Traces, page 14
“So where’s the safest place you can set up your trap lines and make a profit?” she said.
Daniel thought a moment. “I reckon we could still get a good return along the Watauga. The King considers it Indian territory, but white folks are beginning to move there. It’s safer than Kentucky because the Cherokee are leasing land to some of the settlers.”
“Fine,” she said, “that’s where we’ll go.”
“We?”
She nodded. “We’ll go as a family. If the girls and I work as camp keepers, it will leave you and the boys free to hunt.”
She had her doubts about how safe they’d really be, but at least it would keep Daniel from traipsing off alone with the boys. Lord only knows where they’d wind up.
Rebecca kept her misgivings about the trip to herself, not wanting to infect the children with her worries. Their reactions varied widely. Jesse and Jonathan, now in their early twenties, had been agreeable to Daniel’s plan that they stay east of the mountains to tend the farm in the family’s absence. James, almost fifteen, and Jemima, nine, accepted Daniel’s decision without comment, though Rebecca could tell James harbored unspoken fears about setting foot in Indian territory. Thirteen-year-old Israel, a happy-go-lucky soul, was always ready to go adventuring, but of all the children, eleven-year-old Susannah was the most excited about the prospect of a winter in the wilderness. In the days before their departure, she whistled as she went about her chores and no longer responded in anger at being asked to help around the house. More than once as summer faded into fall, Rebecca saw her daughter look up at that looming blue wall and smile.
Rebecca had to admit, as they journeyed west, that the land was beautiful. The rolling hills along the headwaters of the Yadkin soon gave way to steeper, tree-covered slopes that were smoky gray in the morning mist, then turned a rich blue-green in the midday sun. The trees on the higher slopes were already laced with the reds and golds of early autumn. They followed trails through virgin forest that were often little more than faint deer paths. Daniel said the wild things knew the best ways through the mountains, and it was a wise man who followed their lead. Some of the chestnut and oak trees were so large that even when their entire family held hands and stretched as far as they could, their arms weren’t long enough to encircle the trunks.
To help pass the tedious hours of walking, Rebecca made up games for the children. She’d call out the names of a half-dozen trees—chestnut, sycamore, beech, oak, hickory—making sure the final item was a bit harder to spot, like a sassafras grove or a silverbell tree. It helped the younger children learn the tree names and kept the older children occupied, hoping to be first to spot them all. When the children grew tired of using their eyes, Rebecca changed the game and had them listen and see how many birds they could identify by their songs.
Daniel joined in the fun by pointing out animal tracks, teaching the children how to distinguish the tracks of a beaver from an otter along the muddy bank of a mountain stream or the way a black bear had left claw marks and tufts of hair on the roughened bark of a white pine. Rebecca marveled at how he seemed to notice everything, as if the mountains were a book he’d read over and over and could now recite by heart.
Now that he was back in the woods, the worry lines lifted from Daniel’s face, as if the debt that was driving them over the mountains had already been erased; in truth their debt had grown because they’d been forced to purchase supplies and a trio of sturdy horses to carry their hoped-for furs back to the settlements. For now, the horses’ burdens were light enough that the youngest children could ride, packed safely into panniers that hung from the pack frames. Rebecca, Daniel, and the older children walked, taking turns leading the horses. The beasts were large and slow and frustratingly stubborn. Rebecca’s hands burned from hours of tugging a lead rope, urging her balky charge along the trail.
“Horse steaks,” she muttered, yanking the rope. The animal’s ears flicked forward at the sound of her voice. “That’s how you’ll wind up if you don’t move along.”
One afternoon as they approached a grove of large oaks, Rebecca spotted a flash of orange flitting in the branches above them. “Look, children,” she said softly, not wanting to scare the bird. “It’s a parakeet.”
They all stood, looking up, trying to track the bird’s orange head and iridescent green body amid the oak leaves. But when Israel suddenly sneezed, the entire crown of the tree exploded with wings as hundreds of the bright-feathered birds flew upward, calling loudly. They all stood, transfixed, as the orange-and-green flock wheeled above them, and then, with a whoosh of wings, disappeared from sight.
“There were hundreds of them,” Jemima said, her eyes wide. “I’ve only ever seen one or two back home.”
“One of the older trappers told me there used to be huge flocks of them all along the Yadkin,” Daniel said, “but parakeets like virgin timber, so when settlers move in, the birds move out.”
Having traipsed up and over the mountains’ crest and down into the great valley of the Tennessee, they finally reached the Watauga territory and set up a rough hunter’s camp, complete with several three-sided lean-tos, near a place called Sycamore Shoals. Daniel said the Cherokee called the place Wata’gi, which meant “broken waters.” Just being near that rocky stretch of river soothed Rebecca, and she slipped away to the shoals whenever she could, though finding time to tarry there was rare since most days were filled with work from dawn to dusk.
Rebecca, Susannah, and Jemima worked as camp keepers, stretching, scraping, and preparing pelts, while Daniel, James, and Israel hunted and tended the trap lines. Susannah chafed at being stuck in camp instead of traipsing the woods like her brothers, but it was clear her mother needed her. Even five-year-old Levina was put to work in camp, keeping an eye on her two younger siblings so the older girls could spend their time working with the furs. As the stack of pelts piled higher and higher, they envisioned the family’s debt growing smaller and smaller. At any given time, they’d have fresh pelts stacked in piles waiting to be worked, skins stretched up on frames to be scraped, and finished furs ready to be tied into bundles.
Rebecca and the girls were hard at work on a bitterly cold day when two Indians, the first they’d seen, walked out of the woods. The two men leaned their rifles against a tree at the edge of the clearing, then stepped up to the fire and silently held their hands over the flames.
Weeks earlier, Rebecca had questioned Daniel about the likelihood of encountering Indians in this place.
“You can bet they’ll know we’re here,” he’d said, “but I expect they’ll stay out of sight.”
Rebecca hadn’t found this particularly comforting since the image that came to mind was of unseen eyes watching her family from the depths of the forest.
“But if they do appear?” she said. “What do I do?”
“You need to make them welcome—offer them something to eat. The Cherokee are a hospitable people. It’s a grave insult not to welcome a guest warmly.”
Now Daniel’s advice echoed in her head. She forced a smile and motioned for the pair to have a seat on two upturned logs near the fire. As she bent over the stew pot to ladle meat and broth into two wooden bowls, she saw that her hands were trembling. I need to stay calm. She took a deep breath and tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. I can’t let the children see I’m afraid. She straightened up, a bowl in each hand, and walked around the fire to serve the men.
The shorter of the two had a friendly countenance. He smiled and nodded his thanks as Rebecca handed him the stew. The taller man took his bowl in sullen silence. He had an odd-shaped face with high cheekbones and a sharply pointed chin. Both men were dressed entirely in buckskin except for red-and-black trade blankets draped across their shoulders. Rebecca felt her stomach turn over as she spotted the tomahawks tucked into the men’s belts. The iron blades gleamed dark against the red blankets, and it took all of her willpower to keep her fear under control at the thought of what might befall her family if the men decided to wield them.
When she turned back to the fire, she realized all the children were standing stock still, staring with wide eyes at their guests. Would Indians think that was as rude as whites would? Or would going about one’s usual chores be even more offensive? She had no idea. Dear God, help me choose the right thing to do.
She motioned for the older girls to sit down and take up their knitting, and she shooed the younger children into one of the log shelters, silently warning them, with a finger to her lips, to be quiet. By the time she was back to the fire, the men’s bowls were empty.
She ladled refills, and the men ate more slowly this time, glancing around the camp as if studying its contents. The shorter man’s eyes followed the motion of Jemima’s knitting needles, and when he glanced over and caught Rebecca watching him, he smiled, set down his bowl, and tapped his fingers against each other, mimicking the needles’ movements. He looked questioningly at her.
“Knitting,” Rebecca said.
He nodded, his expression thoughtful.
She pulled her brown knitted scarf from around her neck and held it out to him.
He took it, clearly surprised at the way his fingers sank into the soft cloth, a very different texture from his buckskin shirt or the stiff woolen trade blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Rebecca pantomimed having him put the scarf around his own neck. He grinned broadly, and when he did as she suggested, she found herself smiling back at him. But seconds later, her smile faded and her heart began to pound as the taller man stood up and walked around the fire toward the girls.
Rebecca stooped and picked up the iron poker, making a show of raking the coals under the stew pot. She knew she’d only have one chance to strike the man from behind before all hell broke loose, but if he laid a hand on one of the girls, she wouldn’t hesitate. Her eyes cut to the men’s rifles, and she knew she couldn’t move fast enough to reach them. Her only hope was to hold them off with the poker long enough for the children to run. It all flashed through her mind in an instant, and she braced herself as the tall man stopped in front of Susannah and eyed the stack of pelts that were piled up alongside her.
He spoke a few words in Cherokee, his tone angry, and gestured toward the furs. Susannah froze, her needles hovering in mid-air, but when the man reached up and pulled the top pelt off the pile, Susannah’s eyes sparked in anger and her fingers tightened around her knitting needles.
“Stay still, Suzy.”
The voice came from the edge of the clearing and Rebecca turned to see James, his rifle cradled casually in his arms. Though he was nearly as tall as his father, his frame was still more boy than man. His cheeks were flushed, and Rebecca had no doubt his heart was racing as fast as her own.
James spoke a few halting words in Cherokee: “Siyo, Scolocutta.”
The shorter man responded, his tone friendly, then stood, his hands out with palms up, as if offering an apology. He gestured for the big man to follow him, then turned to Rebecca and tapped a finger against the brown scarf, bowing his head in silent thanks. With a final pointed glance at his companion, he picked up his rifle and disappeared into the forest.
Rebecca held her breath, poker still in hand, as the tall man turned from Susannah and walked toward James. He stopped in front of the boy, bent to look him in the eye, then raised the pelt and shook it in the boy’s face.
“The English call me Big Jim. These furs belong to the Cherokee. Tell Boone he’s a thief.” With a final furious glance around the camp, the big man turned on his heel, still clutching the pelt, and strode into the woods without looking back.
14
Jemima
Sometimes Jemima wondered if the fact that her family’s hard work along the Watauga had gotten her father out of debt was actually a good thing because as soon as his creditors were paid, his thoughts turned west again, this time all the way to Kentucky.
Her mother flatly refused to move so far into the wilderness unless a large party of folks came with them. Her father grumbled about the delay, imagining all manner of people flooding into Kentucky ahead of them and staking out the best lands. But as far as Jemima could tell, folks weren’t lining up to make the journey; most of them were afraid, pure and simple, and after her experience at Sycamore Shoals, she figured they had good reason.
Whenever Jemima recalled the hatred she’d seen in Big Jim’s eyes, she couldn’t suppress a shiver. James confessed to her that since that encounter his childhood nightmare of running from the Indians had returned, startling him awake, night after night.
“But you were so brave,” Jemima told him.
“I was terrified.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Anyway, don’t tell Mama I’m having those dreams again. She’s got enough to worry about.”
Jemima nodded, proud her big brother trusted her with this glimpse into his heart. James was always looking out for everybody. She ached for him, knowing how the dreams bedeviled him. But despite his fears and their mother’s resistance, she never doubted their father’s obsession with Kentucky would one day lead their family deeper into the wilderness. As for herself, their encounter with the Cherokee men had shown her that Indians were just people, same as white folks. Big Jim was scary, but the shorter Indian had looked at her with kind eyes. It made things easier somehow to have seen them for herself.
If going west would please her father, then she was willing to do it. In truth, she’d have done a great deal more than brave a few angry Indians to secure a place in her father’s heart. Though he’d always claimed her publicly as his own, Jemima couldn’t escape the feeling that he didn’t love her as deeply as her siblings—How could he?—since she was a constant reminder of the darkest stain on their family’s story.
She’d been eight years old when the nagging feeling that she was different from her brothers and sisters welled up inside her so strongly she couldn’t keep silent. Her family had spent the day at a cornhusking, and on the way home, she’d lagged behind the rest of the them, scuffling her bare feet in the dried leaves that covered the trail, pondering the moment earlier that day when a group of adults had burst into laughter after she’d walked past. That sort of thing had happened at other gatherings over the years, and on those occasions she’d sought out James for reassurance. Somehow, this time, she felt sure his kind words wouldn’t be enough.
That evening, when the supper dishes had been cleared away, she tugged on her mother’s sleeve.
“Mama, why do people whisper things and laugh when I’m around? I hate it.”
A moment earlier the cabin had been filled with voices, but now it grew quiet. Her father shifted in his seat and stared into the fire, avoiding Jemima’s eyes, but her mother took her hand and said: “I need some fresh air. Let’s go down to the creek.”
As they walked along the creek bank in the twilight, they were accompanied by the soothing sound of water swirling across the rocks. Jemima took deep breaths, savoring the moist air, and felt the knot in her stomach loosen the tiniest bit.
After a while, her mother sat down on the mossy bank and patted the ground next to her. “This is one of my favorite spots. I come here when I have things I need to think through.”
Jemima sat down and leaned against her mother’s shoulder. She reached for her mother’s hand and cradled it in both of hers. She almost never had her all to herself. Whatever unsettled feelings she had about her place in the family or her father’s feelings toward her, she’d never once doubted her mother’s love.
The creek was so clear Jemima could see fish, tiny darting shadows, amid the small stones that covered the bottom. The water seemed to whisper to her, and unlike the human voices that often left her anxious, the creek spoke of comfort and grace and belonging.
She looked up at her mother. “Sometimes I hear voices in the water.”
Her mother smiled down at her. “So do I.”
As the shadows slowly gathered around them, her mother spoke of the rumors that had begun even before Jemima’s birth and the misunderstanding that had brought them about.
“Folks love to gossip, sweetheart, so you and I will just have to do our best to ignore them. The main thing I want you to know is that none of it’s your fault. Your Daddy claims you. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says.”
Jemima nodded and snuggled closer. But in her heart, she believed it did matter, perhaps to her father, most of all.
After their family’s return from Sycamore Shoals, her father spent a year going from cabin to cabin up and down the Yadkin, talking about Kentucky to anyone who’d listen. It was a hard sell. Jemima overheard one neighbor say: “You might be right that I’ll be sorry if I don’t go, Daniel, but at least I’ll be alive to have regrets.” Such talk didn’t deter her father. He never wavered, even on the night when Jesse and Jonathan, who by this time were courting young women whose families lived along the Yadkin, announced they intended to stay behind in Carolina. Jemima’s heart sank as she watched her mother’s eyes fill with tears.
“Don’t cry, Aunt Becca,” Jesse said, reaching across the table and taking her hand.
“You’ve found yourselves good women,” her mother said. Her voice broke and she paused to gather herself. “You treat them proper, you hear. I don’t want folks saying I didn’t raise you right.”
“Why, I’m always telling folks how proper our family is,” Jesse said, straight faced. “Just the other day I told my future in-laws that my Mama and Daddy got married when I was seven years old.”
Her mother’s eyes widened in surprise, then she started to laugh and wagged a finger at Jesse.
