Common Thread-Uncommon Women: More than Native American blood linked these women

By Marylin Hayes-Martin

Common Thread - Uncommon Women begins in 1863 at the foothills of the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. This historic saga covers four generations of women, beginning with the author's great-grandmother, Minerva, who was a Cherokee Native American.

Minerva warned her daughter, "Jennie, they put my people on a reservation, took away their pride,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aspire Publishing Hub, LLC
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781962611770

Book preview

Common Thread–Uncommon Women

Copyright © 2024 by Marylin Hayes-Martin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-962611-76-3 (Paperback)

978-1-962611-77-0 (eBook)

Table of Contents

With Gratitude

Author’s Note

Minerva

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Jennie

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Thedis

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Robbie

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

About the Author

To my mother:

Thedis Benton-Leach

Her siblings called her t he angel of the family.

The wisdom she shared will remain with me always.

With Gratitude

To my father, Lonnie Leach: He held me spellbound with his many captivating stories. My sisters, Jill Klajic Ryan, and Jessie Sousa, for contributing narrations of incidents from our ancestor’s life events. Their plot suggestions were invaluable. A special gratitude to my brother-in-law, Dan Ryan, for his inexhaustible patience designing the cover, and fine-tuning the photos. Son Steve Hayes and wife Deborah, for their unyielding support and encouragement. My original editor, Eva Olson, who gave me guidance that was extremely valuable. My toughest critic, best cheerleader, dear friend, and an accomplished writer, Blanche Abrams. Her expert critique skills brought my novel to life. Susan Calfree proofread, and corrected my grammatical errors. Arlene Uslander, a freelance editor, edited my completed novel, and cried along with my characters. Leslie Davis took one last look, for which I am tremendously grateful.

To the members of the Sonora Writers Group: They listened, gave me constructive input, and believed in my novel. They wrote Common Thread—Uncommon Women along with me.

Talent alone cannot make a writer. There has to be a man behind the book… Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-1882.

The man behind my book was my husband, Frank. He lived with my characters, and patiently listened as I repeated passages. At times we cried, other times we laughed.

Lastly, to all my ancestors without whom this novel would not be possible.

Author’s Note

I grew up at the foot of the Ozarks in Arkansas. My playhouse was the woods behind our house. Snakes and panthers there taught me fear. Gentleness of my mother’s arms taught me love.

Financially, my parents were impoverished; however, we were privileged in many ways. I remember the smell of clean air, lowering the wooden bucket into the well, and pulling up pure water. There were few cars on Beckett Mountain, therefore no exhaust fumes, or factory pollution. Without any modern conveniences, my mother, Thedis, prepared all our meals on a wood burning stove, and washed our clothes in an iron pot, over an open fire.

Shortly before my Aunt Jewell passed on, she came to me with a box. Handing it to me, she said, Honey, this is our genealogy. I’m not long for this world so I’m passing the torch to you. I feel she knew someday I would tell their story.

The women in my novel married hardworking men, bore children, and suffered the tragic loss of both. Through all their anguish, they emerged strong, and steadfast.

I’m humbled to have their blood flowing though my veins.

Minerva

Chapter 1

Part One

Rose Bud, Arkansas, 1863

Minerva panicked at the hammer of horses’ hooves. She lifted the rough planks above the hiding place and grabbed Terrill. The boy peered into the dark hole beneath the cabin floor and jerked away.

Remember what your daddy said. They’ll take you to serve their generals. Now, stay quiet. Minerva kissed her frightened nine-year-old son and lowered him down. Wrapping her wool shawl around the baby, she stepped out into the cold wind just as a Union sergeant and his private reined their lathered horses to a sudden stop.

The sergeant dismounted, yanked the saber at his hip into place, and pulled out his six-shooter. His steel-blue eyes pierced through Minerva. Sneering, he spat tobacco into the dirt. With the back of his hand, he swiped the juice off his broad chin. His dark-blue uniform was soiled and frayed. Dried mud caked his black high-top boots.

Rex darted from Minerva’s side, barked and nipped at the horses’ legs.

The sergeant pointed his gun at the dog. Shut your damn dog up or I’ll shoot him!

Minerva called Rex to her side and gripped the scruff of his neck. The sergeant leered and ran his eyes over her.

Minerva shifted baby Jennie to conceal her breasts. She knew what he saw—a tiny woman with long dark hair, prominent cheekbones, and smoky dove-gray eyes.

He glanced toward the cabin. Where’s your man?

She stared at the purple scar above his eyebrow.

Didn’t you hear me, woman? I asked you a question.

My husband’s gone for supplies.

The sergeant smirked at the private. Bet this damn squaw don’t have a man. We probably killed the bastard already. Turning back to Minerva, he barked, Now, you get yourself in there, and fix us some grub while we water our horses.

I can’t hide I’m Cherokee, but I can hide my fear. Grandma always said, Keep your eyes steady, like a wolf.

Minerva noticed the private’s deep-set blue eyes conveyed empathy. Sensing his dislike of his commander, she hoped he would protect her from this brutal man.

She clutched her baby to her breast, hurried inside, and placed Jennie in her cradle. If these Yankees know my husband’s a Confederate soldier, they’ll kill us all.

The two men threw open the door and stomped mud from their boots. Minerva froze, fearful Terrill would become frightened by the noise and attempt to come out of hiding.

Damn it, squaw, hurry up! We’re half starved.

Minerva beat hoecake batter and poured it into the hot skillet. While stirring beans with one hand, she slid a long-bladed knife under a dish rag with the other.

She filled plates with the meager food, then placed them on the table. With her darning basket, she sat down by the front window.

The sergeant finished eating, and laid his cap on the mantel. He stuffed a chaw of tobacco into his cheek. His eyes followed Minerva’s every move as she cleared away dishes.

He winked at the private. Why don’t you go on out and catch some shut-eye. I’ll be out directly.

Baby Jennie began to cry. Minerva picked her up and returned to the chair. She draped a shawl over her shoulder, and unbuttoned her dress.

The soldier’s eyes burned with lust as he watched the baby suckle the woman’s nipple. He walked to the window and stood over them. Outside, he saw the private wrapped in his long overcoat pacing at a distance while their horses grazed nearby on dry grass. He watched the private kick a clod of dirt and glance back toward the cabin. Bleeding-heart guesses what I’m about to do, but he knows better than to interfere. He’d be dead right quick if he did.

Robert scanned the cabin. Damn squaw. Don’t see nothin’ in this cabin showing me a man lives here. If we haven’t killed the bastard, he’s probably off fightin’ good Union soldiers.

Jennie whimpered, and he yelled, Shut up that squallin’ kid!

Minerva shifted the baby to her other breast and began softly humming.

He walked to the hearth, picked up the poker, and jabbed at the fire. Slowly, he removed his boots and spat into the flames. Tobacco steamed on the hot coals. Minerva’s stomach churned. He watched as she stood, then eased the sleeping infant into the cradle. Robert ran his tongue over his lips, and moved close to Minerva.

She felt his hot breath on the back of her neck. Running his hands over her shoulders, he squeezed hard. He pinned her arms behind her back and lifted her with ease, throwing her onto the bed. Minerva turned over and folded her arms across her breasts.

Don’t you touch me!

Be quiet, little woman. It won’t hurt a bit.

He removed his shirt, dropped his muddy uniform pants to the floor, and hovered over her. One hand grabbed her throat and squeezed. Frantic, Minerva pulled at his fingers. She felt his other hand lift her long skirt as he wedged his knees between her legs.

With the skirt bunched above her waist, he attempted to kiss her. Minerva spit in his face. He swiped the saliva with his shirt sleeve, slapped her and muttered, Fiery women excite me.

Her heart pounded. This animal is going to kill me. I have to kill him first. She dug her nails into his arms and struggled to free herself. He increased the grip on her throat and with the other hand, slapped her again. Blood filled her mouth.

Her small form was smothered as he thrust his six-foot body hard against hers. His purple scar darkened as his excitement increased. If only I could get the knife … but what about my children? Abruptly her body went limp. She submitted in silent surrender.

Chimes from the mantel clock jolted Minerva to the present. All she could hear was Rex whining to come inside. She slid off the straw mattress. Her head spun. She felt weak-kneed. She clung to the bedpost as wet stickiness trickled down the inside of her leg. While letting Rex inside, Minerva saw the horses were gone.

Catching her reflection in the mirror above the washstand, a haggard woman with a bloodied face glared back at her. A closer look revealed a deep cut on her cheekbone and she recalled the large ring on the sergeant’s hand. She touched the gash and wiped blood from the wound with a wet cloth. If only I could have reached the knife.

The fire had burned low. She stoked the coals, heated water, then scrubbed her body with a dried corncob until it was raw. Afterward, she sat staring into the flames, thinking of her husband, Jeremiah, who brought her from Kentucky to the wilds of Arkansas. He notched the logs and built their one-room cabin on the highest mountain. How perfectly they had blended themselves into this primitive land. Now without him, she felt empty as a chicken’s nest in winter.

The once familiar room felt strange to her. Chilled, she slipped on her husband’s flannel nightshirt; his faint manly scent calmed her and his parting words came back. Minerva, stay strong. Our love will carry us until I return.

She promised herself no one could ever know what happened. Not even Jeremiah.

At last, she was ready to free her son.

Chapter 2

Minerva tended her children in a half-conscious state, longing for word from Jeremiah. She missed him even more—the sounds of his laughter, his voice, even his sometimes disagreeable moods.

The neighbor man delivered a letter to her from Jeremiah. She ran her fingernail under the envelope flap and unfolded the wrinkled paper. She could still see faint writing and realized Jeremiah had erased her last letter and used the paper to write back. A Confederate ten dollar bill fluttered to the floor. She picked up the money and tucked it inside her dress pocket. Thankful Jeremiah had taught her to read and write, she sat down.

My Dear Wife,

Hope you and the children are well. Can’t begin to tell you how awful this damn war is. I miss you and think of you every day. My job here is to shoe horses. I’m glad my father taught me the blacksmith trade. I don’t want to kill anyone, would weigh heavy on my mind. Kiss Terrill and Jennie for me.

With devout love, your husband, Jeremiah.

Refolding the thin letter, Minerva returned it to the envelope. She would read it a thousand times more. She thought to herself, What if Jeremiah is killed and buried? I would never know where.

Mama, why’re you crying?

We got a letter from your daddy. I’m crying ’cause he’s all right.

Terrill knelt at his mother’s feet, burying his head in her lap. Dove-gray eyes, like his mother’s, filled with tears. Don’t cry, Mama, it makes me cry.

In bed, Minerva thrashed about, got up and down, used the chamber pot, put logs on the fire, but sleep would not come.

Minerva bundled up baby Jennie, and coaxed Terrill into his wool wrapping.

I don’t like this coat. It’s too heavy, Terrill protested, fumbling with the buttons.

Son, it’s the only one you have. Keep it on. We must hunt.

The boy continued undoing buttons.

Minerva grabbed her son’s arm. Do you want a hickory switch to your backside?

The unexpected threat stopped Terrill’s busy fingers. Without raising his head, he peeked through his lashes at his mother’s stern face. His lower lip quivered; his hands dropped to his side.

Minerva recalled her grandfather once saying, Don’t whip that boy. It’ll break his spirit and make him weak. Shame him instead. Remorseful, but still annoyed, Minerva knelt and re-buttoned her son’s coat.

Before Jeremiah left for the war, Minerva had asked him to build a drag pole so she could take the children with her when she hunted. Now, she placed baby Jennie on the soft deerskin stretched between the two poles, secured her with a wide leather thong and covered her. White Socks balked at pulling the travois. Minerva slapped the mare’s hindquarters until she obeyed. Terrill lagged behind, still pouting at having to wear the coat. But before long, he was filling his pockets with rocks.

At last, the trio reached the top of a knoll. Below, a cottonwood grove receded from a grassy meadow and a flock of wild turkeys was feeding near the edge.

Terrill, hold the reins and be quiet. Minerva made her way down the hill through heavy underbrush tearing at her skirt.

Keeping a sizeable hen in sight, she leaned against a pine tree to steady her aim, and fired. The flock scattered, but the target lay on the ground. With her prize tied to the drag pole, she started for home.

Terrill ran ahead picking up pine cones for the fire, while his mother gathered native greens. Earthy forest smells nourished Minerva with memories of her childhood. A warm, peaceful feeling engulfed her. Forgetting her burdens, she inhaled deeply. I love this far away place Jeremiah brought me to. Oh, how I miss him.

A shadow in the bushes startled her. Terrill, come here!

Minerva backed up beside the drag pole as a tall, gaunt man stepped into the pathway. His beard was matted and his dirty clothes in rags; a black floppy hat was pulled low covering most of his face.

Didn’t mean to frighten you none, ma’am. Smith’s my name. Wife and I settled a place over the hill last year. He glanced at the hen. Shot yourself a nice bird there.

This man doesn’t look like he has a wife. No woman would let her husband go around this unkempt. She slid her hand under the blanket covering Jennie, and gripped the rifle.

You live around here, ma’am? He spit a stream of tobacco on the ground.

My husband and I have a cabin up the trail a piece. He’s out cuttin’ wood.

Sure takes a lot of wood to get through winters here. Switching his rifle to the other hand, he shifted his weight.

Well, it was nice meetin’ you, but we best get on home. Minerva released her hold on the weapon and began to lead the mare down the trail, Terrill alongside. As they approached the stranger, Rex growled; fur bristled on his neck. The man stepped aside, keeping the rifle between himself and the dog. Minerva moved slowly, eyes on the stranger. Her heart pounded at the sight of military boots. She flashed back to the day of her attack, the sergeant’s black boots, his dirty uniform, and the stench of stale tobacco.

Back home, Minerva unhitched White Socks from the drag pole and led her to the barn. Do your chores, Terrill, and don’t forget to stack the wood by the back door. We’re going to bed early tonight.

She plucked the turkey while mulling over the scene in the woods. I couldn’t see his face. Was that his voice? Did he have a purple scar? Bridling her fear, she dressed the turkey, cut it up, and placed it in a heavy pot over the fire.

After supper, Minerva put her children to bed, closed the curtains, and called to Rex, Get in here, boy. She bolted the door and leaned the rifle against the rock fireplace, her thoughts on the man in the woods.

Flames flared as Minerva added pinecones to the fire. She poured a cup of sassafras tea, blew out the oil lamp, sat by the warmth and brooded. Could that vile soldier have deserted and been hiding in the woods? What will happen to Terrill and Jennie if he comes back for me? She shuddered and gazed at her sleeping children. If he’s out there, he won’t touch me again!

She slipped Jeremiah’s winter shirt over her long dress, covered herself in a blanket, meaning to keep watch. But worn from the day’s efforts, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The eerie sound of the tin washtub rubbing against the cabin wall awakened Minerva. Wind rushing through the tall pines signaled an approaching storm. Rex sniffed cold air seeping through cracks of the door. He turned to Minerva and whined, begging to be let out.

This past week a wolf had prowled around their cabin at night, and killed two laying hens. She had stood at the door waving a piece of burning limb to scare him away. "What’s out there, boy? She pressed her ear against the heavy door, but all she heard was the howl of the wind.

The anxious dog whimpered, his golden ruff glistening in the firelight. A chill prickled down Minerva’s spine. What if it’s not the wolf he senses?

Quickly, she lifted the boards of the floor, and awakened her son. Hurry, Terrill. You must hide again… keep quiet until I call you. She wrapped a heavy quilt around the drowsy boy, and led him to the opening. She was glad she had padded the secret place with straw and placed a jar of water there.

Flickering light from the fire danced on the wall. Rex began clawing at the front door. Minerva grabbed the rifle. The dog rushed to her side as she slowly edged her way across the room.

Holding the dog back by his thick coat, she feared if it was the wolf, he would kill Rex. Sliding the latch aside, she shoved on the heavy hickory door.

Before she could stop him, Rex bolted through the small opening and leapt off the steps. Planting himself between Minerva and the woods, he began barking ferociously. She saw a silhouette within the thick mass of pine trees near the house. Minerva’s heart pounded; her head spun. She shouldered the weapon, sighted along the barrel, and fired.

She felt suspended in time. Black powder choked her. A tall, thin figure staggered toward her and fell face down, rifle beneath him. Minerva stood frozen in horror. Rex began tearing at the limp body.

Clutching the dog’s neck, she commanded, Back, boy! She stabbed the still form with her rifle, relieved when it didn’t move.

Even before she rolled him over, she knew this was the man who had ripped her open. You dirty animal. You won’t torture me again. She kicked the sergeant and thrust her rifle barrel into his ribs over and over, then spit on him.

A full moon broke free of the clouds; bright light illuminated her. Her anger quickly turned to fear. Afraid her irrevocable act would be revealed to the whole world, she dropped to her knees, What have I done? I’m Indian. They’ll hang me.

Her mind raced, devising a plan. She hurried to the barn, slipped a rope bridle on the mare, and attached the drag pole. Struggling, she pulled the sergeant’s corpse onto the travois, and secured him with a horsehair rope. In death, his open eyes still seemed to follow her every move. Picking up his rifle, wet with blood, she laid it beside him. With the floppy hat, she covered his face and the purple scar. Rex circled the spot where the body had fallen, smelling at the pool of blood.

Spewing out vomit, Minerva wiped her mouth, and ran toward the well. She entered the cabin and put a large log on the fire. She listened for any sound from her son beneath the floor, tucked the blanket around her sleeping baby, and hurried back outside. Frantic, she gripped the mare’s bridle and led her into the dense forest, with Rex alongside.

Stopping dead in his tracks, the dog growled, and raised his hackles. Minerva stiffened. Blocking the path, a few yards ahead, stood a large wolf. For fear Rex would attack, she grasped his ruff, and grabbed the sergeant’s bloody rifle. The wolf’s silver-grey fur shimmered in the full moonlight, his amber eyes penetrating Minerva’s. Fearing he would charge, she stayed still, hardly breathing. The animal scratched the ground, depositing his scent, and disappeared into the woods.

Words her grandmother once said came to her. Child, you have the strength and will power of a She Wolf. Confident the animal was a