The Winds of Change

By Beverly Ferebee Heyde

In this captivating sequel to Caty Maclean, readers join Caty and her family as The Winds of Change sweep across the hilly backcountry settlement of Waxhaw. As a wife and mother, Caty finds life on a wilderness farm difficult. The dream for a son is tragically dashed when her life is threatened by childbirth, imposing heart-breaking consequences. In the midst of her own battles, the rivalry between France and England over possession of Indian lands triggers continuous Indian uprisings, and eventually war. Settlers in the backcountry are caught up in the midst of the turmoil. Indians are invading their land, farms are being destroyed, and lives are being lost. On the distant horizon, the winds of change bring revolution ---- another war that will determine the fate of "all" Americans. With cameos of historical characters from young Andrew Jackson to General George Washington ------ along with descriptive battle scenes fought in the south ------ The Winds of Change is a remarkable piece of insight, character, and adventure---- a novel that echoes in the mind long after the last pages are turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641385954

Book preview

Chapter

1

Weeks later

Caty slowly opened eyes to shadowy light and dawning knowledge that she was lying in her bed under clean sheets. Something was wrong. She felt strange, empty. Then she remembered. The baby! What happened to her baby? She tried to sit up, but someone was holding her down.

Caty, look at me. Oh, my darling, I’m sorry. Caty, Caty, can ye hear me?

Jaimie’s face was so close to hers she could feel the wetness of it. She remembered hearing thunder, seeing lightning flash in a darkening sky before she passed out. She tried to piece together lost time, but her mind couldn’t take it all in. She looked up at Jaimie; he looked so worried. His buckskins were soaked. His breath was rushing from his mouth, and he could hardly speak, as if he had traveled a long way to get to her.

Caty was so pale Jaimie was afraid she was going to faint. Here now, he said, his voice shaking, and leaned over to give her a drink of water. But she shook her head and turned her face away from him.

Dear Lord, thought Jaimie, sickened with guilt, I should have been here. I would have been here if Richardson hadn’t broken his leg. Fortunately their small hunting party hadn’t encountered any hostile Indians along the way or it would have taken him longer to reach his wife.

Reach couldn’t be a better word, for when he neared the cabin, he happened to be passing the path to the creek when he heard the screams. He had managed, somehow, to get Caty back to the cabin before the storm broke. The rain hadn’t let up since then. She had lain in a fever for weeks. If it hadn’t been for their Indian servant, Polly Bear, he would have lost her. He didn’t want to face up to that thought. His face broke out in a cold sweat; his brow furrowed in frustration. Dear Lord, he muttered to himself, if Caty died— What would I do without her?

For a moment, the old fears of helplessness made him feel inadequate, and he did not know what to say to his wife. He hated sickness. He’d watched his father die a needless death, helpless to save him. He had held his only son briefly in his arms and watched him die too. The two horrible tragedies seemed to become as one, and he saw no way out. And now he was trying to tell Caty what had happened. As he did so, he thought he saw in her face rejection as she turned away from him. It wasn’t his fault that she had lost their only son. Why, he was just as upset and perhaps more so…

His thoughts spilled out into words. The feelings of inadequacy seemed to further justify his actions as he babbled on, not realizing what he was saying: Didn’t she tell him that he was not to worry, that the babe wasn’t due until the end of the month, and that there was still time to plow new fields for winter seeding? Didn’t she understand that he wouldn’t have gone hunting if she’d asked him not to? Was he supposed to read her mind in knowing when to stay and when to go? If that wasn’t enough, he could not help letting her know that the midwife should have been here in his absence and that she should have seen to the birthing. And as unreasonable and heartless as it sounded, he didn’t like it that the Indian touched her.

It was then that Caty turned her head and looked at her husband. Her face set like granite, and she spoke angrily, That Injun ye hae purposed tae speak o’ is ma freend an’ is closer tae me than ye’ll e’er be! She saved ma life an’ wud our son’s if’n she dinna hae tae tramp through the woods roundin’ up the animals tae fence in afore dark. Fer you!

Jaimie moved back from the bed as if she’d slapped him. He had never heard her speak so and clamped his mouth shut over the harsh words he was about to hurl back. Instead, he gathered his wife’s stiff, unyielding body in his arms.

Ye’re right, and I’m sorry, he said contritely, trying to keep the angry tone out of his voice. When she did not respond, he laid her gently back against the pillows and kissed her cold cheek. I do love you, Caty.

Caty closed her eyes against the pain she was feeling, not in her stomach where her babe had lain but a short time ago, but in her heart. Her husband had accused and blamed her for the death of their son, and she wasn’t going to take his words lightly. There was nothing she wanted to say to Jaimie. Ever! She almost hated him. Did it matter to him that she almost died? Sudden tears streamed down her face, and she gave way to the pain and hurt and loss she had suffered.

She did not know that it was Jaimie who had been with her all along, that it was he who had bathed her hot brow, held her hand in his to comfort, who had felt the loss of their son as keenly as she had. When she refused to answer him, he quietly left the room. A chance passed to make amends and to reconcile.

A door suddenly closed on a chapter of her life, leaving behind wounds so deep she wondered if the healing process would ever take place. She opened her eyes and listened to her husband’s diminishing footsteps going down the stairs. What did he mean when he said, "Our only son?"

She had wanted a son just as much as he did. Didn’t he realize she could have more children? What happened to the man who had said he would spend his whole life making her happy? And she thought that there was a bright future to be had with him. Oh, how wrong she was! Stubborn an’ proud, unyieldin’ tae the end, he is, she thought bitterly.

For a long time she continued to grieve, finally falling into an uneasy sleep. She dreamed of her island home and Grandmire Maclean who spoke comforting words, and when she awoke, she remembered what Gran had said about love being weary but never tired; that love lives on the inside as a lively flame forcing its way ever upwards through a body, safe and secure, bringing peace and rest and comfort. Perhaps God would be her light and see her through this terrible time; and yet it was hard for her to believe that she’d ever feel right again.

Caty did not have to be told about the burial of her son a few days later. She knew.

Weak and feverish, she had lain in bed, her spirit lacerated no less than her body. Relentlessly the nightmare plagued her night after night, for in her nightmares she would be drawn to the small grave. And there were figures dressed in black, huddled together in the rain, a baby wailing. At times the nightmare would take a twist, and she would find herself back on the storm-battered ship, heading for the Carolinas—young, scared, listening to the screams of a dying woman giving birth, and in her mind, the skirl of a distant bagpipe playing on the howling winds: Alane, alane, on a wide, wide, sea, an’ ne’er a saint took pity on… She would wake up in a cold sweat, remembering when Jaimie tried to comfort her, telling her it was only a dream and that nothing was going to happen to their son. She should have known better.

During their time of grief and anguish, neither she nor Jaimie thought about their daughter, Kathleen Rose. She had witnessed the birth of her brother, and the emotional trauma on such a sensitive and high-strung child upon seeing the pale form of the woman she called Mama lying in a pool of blood was too much for a three-year-old to take in.

Kathleen became a pale shadow of the rosy, happy child she had once been. She was prone to frequent mood swings and tantrums. Jaimie and Polly Bear could not make her mind. Twice she had run away from home.

Caty was too sick in mind and body to see the wanting of her child, and Jaimie was too consumed by the death of his son to care much about his daughter. Neither did they visualize, or think, what the effect of their actions would have, nor the results of it, in the years to come on such a child as Kathleen.

Chapter

2

He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.

Proverbs 11: 29

Jaimie loved his wife completely, but he was a stubborn man and proud beyond reason. He was hurt and resentful. And yes, he grieved too. Emotions ran deep inside him, and it was difficult for him to express himself, to explain a man’s desire to have a son, to fulfill himself in that way—the desire to carry out manifest destiny.

He was convinced it was Caty who was being the unreasonable partner in the marriage. She was carrying all this hysteria too far. Her morbid state repelled him. He did not see that he was too unimaginative, too narrow of understanding, to realize the depth of her suffering or comprehend the abandonment of her grief for an infant that, unknown to her, died in his arms.

For days he went about the farm grim-faced, spending a good bit of it in the fields, not returning to the cabin until darkness covered the sky, too tired to think or to eat, unwilling to comfort or to be comforted, forsaking both wife and child. And in the depths of his sorrow, he could find no way, even if he knew how, to bring back that precious relationship he and Caty once joyfully experienced as man and wife.

At last he reached a conclusion that seemed to him justifiable: had his son lived, no matter how much anguish the birth had caused his wife, this separation between them would not have happened, and, therefore, they would have been more closely united as husband and wife. Feeling this, and rightly so, he reasoned that the sooner she bore another child, this time a boy healthy and strong, the sooner whatever damage done to their relationship would be repaired.

Jaimie did not want to accept the fact that his wife’s body was not healed nor her mind in accepting the recent tragedy of their son’s death. He was too consumed with the desire to renew his duties as a husband, unmindful of the disastrous consequences his actions would cause. Nor did it occur to him that his slightest touch was repugnant to her.

When the house was quiet and Jaimie had reckoned that everyone was asleep, he moved silently into their room where Caty lay in deep sleep on the huge featherbed. Candlelight glowed softly on the bedside table. His mind was full of his purpose.

Since his wife’s confinement, he had been sleeping in a makeshift bed roll in the barn’s loft. It wasn’t pleasant having the smell of barn animals about him. The discomfort and loneliness he had endured for weeks had served to increase his longing for her. Without haste or warning, he suddenly leaned over and slipped one arm around her and kissed her passionately on the lips.

Caty, he whispered, trembling with desire. Caty, wake up.

For an instant, she was too startled to speak. She was sleeping so soundly she had not been conscious of his presence until she experienced his weight against her.

She questioned his presence as her body tensed under his. It took all her strength to pull herself out of his embrace. But his arms encircled her once more, like a vice, and she became afraid.

Ye know what I want, what I’ve been waiting for.

So ‘tis coom doon tae this, she thought with defiant rage. Bitter gall filled her mouth, and she struggled away from him.

Jaimie pulled his wife roughly back into his arms. Ye would deny me, he said harshly. Your own husband! By God, I’ll have ye submissive to me, for ye well know ye’re supposed to be.

Aye, that I wud, an’ weel! Caty hurled back at him, pushing him away, defying his anger with her own rebellious one.

The pain inside Caty had not healed, and Jaimie had given her no time for the healing, for his actions spoke loud and clear now. More out of frustration than anger, he said with harsh emotion, "No, ye will not defy me. It would be foolish on your part to deny me. I have waited too long; I will wait no longer. Ye had your chance to come to me. Do you think, my dear, that you are the only woman called to endure the pain of childbirth? And the tragedy that sometimes follows?

Take the example from neighboring wives, he continued. Did not Lucy Macpherson, the midwife, tell you that women are called over and over again to endure with resignation? Has it not occurred to you that your lot in this is no better? Have ye forgotten the Scriptures readily taught in God’s house that thy conception shall be multiplied, that in sorrow thou shall bring forth children, and that thy husband shall rule over thee, that thy desire is to please him?

Aye, but the Good Book also says that a husband is tae ‘cherish’ his wife. An’ I see nae cherishin’ on yer part! she shouted at him. She could not stop the flow of bitter words that tumbled out of her mouth as she continued. An’ did ye ne sae that yer lo’e wud dissolve all ma hurt an’ pain an’ that ye wud spend yer whole life makin’ me happy? Weel, dinna ye sae that?

For a moment, Jaimie did not know what to say. And yet he could not see that what she said had anything to do with what was happening now. He tried to reason with her, but she would not listen.

Please lief me be, Jaimie. I’m hurtin’, an’ ye hae caused me pain. Dinna ye understand? she cried in desperation.

No, he did not understand. She was his wife, and she had a duty to him. He took her without mercy or without thought to the damage he had done her. If he had been patient and tender and tried to understand her pain, loved her as he once did, she would have come to him willingly and with joy and gladness.

Caty never resisted her husband after that night, and she would never forgive him as she had thought once to do. Her bruised and broken body healed, for she was too buoyant a creature to remain under dark memories and the dreadful nightmare.

Pregnancy with her third child began before her senses had time to balance and her weary soul to heal, and she wondered if the new life in her would plunge her down into depths of dark, searing pain. Would she be able to come out of it whole, or would she have to go through again what she had gone through before?

She was filled with hot resentment. It was hard for her to be near her husband, to allow him to touch her when they were alone together. And so she withdrew within herself, building an impenetrable wall around her.

Jaimie watched the cold shadow of the woman he had married and did not know what to say to her or how to act. He did not know that he had wronged her, that he had hurt and grieved her deeply. In his mind’s eye, he only knew that by forcing her to yield to him, he had somehow put a wedge between them. And he had no joy in the persistent possession of her body, which for some reason he could not fathom left him with bitter shame and frustration.

He continued to watch her intently when he was around her, hoping for some response, some sign of recovery. He assured himself that the life growing inside her would, somehow, rekindle the hope in producing a male child to take the place of the one she had lost and the one he so greatly wanted.

Righteously thinking he had acted in the best interest of his wife, he comforted himself in believing his misery was immeasurably greater than hers, though he was aware of her suffering. His unbending pride and his purpose in producing a son seemed to solidify his claims, which he had once enforced upon his wife, justifying his actions. He did not see that this attitude would undermine the very structural foundation of their relationship.

The one hope he had was the conscious thought that once their son was born all the unpleasant happenings of past months would be forgotten. Caty would be the tender and loving and compassionate woman he knew and desired.

Chapter

3

For weeks, Caty was too ill to get out of bed, and when she did, she was so weak she could hardly do the house chores. If it wasn’t for Polly Bear, the cabin wouldn’t be fit to live in, she reasoned, and there’d be no telling what the neighbors would say about that if they came calling, which thankfully wasn’t often, living so far apart.

She had looked forward to the Harvest Festival, which was to be held in October, when all the neighbors thereabout gathered together in celebration of a fruitful harvest. There weren’t many social gatherings like this in the backcountry. It would have been an event Kathleen would have enjoyed. And that was another thing; Kathleen, who had been such a passionate, loving child, had become a shadow of her former self since the birth of her son, and no amount of mothering on her part seemed to penetrate the wall her daughter had built around herself. It was as if she existed in a world of her own, pushing away the loving arms that reached out to her.

To make matters worse, for the first time in years, winter in Waxhaw brought such coldness in the air that the ground froze under an icy glaze. Not even the local Indians could remember such a harsh, cold winter. Jaimie was hard put to keep the animals sheltered from the elements, and even then he’d find dead cows, pigs, and chickens in the snow, some half-eaten by the wild beasts that roamed the woods.

The infrequent travelers who braved the winter’s cold and had found their way to the O’Brien cabin were left by Caty without apology or explanation, for the atmosphere inside was still one of mourning, and what hospitality received was given by a grim and dark-faced husband, a scowling child, and the silent administrations of an Indian woman.

Jaimie could no longer stand the cold and hostile atmosphere under his roof, so he took to the rough, opened roads on his horse with his nagging conscience. He was too proud to see reason but was desperate to talk to someone, and without thinking, he found himself in front of the minister’s home.

Jean Smith took Jaimie gently by the arm and led him to the bright warmth of the fire sputtering and crackling in the large fireplace and sat him down in the nearest chair. A little later she placed two mugs of hot coffee on the table near her husband and left quietly, closing the door behind her. A warm hand pressed against Jaimie’s shoulder, and he jumped, forgetting for the moment where he was. He looked up in the kindly eyes of the minister, Mr. Smith.

The minister handed Jaimie one of the mugs of coffee, urging him to drink the hot liquid, and sat down in the opposite chair. He hesitated to speak, for the white-drawn face before him was in agony. After a while, Smith spoke gently through the silence.

The weather has kept many well-meaning folk from the Lord’s house. ‘Tis harder on you, I dare say. His eyes looked questioningly at Jaimie. How does Caty? Jean and I mean to come and visit as soon as the weather—

Ye’ll find Caty much changed since your last visit, Jaimie interrupted harshly.

Why, what can be amiss with her? asked Smith in quick solicitude, ignoring the man’s ill manner. Surely as young and strong a lass, as I reckoned her to be, should not be ailing!

She is not over strong, and her spirits are low, Jaimie grumbled. There was a pause in which he almost whispered, She’s with child again, turning his face away from the startled minister.

But my boy, so soon after the poor dead little one not long buried in yonder grave?

What’s wrong with that? I mean being with child, Jaimie answered angrily. Many a woman’s been in the family way more than once in as short a time.

Now be reasonable, Jaimie; no one is accusing you of any wrongdoing. I know ye love your wife.

But the astonishment and concern on Smith’s face caused Jaimie to bristle with hurt pride. His hand shook as he put the mug down. He was not used to being criticized. He could just imagine that once it got out that he had lain with his wife while she was still confined, he’d be the laughingstock of the community. The men would make jokes, and the women would point accusing fingers.

Jaimie jumped up in self-defense, not knowing what to say or how to react when the minister offered to ride home with him the next day after church.

Nay, it’s not needed! He hated to be put on the spot. He couldn’t claim the road was too iced over because he had made it here after all. So he just stood by the chair looking guilty and desperate to get away.

Smith remained seated and looked up at the stiff, unyielding figure. He felt compassion, sorrow too, for all that had happened. But he was not one to mince words. He spoke quietly but with firmness. Were you there, Jaimie, when your wife was in travail? Did ye hear her cries of pain and anguish? Did ye comfort her, care for her?

The pain of guilt washed over Jaimie, and for a full minute he looked down at the floor, unable to meet the eyes of the minister. With bowed head, he said, almost with a whisper, I was not with her. Polly Bear delivered the child. He did not say what harsh words he’d spoken to his wife after the birth of their son. And he did not intend to say that Lucy Macpherson had suggested that he take Caty to see a doctor in Charles Town when she’d gotten pregnant again, for he still believed that Lucy was knowledgeable enough for the doctoring Caty needed. Kathleen had entered the world with ease and with little pain, and he didn’t see any reason why this one would be any different. The birth of their son… Well, that wouldn’t happen again what happened then—or so he reasoned.

Next time I suggest ye be with your wife when she delivers, Smith said sternly. Ye should see what agonies Caty must endure to give life to another human being. Ye need to help her in her time of need.

Ye think I’m at fault, said Jaimie defiantly. Why, there isn’t a woman around who hasn’t born her quiver full.

Aye, and many a husband who’s lost a wife to childbearing, or perhaps overmuch childbearing, Smith said pointedly. He did not mention the loss of the O’Briens’ son, for that would be cruel. Nonetheless, he felt he had to give Jaimie this advice.

He rose from his seat and came over to where Jaimie stood and placed a comforting hand on his arm to detain him. He spoke kindly, in a gentle way that would not give cause to offend, not expecting Jaimie to answer. Come, now, let us pray for the reconciliation of you and Caty and for the little one who will enter this world so soon upon the loss of the other.

Jaimie left the minister’s home not long after with hurt pride and an unbending spirit. He hadn’t wanted to pray, to humble himself, when he’d felt he’d done no wrong. No! he thought angrily. He didn’t need or want the minister’s advice. There was no need to feel any remorse. He was fulfilling his husband’s duties. That was his right!

But he was fooling himself to think that way. He had wronged his wife, and it rankled to have to admit he had caused much of the problem between them. But he still didn’t think a physician would make any difference. Lucy Macpherson was wrong about that. His wife would do well enough with her help. And with a lighter spirit, he headed back to the farm.

Chapter

4

The months passed, and the baby inside Caty grew. The day by day farm chores seem to drag her down more and more. The pain inside her wasn’t such a pain she couldn’t endure, but the pain in her heart tore into her every waking hour. She couldn’t help but remember the words he’d spoken to her back at the Cross Creek farm, words that she’d repeated to herself before and probably would in time to come—that he’d spend his whole life making her happy, that love could heal instead of hurt…

Weel, lo’e does hurt! It hurts when the one ye lo’e forces himsel’ on you then liefs ‘is own tae suffer alane, nae ken tae wad kind o’ hell she has tae endure tae gie birth tae the one conceived by rape, a word she shouldna think aboot but couldna ‘elp —but nae less a word blurted oot if’n a mon, ne yer ‘usband, did the same. Caty wanted to cry out with rage, to hurt back, but she didn’t. She didn’t think that anyone would understand. You didn’t talk about things like this, even when you felt your whole being crying out for help.

Oh, for the days on Mull, those sweet memories of days gone by, when she had the freedom to run in abandonment among the hillocks clothed in heather and golden whin and the sweet-smelling honeysuckle, to feel the fresh sea breezes upon her face as she stood looking down from the dizzying height of a crag, watching the streams of water tumble down to swell the rivers on their way to the sea. From the lochs below to the mountains beyond, Caty loved it all. Oh, for those days once again.

Then the present would come crashing back in, and her heart would feel heavy with pain again. She couldn’t go back to those youthful, carefree days, even if she wanted to. The war had changed everything; her people no longer enjoyed the freedoms they’d once had. So what was the use of dreaming for something that was lost? She had obligations here, whether she liked it or not, though the thought of it made her