One Particular Patriot II

Aaron studied the brown water that was so far out of its bank and so far above the rocky bed of the creek that the center of the flow barely rippled. The bushes that normally lined the creek were inundated and pushed almost horizontal by the coursing water, occasionally lifting a twig above the water only to be forced back into the brink. The need to cross was strong in his mind. He decided to test the strength of the rushing water, even though he knew it was too strong to ford. The American Patriot, a man who survived war and eked out a living raising a family in a near wilderness environment, a man who knew not to tempt fate, stepped into the water's edge. He shuffled his feet along the ground beneath the opaque current, testing the footing and the force of the flowing liquid. The roaring sounds of the valley-constrained, gravity-drawn water reverberated around him. He did not intend to go further than necessary to assess the ability to make a safe crossing; essentially, he already knew the answer. Ruth thought her father was simply leading the ford. She stepped into the water before Sarah noticed. Her lighter weight could not resist the power of the water. Her feet were knocked sideways and she fell backward into the current. Immediately, the water enveloped her and flipped her head over butt, rolling her downstream at a rapid rate. Ica screamed. Aaron's blood froze in his veins when he snapped his head around in time to see the blue and white draped rag doll twisting into the coursing current, driven toward the center of the swollen creek. Almost without thinking, he pitched the heavy musket he carried toward the creek bank and charged downstream after his daughter. Sarah knew to retrieve the musket before she did anything else. Sharon knew to hold the mares in check. Ica knew to stop screaming. Aaron knew he had to hurry. Ruth did not know how to swim. The current threatened to rip Aaron's legs from beneath him. Brush and saplings, still firmly rooted in what would normally be the banks of the creek, grabbed at his feet and seemed intent on knocking his legs from beneath him. A floating log, not nearly as big as Aaron, succeeded in doing what the other forces had only attempted to do. The water was nearly at his waist when the log crashed into his right side, throwing him from his already precarious balance. He felt the log scrap up his back and slam into the back of his head. Flailing and sputtering, Ruth found herself being tugged beneath the churning water. The smooth surface near the center of the torrent belied the large rocks and boulders underneath. Each time she submerged, another hard surface assaulted her fragile body, threatening to break her to pieces. She could not draw enough air to scream for help. She continued to flail the water, grasping for something to arrest her downstream plunge and gasping for breath each time her head bobbed above the water. Aaron quickly righted himself, though he could no longer get his feet to grip the bottom. The water was barely four foot deep at its deepest, but the bottom was fraught with hazards. His left foot caught purchase momentarily, and he tried to force himself upright. The water pushed him downstream. His left foot became entangled with the sapling he had used for footing. It briefly held him trapped. Only after pulling Aaron's head beneath the churning liquid did the water's force rip the foot loose from its entanglement and send the man tumbling into the center of the creek. Struggling and sputtering, he quickly realized where he was. With his head at water level, he was barely able to see downstream to locate Ruth. He knew she was there. He took advantage of the deeper water and began the powerful stroking motions of a swimmer. He knew he had to move faster than the water to maintain control of himself and to overtake his daughter. The creek made a sharp left turn. The water boiled against a solid-rock valley wall, kicking back on itself then racing down the slope through a narrow gash that had been carved from the solid gneiss and granite over the eons since the Appalachian Mountains were forced up from the ancient ocean floor. The blue and white rag doll rushed toward that churning vortex.