in the bundle of a Jewish peddlar murdered by the Indians. The Indian agent at St. Mary's sent me to ransom him and several other captives taken by the Creeks, but I came too late. Somehow, I could not bear to throw them away or destroy them. They have been with me in all my wanderings and more than once when I thought it about time for the fall holy days have I read the prayers and wished that I might have a few of my brethren with me to observe them aright. And tonight--” for a moment the confident, self-reliant adventurer seemed as embarra.s.sed as a bashful child, ”and tonight I hoped that since there would be three of us at grace, we might read the benedictions together--if you care to--and I would know how it feels to be a Jew again.”
Barrett laughed, his hearty school boy laugh, as he flung himself unceremoniously into a chair beside the table. ”It's many a day since I've said or heard a _brocha_ (blessing),” he said, ”but I'll go through it without any book, thank you.”
Lyon said nothing, as he took the place Mordecai a.s.signed him at the foot of the table, but there was a tender look about his grave mouth.
Perhaps he realized how difficult it had been for Mordecai to confess his loneliness for the customs of his people; but, according to his wont, he said nothing.
Smiling almost childishly, Mordecai pa.s.sed a bowl of water to each of his guests that they might wash their hands, which they did, murmuring the blessing as they did so. Then, taking his place at the head of the table, he poured water over his own hands, saying the Hebrew benediction as he wiped them upon a faded red napkin which lay beside his _Sidur_. Somehow, after his brief confession, he felt ashamed to tell his guests that the napkin had belonged to his mother and had rested beside the neglected _Sidur_ for so many years. Then, breaking a bit from the bread and handing it to each of the men, he repeated the blessing for which, although he had not recited it for so many years, he need no prompting from the worn black book beside his plate.
”Blessed art thou, O Lord our G.o.d, King of the universe, who bringest forth bread from the earth,” he said in Hebrew.