Daughter of the Sword by Jeanne Williams Page A

order.
    But this was the United States! And she was going to persuade Johnny that she should have her Bowie knife. Then, come night raiders or amorous Britishers, she’d be ready. On that unmaidenly thought, she at last fell asleep.
    It was decided the next morning that Mother would stay home. She and Deborah could do the washing while tending to Rolf, and Thos could help Father at the shop.
    â€œRolf’s feverish,” Mother said after the men had gone. “I’ll try to get some milk and mush down him and dress his wound while you get the water on to boil. Thos has already started the fire under the kettle and dumped in a few buckets to start you off.”
    Deborah slipped into her moccasins, not wasting time, because it promised to be a hot day, and washing, even in cool weather, was drudgery. Still, she’d rather carry water than cope with that shoulder, let alone the strange sensations Rolf could cause in her.
    The trouble with being in the yard, of course, was that when she looked at the stable or wagon, she remembered last night. Pushing it away, she started her task.
    She knew Mother wanted to wash her hair soon, so she left the soft rainwater in the barrel and drew up buckets from the well, carrying two at a time to pour into the big black kettle sitting on an iron grate above the fire. Thos had also brought out a bench and put the tub on it. Deborah filled this for rinsing and thrust more corncobs and cow chips under the kettle before adding soft soap.
    By the time she went back to the house, Leticia had sorted the washing into dark and white. Deborah carried out the sheets, napkins, and undergarments, put them into the now boiling water, and poked them around with a blunt stick. Mother joined her in time to lift the steaming laundry from the kettle into the dishpan, where spots were rubbed out and more stubborn stains were attacked by laying the article on the bench and beating it with a wooden mallet. The soapy water was, as much as possible, wrung into the dishpan and then returned to the kettle.
    â€œRolf’s shoulder’s angry but seems clean enough,” Mother said. “He wouldn’t eat. After we rinse the white things and get them drying, why don’t you see if you can coax him to have a little food?”
    There was really no choice. “I’ll try,” Deborah said and hoped she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.
    When the kettle was emptied of whites, Deborah brought the colored things, sighing at the state of Thos’s trousers and shirts, though to be fair, the dress she’d worn yesterday had smudges of dirt and blood, which Mother had already rinsed with cold water.
    These went into the kettle. Deborah helped rinse the whites and wring them out, dumped the first rinse water, and filled the tub for the second rinse. Colored clothes, thank goodness, got only one rinse! When the sheets and other white wash had been rinsed again and wrung as thoroughly as the women could manage, they were spread over the plum bushes to dry.
    â€œSee what you can do with the young man,” Mother said. “If he won’t have mush or gruel, perhaps he’d like some mashed plums.”
    Doubting that, for the plums, preserved in water till a sealing scum formed, were sour and not much improved by sorghum, Deborah went reluctantly to the house.
    Mother had tied back the curtain to admit the breeze, but it was already warm. Rolf’s hair was spread on the pillow like tarnished gold, and his eyelashes lay long and dark against his cheeks. His white linen shirt was open at the front, revealing a strong muscular neck. There were ruffles down the front and at the wrists, making him look, Deborah thought, with a smile at her fancy, like a stricken Cavalier. As she watched him, wondering whether to let him sleep or ask him what of their limited fare he might like to try, his eyes opened, widened at the sight of her, but remained drowsy—as if he continued a