FIRES OF PEACE
by Edgar Pace

A young, pregnant, heavy-hipped woman watched as the experienced older woman made lye for soap. In the spring of 1847 on the ragged edge of the Texas hill country frontier, women prized soap almost as much as food, clothing and shelter. "I am grateful for your help," said Karla Vater.

A grin softened the firm angles of her friend's face. With pride Willa—short for Wilhemina—said, "Adolph made this." Her husband had jammed a hollow log in a low fork of a cedar tree, and bored a little finger-sized hole in the bottom. It was a simple, practical tool for filtering lye. Willa put twigs and tangled grass in the hollow log, dumped a heaping pail of ash on top, then poured two pails of water over it. She waited for ash to absorb water, and pulled a plug of wood from the bottom hole. Slowly, a brown soup dripped into a bucket beneath.

Her test egg floated in the bucket of viscous potash. "We will leave it to set and do the wash. And then comes the fun part." She glanced at Karla's reaction.

Wide eyed and pale faced, she gulped.

"Do not get sick again girl," Willa snapped, then laughed. "Oh piddle," she said, bumping her hip against Karla's. "Even women who are not pregnant get sick at the smell. And men too. Especially them. When there's grease to render, men disappear." They giggled.

"I know I have to try rendering tallow again, just not yet," Karla said. Her nose wrinkled at the nauseating memory. She clutched her swollen belly as her bladder tried to release.

Willa grimaced in sympathy. A month ago, she tried to show Karla the basics of rendering grease until the sweet clean fat congealed at the surface. The two-day process took three as she repeatedly stopped working the simmering kettle of grease to help Karla overcome nausea from the foul stench.

Later Karla grinned like an imp and said, "I will see to it that I always have something to trade for your soap."

As they washed, she glanced at Willa, stifling another urge to vomit. "How can anything made from that foul stuff smell good?"

"The trick to that is in the fat. Cooking and cooling brings the clean fat to the top. The stinky stuff stays on the bottom. Compliments aside, this bar is not, well, I think it has too much lye. That's the hardest part, getting the right amount of lye to tallow, and I don't think I did it very well that day."

"The men should be home by now. I'm worried. They're farmers, not hunters. At least Gregor is." She grunted bending over her stomach to get at the soapy clothes in the washtub. "My hands are so raw, I'll have to cook them to feel them."

"I am sorry about that. Too much lye, I think."

Karla's sobs interrupted her.

Willa admonished her with a caring voice. "Don't imagine trouble where there is none. You know what they say, Happy thoughts make a happy baby. It takes longer some days to find meat. Joshua will take care of Gregor. My son knows his way around the woods. Rinse those things. I've got something to help your hands."

In her cabin she gave Karla a lump of beeswax impregnated with a paste of comfrey leaves and lanolin oil. She shrugged at Karla's profusion of thanks and reassured her, "The bread you brought is very much appreciated. What with making house calls and brewing potions, I have little time for baking."

From the start, Willa was popular with most of the settlers in spite of being one of the strong-minded Free-Thinkers. She was always willing to help, and to those who had nothing to trade, she dispensed concoctions with a cheery, "Pay what you can when you can."

Only a few made disparaging comments about her radical Free-Thinking philosophies, such as debating the necessity of going to church for salvation. Organized religion, they said, put on a good show but did little practical teaching of wisdom to the congregation. "Study philosophy," they taught. "Ignore the slander of small minds."

Karla was somewhat awed by the depth of Willa's knowledge and her confident strength. "If t'were not for your salves and tonics, more people would have died," she said.

In silence they looked past wagons and tents and half-built cabins to the cemetery where more than a hundred grave markers sprouted from last year's epidemic, most likely of cholera. Many of the dead had walked beside Karla's wagon from the Texas coast some two hundred miles away because the Adelsverein, the German Immigrant Protection Society that promised to sponsor them, had run out of money. There were barely enough oxen and mules to pull the wagons. Had it not been for the tireless persistence of the former baron, John O. Meusebach, and his personal payments, they would have starved in the cramped tent city in New Braunfels.

At times the pregnant woman believed she was starving, and in her daydreams made a better place of her old home. In spite of the constraints of old world culture on a man's future, being pregnant back home would have been easier she thought. But then anything would have been better than her first morning-sickness episode the day they left the immigrant camp in New Braunfels, a small town that was the center of all things German at the time.

After months of waiting in the crowded uncertain conditions, tents were finally packed and wagons hitched. She took three steps forward, and six steps sideways behind a bush and donated her breakfast. Pronounced too sick to walk, she rode, but spent the next two days emptying her stomach into a chamber pot as the wagon bounced up the rocky ruts of the animal trail to Fredericksburg. During the sixteen-day journey of sixty miles, the mothers among the hundred and twenty pioneers helped her come to grips with being pregnant. Karla sniffled as she remembered their departed faces.

Willa said, "There's a lot to worry about if you let it. The Mexican war down south, sickness here—Indians—food—it'll get you down only if you let it."

"How can I not let it? We were promised enough money..."

"I know all about the broken promises and lost money Prince Solms took from the Adelsverein. And we have to get people settled and the territory surveyed by the end of the year, or we lose everything because the land grant expires. And people have died. We have a lot of rocks to clear before the fields can be planted and if we don't get a crop in, we'll starve. And the Indian troubles, and, and... I know all that."

Out of habit Willa wiped her hands on the cotton bandana in her gingham apron pocket. "But none of that is happening today, right now. And what if we had to face it in a dirty dress? Let's at least get the wash clean."

Karla snickered and shrugged, "You're right of course," and put her hands back in the washtub, inwardly grateful for Willa's dominant personality.

She was among the first German immigrants in San Antonio after the Battle of the Alamo and the founding of the Republic of Texas. Even though her two children were born Texans, Willa's family was considered different. Apart from being members of the notorious Society of Free Thinkers, they had also lived with the pagans in the moors and heaths of Westphalia, Germany. While women in the conservative pews of Christian churches hinted at witchcraft, Willa praised the earth goddess, mother of life, as each turning of the moon brought new plants and herbs from the pharmacy of nature to be used for healing.

True to the pagan lifestyle of being in harmony with their environment, she and Adolph interpreted people's disdain as a sign to exchange the confines of San Antonio for the freedom of a new settlement. She loved the rugged hill country of Texas. Somehow it reminded her of the happy carefree life of the pagans. There in the misty moors of Westphalia she met and married Adolph 'Shooter' Shutz and followed his wanderlust to America. The long-legged man in fringed leather ran the wild country to hunt and sometimes just to watch animals at play. By now she thought, she should be used to his disappearances.

Her husband and son were about the only hunters in the camp of farmers. More important, Adolph knew habits of the native animals and was on speaking terms with the Comanche. Adolph had been asked personally by Meusebach, the leader of the immigrants, to assist in the talks with the war chiefs Buffalo Hump and Santa Ana. They were leaders of many warriors, deadly protectors of their dwindling hunting territory. Adolph had been away two weeks, but even while being proud of his service, she missed him sorely.

Commanding Adolph's allegiance was a man of such strong beliefs in democracy and American ideals of equality that he stepped off the boat onto Texas soil and dropped his hereditary title of Baron. He became Mister John O. Meusebach, but his integrity, perseverance and dedication to their cause remained intact, and inspired the Germans. It was the resolute force of his character that convinced the immigrants, and the natives, that peace was possible between them. Peace and a better way of life if they worked together in the midst of a troubled world.

He spoke eloquently of the two cultures. "We will farm, and you will hunt. We will trade our produce for your meat. For the benefit of all, let the lean times of war be over between us. In the winter when game is scarce, bring your hungry families to our town and be fed. In the summer when game is plentiful, we will be grateful for meat and skins."

Now, along with Adolph and others, John was gone again, hopefully to finalize a peace treaty. But according to Sunday after-church gossip, they were vulnerable to ambush, maybe the camp too. Garbled stories were whispered and the murderous raids of Santa Ana and Buffalo Hump assumed legendary proportions. Memories were long and tales of massacres were many.

It was the same in Indian camps. Memories were long and tales of atrocities were many.

Left without the commanding presence of John Meusebach, fear and anxiety wove many threads through the optimistic fabric of the isolated village of Fredericksburg. Every attitude was tainted by conflicting feelings of optimism and danger, success and failure. Rumor and gossip swirled around the kernel of truth that peace was imminent.

Adolph and the men had returned a couple of weeks ago for a brief visit. Meusebach stood in the town square, red hair and beard fluttering in the spring breeze, and announced, "We return to the Comanche camp with high hopes for a final resolution of boundaries. We hope to bring home a peace treaty before Easter."

John posted a hand-drawn calendar on a wall of the Verein-Kirche. At this time the first public building of Fredericksburg, Texas, U.S.A. was as much a dream as a reality. The wall he nailed the calendar on was four feet high and one of only two around a foundation, but as planned, the octagon shaped building would house a community church for all denominations, and a school. In the meantime it was a central meeting place, and a final line of defense should the need arise.

John pointed to a numbered square at the bottom of the tanned deer hide and said, "By these calculations, Easter Sunday is six weeks and two days away."

Karla's plaintive cry pulled Willa from her thoughts, "I feel so alone, we're just a bunch of helpless women. I can't take it any more." Karla plunged her wet clothes in the tub, and gray, soapy water splashed in her eyes. "Ow, that stings!" She cried.

"Crying is good. Tears wash the soap out. Sit down, rest. I'll finish your laundry."

"How do you do it, Willa? How do you keep smiling and go on? This is much harder than I expected."

"The hardest part was getting here," Willa chided. "I think life in the old country was worse. We had no property, no title, no future. Here in Texas, already we have land, this plot in town and ten acres over there. Yes, it's hard now, but it gets better every day. Things seem difficult because you're pregnant, but your baby will be the first born here. And now that Texas is a state in the union, she will be a Texan-American. Or he, will be one."

"Then I'll have diapers to change and wash," she chortled. "No, you're right. I can't wait to have this German-Texan-American."

"What a mouthful," Willa said. "There. Washing's done and hung. Now come in my house and lay on the bed. Rest your back."

Karla drooled at the thought. In many ways, Willa was the envy of the women of Fredericksburg. She moved only about seventy-five miles and there was a road of sorts for a wagon load of household things. That was some eight months ago, and now she had a cabin. Inside was a straw filled mattress with two goose down comforters.

Karla sighed, "I feel like I've been pregnant all my life. What good are men anyway? Make war, make peace, make babies, and then run off for days at a time."

Willa knew better than to say, "Your husband Gregor, is learning to hunt from my son, Joshua to put meat on your table." She did not say that despite Joshua's expertise in the woods, she too occasionally worried.

As the sun was setting Joshua and Gregor returned from the two-day hunting trip with a deer and a wild pig slung by its legs on a pole between them. A turkey and a brace of rabbits hung from each end. A proud grin split Joshua's teenaged face in two as he greeted his mother and younger sister. Willa and Christina were glad to see him.

Gregor felt inordinately pleased with himself. He had shot the pig and a rabbit.

Two weeks later on a day marked Saturday on the leather calendar, Willa helped feast the volunteers working on the Verein-Kirche. She and Karla and five other women combined forces in a baking marathon to supply the bread. Counting children, there were more than a hundred and fifty people. Bright spring sunshine sparkled from white cloths spread over long trestle tables. Prayers were in their hearts and smiles were on their faces.

Evening shadows swallowed the spring colors of the valley. Tired and fretful, Willa watched the sun fall behind the western hills. She turned to walk home and saw a large fire spring to life on a darkened hilltop in the east. Then another sparked in the north, and another to the south. Suddenly there were at least six bonfires blazing on the hills around the valley. As black night descended, twelve Indian bonfires dotted the night sky from the hills ringing the valley.

The bonfires could be a signal for peace or war, and not knowing which scared her. Willa gathered her skirt and ran, hoping her children were home before sundown as they were supposed to be.

They heard her calling and came to the door in a rush. "What mama?"

"Get inside and close the door," she cried in a panic. She slammed the door shut and faced the children with a bleak smile. "Good, you're home."

"What's wrong mama?" they chorused.

"Nothing. I was in a rush." Out of habit she put the kettle on the fireplace hook, and without thinking told Christina, "Fetch more firewood."

Outside Christina called, "There are fires everywhere, mama."

"Forget the wood. Come back inside," Willa yelled.

"Mama, come look!"

Willa and Joshua went to the door. He said, "Everyone is going to the Vereins-Kirche. Come on."

Joshua strapped on a belt with a shot bag and gunpowder horn, and grabbed his rifle. Willa stared.

Joshua exclaimed, "I'm not a child Mama, and I want my weapon." He did not wait for an answer, but ducked outside calling, "Come on."

They joined mothers herding children to the questionable shelter of a blazing fire and a few waist high boards. Willa saw Karla and helped her navigate the rocky path in the dark, wondering if anyone had investigated the suspicious bonfires. There were only nine men in sight.

"At least some of the walls are up," Karla said gazing around at the odd shape. "It's going to look like a big coffee mill."

"Coffee and chocolates like home," an anxious mother quipped, two of her children clinging to her skirts.

People edged closed to the fire and stoked it higher. The meaning of the hilltop fires was the unspoken question behind each whispered word.

A little girl shyly said, "Maybe they're fairy fires," and ducked fearfully back behind her mother's skirt.

Willa remembered old traditions of Westphalia when fairy fires burned from certain hills around the same time as the Christian celebration of Easter. Both ceremonies were about resurrection.

In a loud voice Willa said, "Gather round children, I have a story for you about the Easter Bunny, fairy fires, and big blue spotted eggs. Gather round the fire. That's it. All of you know how I go wandering in the woods, right?"

A chorus of children laughed, "Yes, yes."

"Well, about those fires on the hilltops. Just a few minutes ago I looked, and do you know what I saw?"

Thirty little heads shook 'no' in the yellow firelight.

"I saw a big gray and white jackrabbit, so I followed it in the moonlight. It was the biggest jackrabbit I have ever seen. As big as—as—me!" Willa hugged herself and jumped up and down, making the children giggle. "It scampered to the top. I did too. He gathered firewood into big piles, and soon fairies appeared from the dark woods and he sent them to call other rabbits to a party."

Mothers and children forgot their fears as they listened. "He was a big rabbit and called fairies so I think it was the Easter bunny. What if he doesn't know we just moved here? How can we celebrate Easter? Well, I have an idea.

"Chickens start laying in the spring right? Eggs are symbols of new beginnings, like our new life here. In the old country we had special celebrations. Let's start a new one especially for us in Fredericksburg, let's start it tonight. We'll take turns staying up all night to keep our bonfire burning so the Easter Rabbit can count us and know how many eggs to dye for Easter. Tomorrow someone will go and see what the rabbits have been up to, in the daytime. How does that sound?"

The children clapped hands and asked for permission to stay up with the fire keepers. In unison the mothers said no, but some others produced sweet bread and honey for a late night treat. Willa asked several women and men to step away for a private discussion.

A mother said, "Thank you for the story. It calmed the children.

A man said, "I will go up the hill tomorrow. We men," he included seven others, "will keep watch through the night."

"I will go with you tomorrow," another man said.

Late the next day the two scouts returned to an anxious crowd at the Verein-Kirche and reported, "The Comanche are there all right, but they're celebrating because there is peace. They communicated through some kind of fire and smoke signal from the San Saba river that the pipe was smoked and the treaty signed."

"A peace treaty? Really?" The crowd echoed.

At a grinning nod from the scouts, men whooped, hollered, and tossed hats in the air. Women cried and hugged their children. Willa called out, "Let us offer thanks to our Universal Creator for peace, and to each individual god, let us pray that it lasts."

Some people knelt, each head bowed, in a moment of silence. Then joy reigned in the valley and a feast was held that first Easter between the immigrants and the natives, and life was good.

The Easter Fires of Fredericksburg have flamed every year since 1847 in celebration of a peace treaty that has never been broken.

* * *

History did not record the name of that mother who calmed the children with a story that night. Only that it happened. The characters of Prince Solm, John O. Meusebach, Buffalo Hump, and Santa Ana did exist. The rest are composite archetypes of people that I read about in diaries, letters and news accounts. I took only a few artistic liberties in writing this story.

Many of Meusebach's speeches to the Comanche Council of Chiefs were recorded as testimony to his eloquence and passion for democracy for all.

Today when the Easter Fires burn from the hills around Fredericksburg there are pageants and powwow furthering the tradition of peace between two cultures.

© Edgar Pace 2004

Edgar has been writing poetry, news, radio programs, short stories and features for more than 18 years and is now finishing a novel. He is a member of A Poet's Mind, a 3 piece band in San Antonio, Texas which performs and records original Groove Poetry.

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