Appeal to Honor

1772

CHAPTER I

N athan Farrell was suddenly awake. He lay very still, eyes closed, hoping that the throbbing in his head would subside. It didn’t. On the contrary, it seemed to build in intensity until he knew the top of his skull would explode. On the fringes of his awareness he waited to hear familiar sounds around him, but the only sound was the drum pounding inside his head, or was that the thumbing of someone’s fist on the door.

Y—yes? he called weakly.

No one responded. Nathan slowly opened his eyes and stared up at the rough wood beam above his head. Where was he, he wondered? He made a valiant attempt to sit upright; however, he gave up with his head only inches off the pillow, and fell back with a groan. The low guttural moan that burst from between his lips drew attention to his jaw that ached so he could hardly open his mouth. His raised his hand and gently touched his lips. He flinched and breathed a curse as his fingers brushed torn and lacerated flesh.

He started to call again when the thumping renewed, but this time he was aware that it emanated from outside the window located to his left. And he became aware of another noise, the raspy, stertorous breathing of someone in the bed next to him. Levi—Levi, Hadley. That was it. Levi Hadley.

God, how he would like to have a drink of water, and he slowly twisted his head to gaze at the water pitcher and basin on the laverstand only feet away. But it might as well have been on another planet for all the good it did him. He counted backward from ten, determining that when he reached one he would get up. True to his resolution, he swung his feet off the bed and raised himself. He gasped for breath, frozen half upright, one arm braced upon the bed. He sat very still, immobilized by the pain in his left side. He put his hand to his side and felt the warm wetness there, and remembered. If it hadn’t of been for Levi Hadley, those three ruffians would have taken everything he owned. As it was, he thought, they almost did him in.

He forced himself to his feet and taking a wobbling step, reached the stand and leaned his weight on both hands, marveling that there wasn’t an inch of his body that didn’t ache. He saw the bottle there and pried the cork out and nearly gagged as the foul odor of the beverage filled his nostrils. He stared at the bottle for a long moment, then brought it to his lips and took a big swallow. He shuddered, gripping the bottle tightly as the ugly tasting liquor burned his mouth and lips. Nathan snatched up the pitcher and gulped down great mouths-full of the tepid water.

With great effort he bent his head over the basin and splashed water over his face. He straightened, unmindful of the rivulets of water dripping off his chin onto his waistcoat. He looked down at himself. He was completely dressed, even to boots. He wiped his chin with the palm of his hand, and made his way cautiously to the lone window.

Bright sunlight greeted him and he blinked his eyes, squinting to see the source of the thumping. A rickety plank door, caught by the wind, slammed back and forth on leather hinges against the rough siding of the building. From where he stood he could see over the stockade walls through the trees, the glistening of sunlight on the expanse of water of the Kentucky River. It was late May and he had made it to Boonesborough. It hadn’t been easy, and he stared unseeing out over the river, remembering what had brought him here to this isolated frontier place and its rows of log buildings and blockhouses…

What had induced him to enter the attic that morning? He concentrated, trying to recall. He shrugged. His purpose for venturing into the unused attic that morning three days after his nineteenth birthday had been long forgotten. It didn’t really matter now anyway. What had changed the course of his life; had brought the advent of a new and powerful passion had been found in that dusty and scared old chest shoved back beneath the eves. It probably had sat there undisturbed for several years before he opened it, and even then he almost passed over the contents of the little wood coffin he noticed in one corner of the chest. He had opened it, simply out of curiosity and saw a tiny bundle of letters fastened with twine. He had absently picked up the letters giving a cursory glance at the superscription and saw that it was addressed to his father. He started to replace them when his eye caught sight of a small sliver of ivory, of the type artists used upon which to paint miniature portraits. That drew his interest, for he fancied himself somewhat of an artist himself, having as he did a passion to sketch with charcoal and watercolors. Slowly he reached and gathered up the ivory. In the light from the dormer window he stared at the waxen image of a beautiful young girl. There was a haunting familiarity in the pale delicate face, framed in dark curls from which large ebony eyes stared up at him with an almost forlorn pensiveness. Slowly he turned his attention to the letters. Irresistibly drawn, he untied the twine and opened the one on top. With difficulty, for the paper was old and the writing bad, he read the following:

Carter’s Grove, 30th

March 1761

Dear William,

I wont rite you nothing agin. I know you hate me but God almitey knows how much you hurt me to run away. I shoud not have takeing Nat. It were wrong of me. I know he belong wid his papa and I wont bother you no more. But that were a long time ago an my hurt gets more every day. I don’t know if you got the letters I rite to you. You treat me like I were dead. Papa is going across the montins to Kentuc kountry and I is going wid him so you wont be bother by my poor riting agin. Before I go I beg you, let me see my boy, O please, only for a minit. O God I wont even touch him. I jus look. I wont talk or nothing. Please?

Ruth.

Nathan rocked back on his heels, face gone pale. He quickly opened the second letter. It was dated several weeks prior and contained similar pleadings. The other letters, all signed by `Ruth’ were written over a period of four years, and in each letter `Ruth’ pleaded to see her baby. The first letter was dated 10th September 1757, and the last, 30th March 1761. Nathan stared again at the ivory of the young woman. He began to breathe deeply, heart racing. He knew little about his mother, except that her name had been—Ruth, Ruth Becket. But she had died shortly after his birth! This couldn’t be her, for the last letter was written ten years ago, and he was nine years old at the time.

His original purpose forgotten, Nathan hurried from the attic. His mind raced. For some reason he was reluctant to approach his father, why he didn’t know. He paused for a moment in the upper hall while he collected his thoughts.

Nathan found Matilda in the dining room busy trimming the wicks on the wall tapers.

Matilda, he called stepping into the room.

Landsakes, Marse Nathan, youse done scared pooh ‘Tilda te death wid youse sneakin’ ‘round! she exclaimed, shaking a finger at him in pretended ire.

Sorry, Matilda, he apologized, staring straight into her eyes. Matilda you’ve lived in this house since before I was born—

Ah shore has! she interrupted. Youse paw, Marse Farrell brung me te dis house fro youse were born. Ah was ‘bout fourteen or fifteen at da time—

Before she could finish, Nathan reached out the sliver of ivory. For a moment she stared down at the portrait, and if it was possible for her black face to turn pale, then that is what happened.

War youse get dat boy?! she cried.

Who is she? he demanded, And don’t lie to me!

Dat be yore mama boy, she whispered, unable, it seemed, to take her eyes from the ivory. She were da most bootiful child, she sighed, her eyes briming with tears. Yore paw had dat painted on da eve of der weddin’.

Tell me about her, Nathan instructed.

Matilda cocked her head, rolling her eyes until the whites showed.

What you mean boy?! she demanded.

Tell me about her. Why did she run away? he asked.

Shhh, boy! she hushed. O, Marse Nathan, youse get ‘Tilda in o’heap o’trouble! she groaned, peering toward the door as though she expected some shouted indictment.

These are her letters, he said, shaking the packet before her eyes. She wrote to father years after I was born. She didn’t die when I was born, did she? he hissed. If she ran away, why did she beg to come back, to…It was me she wanted to see! Why didn’t father let her? Why did he tell me she was dead?! All those years, my mother was alive and he lied to me!

Matilda slumped back against the wall as though her legs had suddenly lost all strength.

O promise, Marse Nathan, youse wont tell yore paw. ‘Tilda gets da most terrible beatin’.

I promise, he whispered. Tell me.

No, Marse Nathan, she didna die at youse birthin’, Matilda said, her voice barely audible. Youse were ‘bout three when she runs away, an she took youse wid her.

Why Matilda? Why did she run away from father?

Matilda’s shoulders sagged. She never did runs away from youse paw. It were from youse granpaw. He treat her like dirt! Like she were—were a nigger! ‘White trash!’ he called her.

I don’t understand, Nathan said, shaking his head.

Ah really thinks yore paw, he love her, but she were, well, she aint gots no ed’u’ca’ion. Her paw, he were pooh. Dey were not da quality o’folks dat youse granpaw and paw were, rich an high-toned—but ah knows he loved her, even when he found out her maw were o’In’jun squaw. Youse granpaw, he nev’r wanted youse paw te marry her. And when de runs off an gots married, he ignored dat pooh child, treated her bad he did. And yore paw, he let youse granpaw turn his mind, ‘pecially when she were carryin’ youse. Den when youse were near three, she runs away. Youse granpaw done been so mean te dat child, she sick sho’nough.

And father didn’t do anything to stop him? Nathan demanded.

Matilda shook her gray head. Youse paw, he be afraid te talk back te youse granpaw. He say yore paw aint gonna gets dis house or da land o’nothin’. Den when she runs away, he seed dat as evidence sho’nough dat she was no good, jus like youse granpaw say. He sent mens te brung youse back, but he wouldn’t let dat pooh child come back. He sent her away, wouldn’t let her see youse or hold youse agin, ever! Made ever’body say she were dead.

So now you know, William Farrell said, easing himself down in a crooked back chair at the end of the long cherrywood table.

And it ends there? Is that it father? Nathan asked.

What do you want me to do? William grunted, face flushed.

Nathan shook his head. All these years I thought her dead.

She is dead—as far as you need know, he sighed.

More lies! Nathan spat. I’ve been living with lies—

Hold your tongue boy, or—

Or what? Nathan hissed. I’m not the man to take a whipping, that I warn you! Those days are over!

The older man sat staring up at his son, as slowly his gaze became subdued.

Would you have had me let her keep you? he asked softly.

That’s not what it’s about, Nathan asserted, angrily.

But it is. Your mother’s grandfather came to this country as one born into a family of plowmen. They had not questioned life in a thousand years. All they knew was fighting and drinking—

Why did you marry her, father?

William got to his feet, walked to the stand before the French windows, facing westward over fields and patches of timber and orchard.

Your mother was very beautiful, he said simply. But she was unhappy here. Your mother’s soft eyes and gentle nature disguised tempestuous blood, he whispered, and for an instant a deep sadness filled his eyes.

You mean Indian blood? Nathan asked.

William whirled about, face pale. Who told you that! he demanded.

Nathan shook his head. No one, he lied. I just guessed.

William’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned his hand against the wall. Whether he heard his son is questionable.

It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done, he sighed.

No, Nathan said. It is not done. I intend to find her.

I forbade it! William flared. You are a Farrell! This is where you belong!

Yes, I’m a Farrell! Nathan breathed. But only half Farrell. Have you stopped to think Indian blood runs in my veins too! No father, I will not be satisfied until I have found the other half.

William Farrell’s face suddenly darkened, It has been years, ten years at least since she—No one has heard… he said. Then his eyes brightened.

You know son that 2000 acres on the west bank and that parcel of marsh land nearby is yours, he said.

Is that a bribe? Nathan asked. Is that what grandfather held over your head?

William took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. No, he sighed. It is too late for that.

The day was destined to be wretched. It was not difficult to predict, for there was already a depressed heaviness in the early morning air, a stillness that forewarned of sweltering heat by the time the sun was at its zenith.

How ye feelin’ lad? Levi asked, scratching absently at the stubble covering his cheek.

Sore, Nathan breathed, leaning back against the wood pylon.

Humm, that aint hard te imagine, his companion said. Them Moody brothers are jus na’urally mean. Course they could tell ye was a tenderfoot. The man spit a stream of tobacco juice out into the water. Ye gots te get inte some togs that is fittin’. Them yer wearin’ aint gonna do in this here country.

Nathan nodded, staring out over the water, squinting his eyes at the glare of sunlight on the black ripples of the swift moving current. He decided to trust Levi Hadley. Perhaps it was his easygoing manner, his obvious knowledge of the woods. Or maybe it was the fact that Nathan realized he needed his companionship. In light of the events of last evening, he found his company of great worth.

Those Moody brothers, as you call them, wrecked most of my things, including ripping up the sketches and paintings I was working on, but they didn’t get the little stash of money I had hidden. Tell me what I need to buy, he said.

Nathan had first met Levi Hadley shortly after his arrival at Watauga a thriving settlement in Kentucky. Nathan tried to imagine what had drawn the experienced woodsman to befriend him, but he was certainly grateful at this point that he had. Nathan mentally retraced his trek after leaving Briergate, his home.

Nathan had begun his search at Carter’s Grove, the address on the last letter his mother had sent. In that correspondence she had written that she was accompanying her family across the Appalachians into Kentucky. But that had been nearly ten years previous. The residents of the tiny hamlet were closed-mouthed and suspicious and nobody he talked to admitted to knowing the Beckets. He had even shown the ivory, hoping someone would have remembered her, but his search was hapless, that is until he happened upon Toussaint, a dark skinned fellow who referred to himself as a Penobscot, but who looked more like a blackamoor to Nathan. At any rate, just by chance, Nathan mentioned the name Becket, and the man expressed interest. When Nathan showed him the miniature, his eyes lighted.

Ahh, he said, nodding emphatically. I know woman. She live in camp down on the river.

Nathan’s heart raced. Live you say? She is still there? he asked excitedly.

The man shook his head sadly. No, no. No live there now. Gone away years now. She pretty woman. Too bad her paw, he mean, drink, fight a lot.

Where, where did they go?

The man shrugged. I heard ‘cross mountains. he said pointing west. He looked at the ground, then into Nathan’s eyes. Me thinks they go Watauga maybe.

It had taken him over a month to reach Watauga, travelling for a while with freighters guiding two strings of twenty packhorses each. He followed the train of horses with their gay collars and stuffed bells, as laden with salt, nails, tea, pewter plates and a sundry of other goods, they filed down the mountain roads. After waiting several weeks when the pack train continued on west, Nathan finally caught on with a party of pioneer families laden with their belongings in cumbersome Conestoga wagons. He wondered, as he saw the small children and the weary faces of the women, if this was the route his mother had taken.

Nathan found the people at Watauga more receptive and several who stated they knew of the Becket family, describing the patriarch as a taciturn fellow of mean temper.

Folks hereabouts depend on one ‘ther. Nathaniel Lathrop the tavern-keep volunteered, Them Beckets were standoffish. I suspect they would have gotten along better with folks if it weren’t for the old man though.

How many in the family? Nathan asked, sipping on a cold mug of cider.

As I recall, it were the old man an three or four youngsters an that woman ye showed me the picture of. Seems like she had a husband too, he said, brow furrowing as he tried to remember. Ah know it aint no mistakin’ her. She looked jus like ‘at picture.

Do you know what might have happened to her—them? he asked.

Well they stayed on here, maybe two, three year. I remember the woman, she did folks’ laundry. I think that were their only income, ‘ceptin’ some furs and meat that the men brought in fer sale or trade on occasion, he said, pausing to pour himself another mug of cider. Seems like I heard mention they headed up towards Ohio country. He shook his head. That be a dark and bloody place. The more white folks comin’ inte the country, them savages are gettin’ fiercely hostle. If they went inte that country…well, his voice trailed off. Ye ain’t plannin’ te follow after them there are ye? he asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Yes, Nathan answered.

The man shook his head. Well son, ye best make out yer will, he chuckled humorlessly, then he straightened, suddenly. Here come a body that ye might want te give a mind te, he said, nodding toward the open door.

Nathan followed Nathaniel’s gaze and saw a man walking with easy strides in the direction of the tavern, trailing behind him a packhorse, which he tied to a post near the door before entering. As the man stepped inside, Nathan’s gaze took him in.

The glob of chew in the man’s mouth made one side of his jaw protrude obscenely, and splotches of brown stain splattered the front of his greasy deerskin shirt from which an abundance of leather fringe hung across the shoulders and down the arms. Leather leggings, adorned with the same fringe, hugged short bandy-legs above beaded moccasins, and stuffed in the belt about his thin waist was a sharp bladed hand ax, while on the opposite side hung a hunting knife in a leather scabbard. He carried a long barreled rifle in the crook of one arm. He wore no hat and his black hair was rolled into a knot at the nape of his neck. Nathan guessed he was in his thirties, but he couldn’t be sure for his weathered face made his age deceptive.

Har Levi! Nathaniel Lathrop called, getting to his feet. Yer a sight fer these eyes. I aint seed ye fer a year it seems, he chuckled, clasping the man’s hand in a strong grip.

Well, Nathaniel. Levi said, Don’t ye get me started talkin’ til ah’s had a mug of that hard cider, he grunted.

Levi, Nathaniel began after the man had settled into a cane-back chair and emptied the mug of cider. This here is Nathan Farrell, from o’er in Virginia. He’s searchin’ fer a family what used te live here ‘bouts. Last ah heard they was up in Ohio country. He’s figurin’ on goin’ after ‘em.

Ye don’t say? Levi muttered, looking Nathan up and down, then taking another long swallow of cider. Ye keen on findin’ these folks, are ye?

Yes, Nathan asserted, Mr. Lathrop said I should engage your help.

Oh, he did did he? Levi grunted. And did he tell ye what kind o’country yer talkin’ ‘bout venturin’ inte?

He said it was a bloody place, Nathan answered, glancing at Nathaniel.

He said rite, Levi replied. Why ye want te do it?

I am searching for my mother, Nathan said simply. From what Mr. Lathrop tells me she left here maybe six or seven years ago. I don’t know if she is alive or dead. But I’m determined to find her.

To Nathan’s surprise, Levi Hadley did not question him further.

Tell ye what, I aint been inte that country fer quite a spell. Ah was figurin’ on goin’ up on the Wabash te Vincennes this summer anyhow. Ah reckon if ye were te run across anybody what knew the where abouts of yer maw, we’d find ‘em there abouts.

CHAPTER II

T he night came awake in the darkness before dawn, with the sound of distant thunder, a rumbling that grew in volume, then slowly faded into stillness only to build again, and all the while the sky quickened with a thousand flashes of light. Yet in the little glade, a hush fell, as though the night held its breath, waiting and watching.

Nathan lay staring out over the forest. The streaks of lightning that brightened the horizon cast into sharp relief the jagged outline of the trees and glistened eerily off the dark surface of the river. Nathan rolled from his bedding and stood. On silent moccasined feet he made his way to the river. He stood without a sound, listening to the distant rumbling of thunder, as close at hand, waves lapped leisurely against the muddy bank. The smell of the river, heightened by the dampness in the air, a precursor of the approaching storm, filled his nostrils and he breathed deeply.

Without moving his head, Nathan watched the dark shape of a raccoon, wobbling toward him along the edge of the water. The animal passed by within a few feet of him not aware of his presence and Nathan smiled to himself. He reached to stroke the beard covering his lean cheeks. He had learned much these past four months. Much about the woods and about himself, he realized, squatting on his haunches as he fished a clay pipe from his pocket. He held the briar between his teeth without lighting it, a habit he had acquired. The passion, in which he began his quest in the fall of the previous year, had been tempered, not only by the hardships of the trail, but also by uncertainty. At times he doubted he would ever find her, or for that matter, whether she even existed beyond the image burning within his mind, and he would stare often and at length at the tiny ivory. In a few days they would reach the Mississippi River according to Levi, and the French settlement there. He let out his breath. It seemed so hopeless, so futile. Time and the vastness of the land stood against him.

The rain struck them just after daybreak and they sat hunched within the shelter of their overturned canoe as the rain fell in great torrents, churning the surface of the once placid but now swift flowing river.

Late afternoon found them several miles down river. The air held a clean fresh mien following the rain and brought a renewed vigor to both men. Rowing with little effort down the swiftly flowing river, Nathan gazed often up at the steep, tree covered sandstone cliffs overlooking the river to the north, passing great boulders perched partway out in the river, having toppled from the high cliffs above, and he marveled at the wild beauty of the land. Late tomorrow morning, according to Levi, they would be at a great bend in the Ohio near a place Levi said was an old Indian burial ground.

As dusk began to settle they turned the canoe to shore, avoiding a long sandbar extending nearly halfway across the river, and landed on a sandy outcropping. After dragging the light boat up the bank into the forest, Nathan slipped into the thick woods to gather dry brush for a cooking fire, and to set snares for fresh meat to be used on the morrow. During their journey they had been careful not to discharge their rifles for fear of alerting any hostile Indians, for Levi was always watchful, especially fearful of the Shawnees. Instead, they lighted only a small fire each evening, preparing fish speared from the canoe or small game bagged in snares the night before.

No sooner had Nathan entered the wood than movement in the undergrowth nearby attracted him. Startled, he froze, peering intently into the brush, as he quietly cocked his rifle. Then he relaxed. An animal of some sort, he concluded as he watched the leafy branches shaking as some creature rooted about among the ferns and vines. Suddenly he spied the animal. At first he didn’t realize what it was, then he recognized the creature, a bear cub, no bigger than a small dog. Nathan lowered the hammer on his rifle as he watched the little beast scratching and digging in the soft black earth, in quest of some rodent or insects perhaps. Impulsively, Nathan leaned his rifle against a tree and eased closer to the cub. So intent was the bear that it made no attempt to flee. Suddenly it became aware of Nathan’s presence and whirled on its tiny legs, flopping upon its back, too startled to run.

Hey, little fellow, Nathan cooed. You lose your mother too? he asked sympathetically.

The animal made a half-hearted attempt at a growl, raising a paw threateningly.

Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you, Nathan soothed, and reached down to gather the cub into his arms. There now, he whispered. Nobody’s going to hurt you. He could feel the little thing shivering in fright.

His chores momentarily forgotten, Nathan picked up his rifle and made his way back to the campsite.

You know, we share something in common, he said. Neither one of us has a mother, he whispered as he walked along.

Levi, look what I found, he called as he stepped into the tiny clearing where his companion knelt before a small flickering fire.

Levi slowly got to his feet.

What the ‘ell, he grunted, Where did ye get that?

Up yonder on that slope—

Take ‘em back! he hissed. Aint ye got no sense!

Hell, Levi it was rooting around in the dirt searching for grub. It doesn’t have a mother—

The ‘ell it don’t! Levi interrupted. Take it back—

Suddenly there came a loud crack, the sound a thick branch makes when snapped in two. Both men jerked about peering into the woods.

Put the damn thing down! Levi hissed. Here, give it te me, he ordered, reaching to snatch the cub from Nathan’s arms. No time te waste, he muttered.

But before Hadley could bend to place the cub on the ground, a roaring brown mass of fur and teeth came bounding through the undergrowth no more then a dozen feet away, ripping up huge chunks of grass and sod. Levi dropped the animal; tried to leap back, but in a heart beat the cub’s snarling mother burst into the clearing. It made straight at Levi. Rearing up on its hind legs it swung a massive paw and Levi went flying backward like a rag doll.

Nathan fumbled the hammer back on his rifle, heart racing wildly. The bear dropped upon all fours, gave a vicious shake of its giant head, turning red angry eyes in Nathan’s direction, as great globs of frothy drool spluttered from its mouth. Nathan thrust the rifle to his shoulder. The bear pawed at the ground and Nathan could see plainly its burr-matted fur and smell its wild, pungent scent. Nathan had the strangest feeling that the bear knew the purpose of the long object in Nathan’s hands, for it emitted a guttural sound as it reached with its huge mouth and lifted the cub by the scuff of its neck. With what Nathan took as a shrug of defiance, the bear ambled off into the trees.

When Nathan knelt to examine his friend, he could tell immediately that he was badly injured. The bear’s claws had torn into Levi’s shoulder, laying open several layers of muscles. To Nathan’s astonishment the wound was not bleeding, however, the absence of blood allowed Nathan to see the extent of the injury and he felt queasiness in his stomach as he peered at the lacerated flesh.

Always with an eye toward the woods, fearful that the bear should return, Nathan quickly rummaged in his pack and found a linen shirt, which he tore into strips. Desperately, he tried to push the muscles back together and bandaged the shoulder tightly. After cutting boughs for a mattress, he spread Levi’s blankets and lay him out upon the bed. All the while, the woodsman made not a sound, but lay in a sort of stupor, eyes staring through partially open lids. Not knowing what else to do, Nathan built a small fire and fixing a fish to a skewer, suspended it over the blaze. He brought water to Levi and was heartened when the man drank. He would not, however, eat any of the cooked fish.

During the night, Nathan kept a careful watch over his friend and was dismayed near morning to find him burning with a fever. He realized that he must get Levi someplace where he could receive care for his injury. He felt woefully inept, not knowing what to do for his friend, and cursed his helplessness.

At the first light of dawn, Nathan loaded Levi into the canoe and struck off down river. His anxiety lent strength to his arms and he drove the canoe along with powerful strokes. It was about mid-morning when Nathan entered a sweeping bend in the river and caught sight of thin smoke columns from atop the steep muddy bank rising nearly thirty feet from the water’s edge. A settlement of some sort, an Indian village he guessed.

Maybe they’re not friendly, he whispered, jaw knotting. What if they were Shawnees?

Drawing in line of the steep bank, Nathan saw several people, children and some women; it appeared, staring down at them from the height. A few of the children ran along the bank keeping abreast of the canoe. They made no sound as they ran along, and impulsively, Nathan lifted his hand and waved. Some of the children ran faster, and to his surprise, one waved in return. Nathan looked down