Traces, page 31
She heard footsteps approaching and looked up. Eleven-year-old Nathan, his face grimy with sweat from rolling the heavy barrels onto the boat, plopped down beside her with a sigh.
“Something bothering you?”
Nathan made a face. “I don’t want to go to school.” He turned pleading eyes her direction. “I want to stay on the river with you and Daddy.”
Rebecca smiled. “I know. But you’ll be among family in Lexington, Nathan. Simon has promised to keep an eye on you. He says he’ll take you hunting whenever you want.”
Nathan rubbed his eyes. “You don’t need book learning to be a good hunter.”
It was Rebecca’s turn to sigh.
“The wilderness is disappearing, son.” She nodded toward the boat. “Even your father’s had to find new ways to make ends meet.”
Nathan picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could. It hit the water with a splash. “I’ll go to Lexington,” he said, “but don’t be surprised if I don’t stay.”
Rebecca captured his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Honey—given that you’re my tenth, there’s not much you could do that would surprise me.”
With Nathan settled at school, Rebecca and Daniel returned to the river. It felt strange at first to be alone together. Even as newlyweds there’d been children to care for, but now she had no towering mounds of laundry, no piles of dishes, no endless sewing to keep her hands occupied. When Daniel went hunting, she was free to accompany him, entering the shadowy world he’d inhabited for so many years without her. She relished witnessing Daniel’s deep delight in all things wild—everything from a dew-covered spider’s web to a sweeping vista of blue-green mountains. It was a balm to her heart to realize that his departures from her had never really been a running away but, rather, a running toward something that was as necessary to him as breathing.
Together, they explored along the Ohio and up its many tributaries; they dug ginseng in the fall and set trap lines each winter. Often, in damp weather, Daniel’s ankle stiffened and ached with rheumatism, and on those days, she carried his rifle to lighten his load.
They discovered a salt spring along the Kanawha River, a tributary of the Ohio, where the game was still plentiful, and settled down for a time because Daniel had only to hobble a few hundred yards from their campsite and wait patiently for the game to gather at the lick to supply all their needs. They discovered a rough cabin, long abandoned, near the site, and set about cleaning it up, though the chimney drew so poorly that on most days Rebecca continued to cook outside, as if they were still on the trail.
“I wish we could have roamed together like this years ago,” Daniel said one chilly fall evening as he stirred the embers of their campfire, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness.
Seeing Rebecca shiver, he sat down on the deerskin next to her and pulled her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, savoring his warmth, and said: “Back then, even if you’d asked me, I’d never have left the children.”
“I know,” he said. “Knowing you were with them made it possible for me to go. I guess I’ve never thanked you properly for that.”
She smiled and straightened. The firelight danced across Daniel’s face as she turned to look at him.
“By all means, go ahead,” she said. “I’m listening.”
Rebecca stamped her feet to warm them and watched her breath plume out in front of her in the frosty air. It was peaceful in this grove of maple trees alongside the Kanawha River. The silence that surrounded her was broken only by occasional birdsong or the splash of a fish leaping into the air and returning to the water with a smack that echoed among the trees.
She pulled off her gloves and broke a piece of frozen maple sap off the edge of the small wooden spile that she’d tapped into the tree’s trunk days earlier. She popped the icy chip into her mouth and tasted a hint of the rich sweetness the tree would yield when its sap was boiled down into maple syrup.
She’d found this grove of stately maples shortly after she and Daniel had settled along the Kanawha and had noted its location in anticipation of sugaring time. Just this week, the approaching spring had brought daytime temperatures above freezing, prompting the sap to rise. Soon they’d have syrup for their johnnycakes and maple sugar for baking.
In the past, sugaring had been a family affair; she and the children had eagerly anticipated the sweetness of this season and reveled in the togetherness of working amid the maples in whatever locale they’d found themselves. Now, she worked alone, though at times she could almost hear the echo of her children’s long-ago laughter among the trees.
Rebecca tapped a new spile into one of the maples and hung a tin cup underneath to catch the sap. She was intent on her work, moving from tree to tree, when she sensed a presence behind her and turned to see a man standing in the shadows on the far side of the clearing. It was rare to see anyone along this stretch of the Kanawha, and his sudden appearance made her heart beat faster; she’d left her rifle at the cabin this morning for the short walk to the river, having been burdened with kettles and cups.
When the man stepped out of the shadows, his face was expressionless. His shoulders were draped in a buff woolen trade blanket, and his head was shorn except for a scalp lock. His presence in this territory almost certainly meant he was Shawnee.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Howasewipine,” she said, using the Shawnee greeting Nonhelema had taught her.
The man’s eyes flickered in surprise. “Howasewipine,” he responded. He pointed to her bucket. “Skepiye malise.”
Rebecca shook her head to show she didn’t understand.
The man reached over and patted the trunk of one of the maples. “Seseqimese,” he said. Then he pointed to the liquid that was dripping into the cup and pantomimed dipping a finger in and putting it to his mouth. “Skepiye malise.”
Rebecca smiled. “Yes,” she nodded. “Maple syrup.”
He smiled in return, but then his face sobered and he looked at her questioningly. “Sheltowee?” he said.
Startled to hear Daniel’s Shawnee name, Rebecca stood silent.
The man tried again. “Boone?” he said, then placed a hand over his heart. “Newekini.”
As this last word registered, Rebecca heard, in her mind, Nonhelema’s soft voice explaining its meaning to her years before.
“Newekini,” Rebecca said aloud. “Friend.”
When Rebecca walked into the cabin yard with the man following behind her, Daniel’s face registered shock, then joy. The two men clasped each other’s forearms and began speaking rapidly in Shawnee. Rebecca had no hope of keeping up as the words flew back and forth between them. When the men settled down near the fire, she busied herself mixing up corn mush to offer their guest. She punched up the coals, added some wood to the fire, and hung her worn copper kettle above the flames.
As she worked, she glanced at Daniel’s face from time to time and watched his expression change from excited to sad to thoughtful. The men’s conversation continued without pause until she walked around the fire and offered a steaming bowl of mush to their guest.
“Neyiwa,” he said, and began to eat.
Daniel stood and stretched. “Red Wolf and I were friends when I lived with the Shawnee. He’s journeyed here for the last time to see the places he knew as a child. And he’s brought us a message from Daniel Morgan.”
“Are all the children well?”
Daniel nodded. “But Daniel Morgan thinks we should come back to Kentucky, at least for a while. Most of the Shawnee have headed west, but a remnant are determined to fight.”
“Then we should go,” Rebecca said. She glanced across the fire where Red Wolf was scraping the last spoonful of mush from his bowl. “Ask him if he knows where Nonhelema is.”
At the sound of Nonhelema’s name, Red Wolf looked across the fire at Rebecca. He shook his head, then turned to Daniel and spoke slowly so that Daniel could translate his words.
“He says Nonhelema passed on shortly after she returned to her people, but he says you shouldn’t be sad; she’ll remain in her homeland, as she wished, and will never have to journey west.”
That evening, toward twilight, Rebecca left the men sitting by the fire, still talking, and followed the worn path down to the river. The full moon was rising, casting a silvery light through the bare tree limbs. The night air made her shiver, a reminder that winter still held the land in its icy grip. She stopped on the riverbank and watched the Kanawha flow past, a shimmering ribbon in the moonlight.
A whip-poor-will called, a lonely sound from somewhere in the trees behind her. Though she was grateful for the time she’d spent with Daniel along these waters, it now felt safe to admit to herself just how much she’d missed having the swirling presence of family around her. She knew she’d carry this place with her when she left, just as she had all the other creeks and rivers she’d lived beside and grown to love.
She carried people in her heart, too—those she was apart from, and all the dear ones who’d passed on. Once Nonhelema had told her: “My people believe that one day we’ll be reunited with those we’ve lost, so we have no need for goodbye. Instead, when we part ways, we say, ‘Silinoke kanola.’ It means: ‘Again, we’ll see each other.’ ”
Of all their sons, Daniel Morgan looked the most like his father, and he’d inherited his father’s restless spirit and friendly relations with the Shawnee, as well. Not long after Daniel and Rebecca arrived at his Kentucky cabin on Brushy Fork, Daniel Morgan began to talk about making an expedition westward to explore the far-off country where many of his Shawnee friends had already settled. Rebecca could tell Daniel chafed to go with his namesake but was realistic enough to know that he’d only slow his son down.
Rebecca reveled in the constant stream of family that visited them at Brushy Fork, giving her a chance to catch up with her children and marvel at how much the grandchildren had grown while she’d been away. Daniel bounced the babies on his knee and gave the youngsters jouncing piggyback rides that made them laugh and beg for more, but his eyes often held a distant look.
When Daniel Morgan returned to Kentucky after long months of exploration, he sang the praises of a well-watered wilderness, and the look on Daniel’s face swept Rebecca back to their firelit cabin in Carolina on the night John Finley had first uttered the fateful word “Kentucky” in their midst. Now, she sensed their lives were about to change again.
When Daniel Morgan finally fell silent, the only sound in the cabin was the crackle of the fire on the hearth. After a moment, Daniel turned to her and said, “So, Becca—what would you say to starting over?”
Both men were watching her with undisguised eagerness.
“Is there a river we can settle beside?” she asked.
Daniel Morgan grinned. “A big one,” he said. “They call it the Missouri.”
In the months prior to their departure, Daniel and the boys spent many long days hollowing out a huge tulip poplar, fashioning a dugout nearly sixty feet long. Other boats, of varying sizes, would accompany them down the river since many of their children and grandchildren were heading west as well. Daniel Morgan had been chosen to pilot their dugout, which would carry Rebecca, Jemima, Susannah, assorted children, and much of their household plunder down the Ohio to the Mississippi and on to Missouri. Daniel, Flanders, and Will would follow overland, driving the livestock.
The morning they left Limestone, which had grown sufficiently by this time to be renamed Maysville, the sun was glinting off the river, marking the Ohio’s every crest and swell. Their boat, heavily laden with supplies, rode deep in the water even before its human cargo was aboard. Friends and family who’d chosen to stay in Kentucky lined the bank ready to wave them off. There were ghosts hovering above the river that morning, too—James and Israel, Ned and Nonhelema. Rebecca could feel them watching from somewhere just beyond her sight.
Having said her goodbyes, she stood to one side, observing a steady stream of folks clap Daniel on the shoulder and wish him well. He was limping slightly, but his face was joyous. When her gaze shifted back to the boat, she saw that Jemima and Susannah were already seated and beckoning her to join them.
Suzy had done her best to rouse herself from her lethargy these past weeks and help with the packing. Rebecca prayed Missouri would be a new beginning for her. As for Jemima, Rebecca had no doubt that she would thrive because whatever life threw at her, she met it with the same resilient spirit that Daniel possessed. Truth be told, Jemima had grown to be her father’s favorite because they were so much alike.
As for all the old rumors, Rebecca fully expected they’d follow her to Missouri, just as they’d trailed her from Carolina and up the trace through Cumberland Gap. Folks were free to believe whatever they chose about her and her family—she was done worrying about it. She intended to live her life looking forward, not back.
She remained at the water’s edge, waiting for Daniel. When he finally broke free from his well-wishers, he scrambled down the bank and wrapped her in a final embrace.
“If the livestock don’t give us too much trouble, we should get to Missouri about the same time you do,” he said, stepping back, though still holding tight to her hand. She nodded, using his hand to steady herself as she lifted her skirts and stepped into the dugout, taking a seat between two bulging bags of cornmeal.
“See you in Missouri,” she said as his hand slipped from hers.
Daniel, with help from a half-dozen men, pushed the dugout clear of the wooden pilings, and as the boat swung wide, Rebecca looked over her shoulder and searched the crowd for her husband’s face. Daniel was waving at her, wearing a smile so broad she felt herself smiling in return.
The dugout rocked unsteadily for a moment, wallowing like a great beast unable to find its footing on the river bottom. But as the boys paddled away from the bank, the current caught the boat, and they began to move smoothly downstream. With a final glance back at Daniel, Rebecca turned her face toward the sparkling water, settled into the dugout, and let the river carry her.
Afterword
In 1799, many members of the Boone family left Kentucky to settle on the northern bank of the Missouri River.
Shortly after arriving in Missouri, Susannah Boone Hays died of “bilious fever” at the age of thirty-two. It was the family’s opinion that years of abuse had weakened her.
Martha Bryan Boone never remarried. She lived with her children in Kentucky until her death in 1793.
Hannah Boone Stewart Pennington and her second husband, Richard Pennington, moved to Kentucky around 1797 and spent the rest of their days there. The couple named one of their sons John Stewart Pennington.
Jane Van Cleve Boone and Squire Boone were among the earliest settlers at the Falls of the Ohio, now the site of Louisville, Kentucky.
In Missouri, Daniel and Rebecca were often visited by the Shawnee tribesmen who’d moved west after the loss of their Ohio homeland.
In 1813, Rebecca fell ill while making maple sugar and was taken to Jemima’s house near what is now Marthasville, Missouri. She died there, aged seventy-four, with Daniel at her side.
Daniel survived Rebecca by seven years. He died at his son Nathan’s house, on September 26, 1820, a month shy of his eighty-sixth birthday. Jemima and Nathan were at his bedside. The house is now open to the public as the Nathan Boone State Historic Site near Ash Grove, Missouri.
Jemima dictated her memoirs to one of her sons, but the manuscript was lost when the family fled an Indian attack in Missouri and the canoe that carried the family’s valuables capsized.
In 1815, one of Jemima’s sons was killed in a skirmish with the Sac and Fox Indians. His name was James.
Jemima died in 1829 at the age of sixty-six, having outlived all of her siblings except Daniel Morgan and Nathan.
The Boone women were prolific. Rebecca had ten children, Susannah had eight, Jemima had ten, Martha had six, Jane had six, and Hannah had eight. Their descendants are scattered across the United States and abroad; many of them are members of the Boone Society, which is dedicated to preserving the history of this remarkable family.
Daniel and Rebecca’s travels didn’t end with their deaths. In 1845, their bodies were exhumed from the family graveyard in Missouri and shipped to Kentucky to be reinterred in a cemetery on a bluff overlooking the state capital of Frankfort.
Acknowledgments
When you’ve worked on a manuscript for nearly twenty-five years, a multitude of people have helped along the way. I’m deeply grateful to each and every one of them.
The Appalachian Writers’ Workshop welcomed me as a fledgling writer in 1983 and has been a source of fellowship and inspiration ever since. I was incredibly fortunate to have two Appalachian literary giants, Harriette Arnow and Wilma Dykeman, as my first writing instructors.
Writing group friends, Sandy Ballard and Mary Hodges, offered valuable feedback on early drafts of this novel as well as decades of encouragement. George Ella Lyon, former Kentucky poet laureate, never quit believing in Traces even when its author was full of doubts. My dear friend Thea Yoder traipsed to Boone sites in Kentucky and Missouri with me and cheered me along with tea and front-porch pep talks.
Robert Morgan, novelist, poet, and Boone biographer, generously shared his thoughts on all things “Boone.” Author Randell Jones graciously answered geographical questions regarding the Boone family’s travels. I’m grateful to frontier scholar, Ted Franklin Belue, for his unparalleled knowledge of Kentucky’s long hunters. Many thanks to Sam Compton, president of the Boone Society, and Carolyn Compton, a descendant of Hannah Boone, for their warm welcome.
Deep appreciation to Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle, enrolled member of the Eastern Band of Cherokee, and George Blanchard, enrolled member of the Absentee Shawnee, for their help with Cherokee and Shawnee languages and customs.
I was fortunate to interview and learn from a number of historical reenactors who specialize in frontier life, including Billy Heck, Nathan Harrison, David Cadle, Frank and Carol Jarbo, Alan Hawkins, and Randall Ross.
