Traces, page 19
Late that summer, when her father announced he was heading back to the Clinch settlements to collect her mother and the rest of the family, Susannah felt a prickle of fear. Not only would their fledgling community be in less competent hands during his absence, but even though she’d never told her father about Will’s abuse, knowing someone from the family was nearby had given her some small sense of safety.
The night before her father’s departure, the men gathered to bid him goodbye. Some of them handed him letters to deliver to loved ones in the Clinch settlements or to be passed on to other hands for delivery to far-flung parts of Virginia and Carolina.
“I reckon my folks back home have about given up on me,” one man said as he handed her father a scrap of paper. Her father grinned as he read the entire message aloud: “I’m fine. Corn in. Home to get you after har-vast.”
The man nodded solemnly. “I want my people to know we’re standing our ground and that I expect to get a bumper crop.”
The conversation and whiskey flowed freely among the men all through the afternoon and well into the evening; they reminisced about loved ones left behind, passed on rumors of Indian sightings, and spoke hopefully of the harvest to come. By the time the sun had set, there was an air of drunken jocularity around the encampment.
“Hey, Will,” one grizzled woodsman bellowed across the campfire, “maybe you could finally get yourself a buffalo if you stabbed him with that quill pen of yours.”
All the men laughed heartily. Will’s face reddened, and he drained his mug, then went in search of a refill. As the evening wore on, Susannah did her best to steer clear of him. The moon had risen over the treetops when Will shot a scowling look her way. Her heart sank like a stone tossed into a millpond. He was drunk, but not drunk enough.
Her father had already retired for the evening, and only a few men were left around the fire when Will stood and brusquely motioned for her to follow him to bed. She hesitated, and Dolly, who’d been moving quietly in and out of the firelight gathering dishes and piling them into a washtub, said loudly: “Excuse me, Miz Hays—Captain Boone wondered if you could patch this for him tonight.” She held a worn leather moccasin up in the half-light and stuck her finger through a large hole in the heel. “Said he hates to bother you so late, but since he’s leaving in the morning . . .”
Will turned unsteadily to stare at the two of them. As the meaning of Dolly’s words registered, he shrugged, gave Susannah a dismissive wave of his hand, and stumbled alone into the darkness.
Susannah stepped around the fire and took the moccasin from Dolly, turning it over in her hand. “This isn’t . . .” she began.
“Shhh,” Dolly hissed, putting a hand on Susannah’s arm and turning her away from the men who lingered around the fire. “It’s mine,” she whispered, raising her skirts slightly to show Susannah a bare foot. “I wasn’t about to let you go off with that man, given the mood he’s in. You wait until you’re sure he’s asleep before you follow him, you hear?”
Susannah grasped Dolly’s hand.
“’Tain’t nuthin, Miz Hays.” Dolly’s voice took on a teasing tone. “I just figured if I played my cards right, I’d have that hole in my moccasin fixed by morning.” She gave Susannah’s hand a squeeze, then picked up the tub of dishes, adding: “You ain’t gonna outfight that man, so you best start thinking about how to outsmart him. If you figure out the things that matter most to him, likely there’s a way you can bargain with him.”
“Is outsmarting men a specialty of yours?” Susannah said it lightly, but her smile faded as Dolly’s face grew stern.
“Lord, child, you have no idea the things a woman like me has to learn to stay alive in this world. I just never thought I’d need to teach them to a white woman.”
20
Rebecca
Rebecca stared out the window at the tiny grave on the hill above the cabin. Daniel had arrived in the Clinch settlements, intending to lead the remainder of their family to Kentucky, only to discover Rebecca near to term and unable to travel, a delay that had left him so anxious that he’d paced the cabin floor for hours at a time. When Baby William had arrived, pitifully thin and unable to nurse, Rebecca had cradled him every moment of his short life. She’d named him in honor of her new son-in-law, but the babe had lived less than three days. When he’d drawn his final breath, she’d tearfully commended his soul into James’s care; it comforted her to think of them together.
Willie was her ninth child and the only one she’d lost as an infant; to her mind, he was as much a casualty of the massacre in Powell Valley as James had been. She’d had no appetite during this pregnancy and had actually resented the child growing within whenever well-meaning folks suggested a new baby would replace the son she’d lost.
They were a melancholy group as they left the Clinch settlements and headed down the trace toward Kentucky. They were all grieving, and Rebecca still felt shaky and weak. It was the thought of Suzy in that isolated settlement that drew her toward Kentucky despite the discomfort of lurching along on a horse from dawn to dusk so soon after childbirth. Having lost James, and then Willie, what she wanted more than anything was to gather her remaining children together. That goal helped her endure long days on the trail when she felt so unsteady that the trees blurred around her and she feared she might tumble from her horse.
“Tell me about Suzy,” she said to Daniel one night as they sat alone by the campfire after everyone else had retired to their bedrolls. “I still can’t think of her as a married woman.”
“Suzy has a lot of grit,” Daniel said. “She and Dolly work as hard as the men and complain a good bit less than most.”
“And Will?”
Daniel frowned. “Will has more of a taste for liquor than I’d like, but to be fair, journeying along this trace makes most men crave a drink.” He smiled. “He and Suzy may not be a perfect match, Becca, but I expect they’ll settle in.”
He turned away to rummage in his haversack and pulled out a powder horn. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to show you this—guess this is as good as any.”
He handed her the horn, and she leaned forward, holding it near the flames. She fingered the letters carved into the smooth surface and tried to sound them out in her head. Slowly they shaped themselves into a word.
“It says Stewart,” she said. She felt her face flush. “It’s John’s?”
Daniel nodded. “We found this and his skeleton in a hollow sycamore along the Rockcastle River while we were building the road. John’s shoulder was shattered. My guess is he hid in the tree after Indians shot him, and he bled to death there.”
As Daniel spoke, she envisioned John and his sweet smile, then heard the echo of Hannah’s screams when Squire told her John had vanished. She closed her eyes, suddenly awash in memories: John’s face as he stared across the fire at Hannah when they first met; the gentle sound of James’s voice, which she missed every minute of every day; the tiny face of baby William, whom she’d never have the chance to get to know. So many losses.
Daniel reached over and took her hand. “We should be grateful John wasn’t carried off to one of the Indian towns; he was a free man to the last. We gave him a proper burial, and now Hannah will have the comfort of knowing what happened to him. Really, it’s a miracle we found him.”
They sat in silence for a moment, hand in hand, until Daniel said: “It’s been five years since John died, Becca, but Lord, I still miss him.”
The tiny settlement known as Martin’s Station was the final outpost of civilization on the road to Kentucky. They lingered there for several days, resting the horses, molding bullets, and bargaining for the final supplies that would have to last until they reached Boonesborough, more than a hundred and fifty miles distant.
At twilight, Rebecca walked among the cluster of cabins, soaking in the low thrum of voices that spilled out of doorways amid the flicker of firelight. The forested ridgeline that loomed darkly above the station looked ominous against the fading sky, and when she stared up at it, she couldn’t suppress a shiver. Cumberland Gap was still a hard day’s travel westward from here, offering a gateway through that towering ridgeline, into territory the Shawnee claimed as their own. She’d heard tales of the Gap since the night John Finley first uttered the word “Kentucky” in their Carolina cabin, and in the years since then she’d prayed, more than once, that she’d never lay eyes on it.
A burst of laughter spilled from one of the cabins, and she froze at the bell-like innocence of her children’s voices. What have we done, bringing them here? The wilderness that surrounded them offered neither welcome nor warmth, and from this point onward there’d be no cabins, no company, no one to turn to if disaster struck.
It was a long day’s travel from Martin’s Station to Cumberland Gap, and they arrived near nightfall. Daniel led them to a clearing some distance from the foot of the mountain, where they set up camp. After supper, with cicadas buzzing in the trees around them, he gathered the company together and announced they’d break camp later than usual the next morning.
“I want it to be full light when we go through the Gap,” he said.
He didn’t need to explain; it was apparent to everyone that the Gap was a perfect place for an ambush.
The next morning, as they toiled upwards, the mountains rose steeply on both sides, and Daniel grew visibly uneasy. His eyes darted here and there, scouting the terrain on either side of the trail. Rebecca’s rifle was primed, and she rode with it across her lap, having reined her horse into line behind the children, positioning herself so she could be sure no one strayed off the path or straggled behind.
Daniel led the column, accompanied by a half-dozen riflemen. Israel followed closely, leading a horse loaded down with panniers that carried bedding as well as the two youngest children, Daniel Morgan, who was five, and two-year-old Jesse Bryan. Next came Jemima, riding double with Levina, who was nine. Rebecca and seven-year-old Becky came last; her daughter’s skinny arms encircled Rebecca’s waist, loosening and tightening as their horse picked its way slowly up the rutted trail. Close behind them rode two other families, followed by an assortment of livestock driven by a dozen or so armed men who brought up the rear.
Halfway up the mountainside, a narrow stream cascaded down the slope, spilling across the trail and forcing their mounts to splash through it. As they stepped into the cool water, the horses and cattle tried to lower their heads and drink, but Daniel hollered to keep them moving.
Rebecca scanned the tree line, searching the green depths around them for a flash of sunlight off polished metal or the gliding movement of human forms in the shadows. Adding to her nervousness was a growing sensation that their little party wasn’t alone. She could almost hear the tramp of hundreds of feet all around her, as if every soul that had ever funneled through that narrow portal was still present. As she rode upward, their voices—Indian and white—crowded around her, whispering tales of hope and fear, triumph and discouragement. Her neck prickled with the sense that they were accompanied by a host of others. For her, the Gap was a haunted place.
Once they’d descended and were standing on Kentucky soil, Daniel let them pause at last to catch their breath. When Rebecca looked back at the mountain, standing tall against the sky, she had the odd sensation that the door to the civilized world had just slammed shut behind them.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen the river this high in late summer,” Daniel said as they gathered on the banks of the swift-flowing Cumberland. Rebecca could tell from his voice that he was worried. He pointed to a boulder in the middle of the river. “That rock marks the best crossing point. If the top of it’s underwater, it isn’t safe to cross. With the water this high, there’ll be a stretch toward the middle where the horses have to swim.”
Several of the men exchanged nervous glances before turning to the task of tightening girths and tying down items on the pack frames. Rebecca rearranged their meal bags, tucking the oilcloth around the top of the frame and cinching the cordage tight, praying their foodstuffs would stay dry.
When the column splashed into the water, Jemima was near the front, riding double with a little girl from one of the other families. The child had taken a shine to Jemima, following her around camp each night like a chick trailing a hen. As their horse splashed into the river, Rebecca heard Jemima say soothingly: “I love the water, don’t you? My big brother James used to call me ‘Duck’ because Mama couldn’t keep me out of the creek.”
Jemima’s mount had just splashed past the stone that marked the deepest part of the crossing when the gelding stumbled and went under, pitching both girls into the swirling current. Weighted down by her heavy skirts, Jemima struggled to keep her head above water. She reached for the child, who’d surfaced nearby, arms flailing, but the current quickly separated them.
The child wailed, her dress billowing around her. One of the men riding just behind managed to grasp her skirts as she swept past him, but the swift current carried Jemima away from the riders.
“Daniel!” Rebecca screamed, unable to abandon her horse with Becky astride behind her. There were frantic shouts from the men on both banks as the water closed over Jemima’s head, once, then twice. Rebecca saw Daniel reach the far bank, leap from his horse, and sprint downstream, dodging through the brush and stripping off his hat, shot bag, and powder horn as he ran, trying to keep pace with Jemima’s bobbing head. He scrambled up a rock that jutted into the river and was poised to jump when Jemima broke free of the river’s current and began swimming toward shore.
Rebecca’s limbs went weak with relief as she watched Jemima drag herself up the muddy bank and into her father’s waiting arms. In that moment, she sent up a prayer of gratitude to James for the childhood hours he’d spent teaching Jemima to swim. She could almost feel his spirit hovering over the river.
After Rebecca’s horse carried her safely across, she slid from her saddle and gathered Jemima in her arms. Her sodden clothes were cold to the touch, but when Jemima stepped back from her embrace, Rebecca was amazed to see, not fear, but laughter in her daughter’s eyes. It was one of those unexpected moments when she saw one of her children fresh, as if meeting them for the first time. Rebecca was startled to realize how tall Jemima had grown; her features were now those of a young woman, not a child.
“I’m all right, Mama. Better a dunking than an arrow.”
Rebecca felt humbled in the face of her daughter’s courage; her own mind continued to quiver with the horror of what might have been. There was a steadiness to Jemima that hadn’t been there just months ago. She’d risen from deep grief at the loss of her brother and now faced the world with a calm determination that reminded Rebecca of Daniel. Surely the Lord has a sense of humor, she thought, because of all our children, the daughter who folks doubt is Daniel’s has grown to be the most like him.
The day Rebecca first laid eyes on Boonesborough, she was sure Daniel was playing one of his practical jokes. “Where’s the stockade?” she said, reining in her horse. She turned to look at him as he pulled his mount up beside her. They’d crested Hackberry Ridge, and their party was stretched out behind them on the trail, a scraggly procession of three dozen settlers, horses, pack animals, cattle, and dogs. From this wooded height, a rolling grassland stretched beneath them, bordered on the far side by the Kentucky River. As Daniel had promised, it was a beautiful place, but the only signs of a settlement were a half-dozen scattered cabins, several large stands of late-planted corn ripening in the warm September air, a handful of ragged tents, and a solitary two-story blockhouse. There were no fences around any of the structures—nothing that spoke of a community ready to defend itself.
“They should have made more progress by now,” Daniel said, tight-lipped.
Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t believe the children would be living on that open plain with only a hastily constructed cabin for protection. Why in God’s name hadn’t they built a stockade? She’d trusted Daniel’s judgment when he’d allowed their son to backtrack down the trail for supplies, and it had cost James his life. Now another of Daniel’s decisions had brought them here, and as she looked off the ridge at the motley settlement below, she felt sure it would be a miracle if any of them left that grassy plain alive.
Before she could voice any of this to Daniel, there was a welcoming shout from the river bottom as one of the men caught sight of them. She saw Susannah duck out of a rough cabin nestled in a grove of sycamores near the river and shade her eyes to look up at the ridge. When she spotted them, she began to run through the tall grass, her auburn hair shining in the sun. Rebecca urged her mount down the grassy slope, and when she reached Susannah, she slid off her horse and they clung to each other, swaying back and forth.
That night, Susannah outdid herself, setting out a hot dinner of roasted buffalo hump, freshly dug turnips, and snap beans. She even buried a dozen sweet potatoes to cook amid the coals, knowing they were her father’s favorite, a piece of thoughtfulness that earned her an appreciative wink from Daniel. It warmed Rebecca to see how the hardships they’d shared while cutting the road had brought those two closer together.
Her own contribution to the feast was a block of tea, a luxury she’d hoarded for just this occasion. The dumping of tea in Boston Harbor eighteen months earlier had been the prelude to a general boycott of tea by colonial patriots. Merchants who dared offer tea for sale were sometimes subjected to mob violence, so it had become a rare commodity.
When Rebecca pulled the dark fragrant square from the depths of her pocket, Susannah’s face brightened. She shaved curlings from the block, guarding every precious flake, and held her face over the first steaming cup to savor its delicate aroma before handing it across the fire to her father.
