by Lori Benton
“Sir, no. Your life isna done—”
Again Carey made a noise that halted his protest.
“Se…vern…was…van-ity.” Though clearly exhausted, he pressed on. “What…to…do?”
Alex scrambled to understand. “Ye dinna ken what to do? With me, ye mean?”
Carey shook his head. “Not…you.”
With a roiling in his gut, Alex made another stab. “Ye dinna ken how ye’ll provide, for Joanna and Charlotte, if ye dinna have Severn?”
Relief streamed from the man like the sweat down his temples. He nodded. Though far from relieved, Alex decided it was time to lay every hope on the table.
“I’ve a notion about that, sir. But I’d like Joanna to hear it, too, and if ye dinna mind my saying, I think ye need to lie down.”
Carey was attempting to form a reply when someone else beat him to it.
“I’m here,” Joanna said, coming into the smithy bearing a laden tray. “And I want to hear it now, Alex. Please.”
* * *
They settled Papa on Alex’s cot, a cup of cider and a roll warm from the oven on a plate atop his blanketed lap. Joanna handed Alex his own cup and settled herself on Elijah’s old cot. Alex stood between, cradling cup and bread. Before he could begin, Papa asked, “Mc-Gin-nis?”
“Oh,” Joanna said, recalling the visitors she’d gone to greet. “He’s tried more than once in the past weeks to see us, Papa, having heard of our”—she paused, beating back the shadows of their losses—“misfortunes. Mister McGinnis was turned away at the dock every time by one excuse or another, and we never knew it. He and his son plan to stay until tomorrow. He wants to see you, help us, if he can. You were about to address that subject, Alex?”
When Alex set cup and bread aside and extended his hand to her, she took it, rising to stand beside him, her stays suddenly too tight to contain her beating heart.
Papa’s gaze fastened on that linking clasp as Alex spoke of his journey out of the mountains with Reverend Pauling, desperate to find the river that would lead them back toward Mountain Laurel.
“There came a morning I left him sleeping and climbed the ridge below which we’d camped. I meant to get a view of the land, maybe spot the river—gain my bearings, ye ken.”
He’d crested the ridge and emerged from forest to find himself at the top of a cove, wide and gently sloping, with a broad creek running down to the river he’d sought, visible below. He’d stood at the wood’s edge in the light of a rising sun…
“I’d never kent such a feeling in a place,” he told them, gaze abstracted, as though living again that moment in his mind. “As if I could already see it—a house, a mill, and where stood an old chestnut I thought, right there I’ll build a smithy. That’s where I buried the tools I took from ye, sir. I kent by midday, maybe sooner, I’d be carrying the reverend and needed to lighten my load. I raised a cairn over the spot, with stones from the creek.”
Papa tried to say a word. It came out mangled. They waited, glancing at each other, while he tried again.
“Bib-li-cal…of…you.”
Alex smiled at that, but uncertainty marked his gaze. “I dinna ken whether it sounds a place ye’d fancy seeing, much less settling. But this is what I propose. Let me lead ye to it, and Elijah, Mari, Azuba, any of your people here minded to stay with ye. It’s a good place, not too deep into the mountains, nor far off beaten paths. And I’ve the sense if we settled there, others would come. I’m told the governor, Johnston, is generous when it comes to granting land to fellow Scots. Though, I am still indentured.”
“Papa knows the governor,” Joanna said when he paused and looked to her. “Alex, what you’re describing, it sounds much like the vision I had. Or the beginnings of it.”
Of a simple life, with a man who simply loved her. And here stood the man.
“I mind it well, lass.” Tenderness and question filled his eyes. “Ye wouldna be afraid of the mountains, or of living rough to start?”
“I don’t think I’d be afraid anywhere, so long as you were there too.”
Alex appeared to grow taller, if that were possible. She saw it in his eyes, a healing confidence, a restoring strength. But he wasn’t the only one present whose life would be changed by what they decided this day.
“Papa? What say you?” She waited while her stepfather gathered his thoughts, knowing her heart on the matter. Praying silently for his. He’d forgotten his bread and cider, his gaze on Alex.
“Marry…her…Mac-Kinn-on.”
Joanna’s breath caught, robbing her of speech.
Alex wasn’t so afflicted. “Above all things I want to care for ye, sir, and your daughters, and all that’s yours for the rest of my life, but…d’ye think she’d have me?”
“You could ask!” Joanna exclaimed, finding voice at last.
“To be fair, I all but did last night.”
She blushed at the half-teasing remark, remembering her behavior in the kitchen. “And I all but said yes.”
“So ye did.” He took both her hands in his, holding them tight. “But so there’s no misunderstanding here…Joanna Carey, will ye marry me?”
You know well that I will, she thought, and opened her mouth to say it, but Elijah’s voice cut through the moment. “If ye don’t say yes to the man, Joanna, so he can lead us all to this promised land I’ve just heard described, I might never speak to ye again.”
Quite unperturbed, Alex turned to include Elijah, standing in the doorway surveying them. Joanna didn’t mind the interruption either, glad Elijah had returned in time to join the conversation, even if it included a proposal of marriage.
“I suppose we cannot have that,” she said.
Such happiness felt as if it belonged to some other life. Some other Joanna. The one she would become.
“Then I’ll leave ye to sort this out,” Elijah said, smiling with a lightness Joanna hadn’t seen in far too long. “Once ye have done, ye’ll maybe want to come see who’s returned to ye.”
“Yes,” she said, then there was nothing else in the world but Alex gazing down at her, not even Papa in the cot nearby.
“Ye dinna mean that’s the only reason ye’d marry me? To please Elijah?”
He was teasing, but there was an earnestness to the question. He’d once asked her what it was she wanted. Not what Papa wanted for her, or Charlotte needed from her, or anyone else expected of her. She hadn’t followed her heart then. Too much had stood in the way. Now all that hindered had been removed, and she could see the path forward.
“No, Alex. It’s far down the list of reasons why I mean to marry you.” There, in front of Papa, she lifted her hands to his face, drew him down and kissed him, leaving him in no doubt what reasons topped her list.
Papa made no protest.
They drank their cider and ate their bread, a simple meal to mark the ending of a life grown threadbare, ready to be folded away like a worn garment, exchanged for something new. A new life.
Not until Papa had drifted to sleep, though, did they leave him to go out and see who would be sharing it.
Postscriptum
19 October 1748
To Edmund Philip Carey
Severn Plantation
* * *
Dear Edmund,
Finding myself again prisoner to my frequent Infirmity, I pen this letter to you, longtime Friend. Also to Joanna, Charlotte, and Elijah. I remember you each in Prayer, that the Almighty would minister to you, His Spirit ever comfort. Even during my captivity in the Wilderness, news of you reached me. While my Heart is deeply burdened for your sore testing, I trust you cling to our unchanging Christ and pray the more fervently that this Faith we hold in common will be manifested in your innermost Being so that those looking on will see Christ in you, and recall during this time of Loss your generosity to the Church that oft met on the grou
nds of Severn in brighter days.
Not to add to your troubles, but to ease them, I ask of you a kindness. By his own accounting, Alex MacKinnon proved of little use to you in service or in Friendship, but now I venture he has become useful in both. Such has been his Service to me, I should have been content to keep him with me until I am fitted to travel, but I send him back to you now with my blessing because of your Need. Only consider this, that perhaps it was for the best he left you for a season. He returns to you more than your indentured Man, but now a Brother in the Faith, willing to endure whatever punishment his defection may warrant. However, I plead with you to welcome him back. Whatever he owes, charge it to me, bearing in mind your Words to me when last we met: And you know as well all that I owe you—my very Life. Therefore grant me this kindness, Friend.
Now, before Alex comes to bid me farewell, be so kind also as to ready a bed for me. With your Prayers and the Almighty’s Grace, I expect to come to you. Duncan Cameron, my host, sends his greetings—in the Scots tongue, which I will not attempt to pen—as do his believing slaves, Malcolm and Tilly, and their little daughter, Naomi, already the accomplished cook.
Until I see you, God willing soon, peace to you, Edmund—from our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ!
David Cornelius Pauling
Mountain Laurel
* * *
16 April 1750
To Reverend David Pauling
Crooked Branch’s Town
* * *
Dear Reverend,
How good that your letter of last autumn reached us before the snows sealed you off, away in the mountains. There being little hope of a reply reaching you until spring, I held off writing, and am glad I did so. You asked how we have settled in our “edge of the wilderness” cove, as you called it. You will recall from your brief visit on your way to Runs-Far, Jemma (I cannot think of her as Walnut), and the rest, that we did not have an altogether smooth time of it, moving our considerable tribe here, though of course Alex, Papa, and I were pleased to welcome our former slaves who chose to remain with us, and how thankful I am for Papa’s longtime acquaintance with Governor Johnston, which enabled us to procure a dispensation for those who wished not to seek their fortunes beyond this colony, as the law would otherwise have forced them to do.
The process of divesting ourselves of Severn, then the unfortunate discovery of Mister Reeves’s further perfidy while last in Wilmington—bearing that letter of authority to act in Papa’s name on a matter with Mister Simcoe; a matter that, as it turned out, was an utter fabrication—took longer than we would have liked. We were blessed in the end by Captain Bingham. Upon learning the outrageously low price he paid to purchase the Charlotte-Ann from Mister Reeves had not originated with Papa, that we had no knowledge whatsoever of the sale, the captain did a gracious thing. He named Papa a fair price for the ship he had already bought and has since paid us in full. Alex was more affected by this than anyone. He and Captain Bingham had an unfortunate history, but they parted well this second time, and so on that note of grace, we cut our ties to that old life and left for the mountains to claim the headright grant Papa obtained from Governor Johnston, which includes our beloved cove.
You know all that Demas confessed of Mister Reeves’s past, the extent of his crimes against his former shipmates—only Thom Kelly’s death, it seems, was not of his agency, though I am certain he was pleased by it—so I shall not mention it in detail. Scripture tells us that all things work together for good for those who love the Lord. I thought that meant the Almighty uses even our tragedies to bring about some good thing, some unforeseen blessing, given time. Now I think there’s more to it—that the very thing that causes our pain can become the source of our joy, much as a baby causes agony in its birthing, but once born is cherished, its mother’s rejoicing beyond measure. Or perhaps I merely have babies on the brain. More on that shortly.
All my heart, and my hours, are taken up with establishing our new home, and while the work is never ending, the rewards are as ceaseless. It has not been a year since you were here but much has changed. Little Jory runs about now, keeping Marigold on her toes when she isn’t tending to her and Elijah’s daughter born this winter past. Jory is a feisty one, and it takes us all—Marigold, Azuba, Phoebe, Sybil, and me—to keep him from falling into continual mischief. What may surprise you is the one person Jory never crosses or even tests is dear Papa.
I realize it was a shock, seeing the change in Papa when you joined us at Severn, though you treated him with the dignity and compassion you’ve always shown. Papa’s recovery continues, but slowly. He walks still with a cane and likely always will. His speech is yet labored, but the greatest blessing is that thing which you noted during your visit. His soul is at peace. He no longer frets over the things of this world but wants only now the things of the Lord. He has lost so much of this world’s treasure, yet now his aim is to store up treasure in heaven, where no thief can steal. That is what he talks to Jory about, to all the children of our former slaves, anyone with patience to sit and listen. Perhaps the mountains are healing to him as Alex suggests, but I know it owes as much to breaking the chains that bound us at Severn. Papa’s soul has been set free along with his slaves. As you always knew it would be.
Charlotte is still her sweet child-self, growing more beautiful with each passing season. While in Edenton another physician examined her, reaching the same conclusion as those before. Perhaps something happened at her birth, or this is merely the way the Almighty chose to knit her in our mother’s womb. I am thankful for this: she will never comprehend how near she came to having her soul marked by darkness. Charlotte has friends among our former slaves, one girl in particular who reminds me of Jemma. Nothing hinders their friendship. As long as I have a say in it, nothing shall.
We miss you and your teaching from the Word. But to our surprise, Elijah has recently taken on the mantle of teacher, for all on the Sabbath, daily for the children we have about us. I am grateful, as are we all, to see him finding purpose and joy. Speaking again of joy, when Marigold stood up with me at our wedding, and Elijah with Alex, I wondered whether she did so because she was still Papa’s slave and I had asked it of her. Now she is free to choose, and still she chooses me. We are building this life side by side, with Alex and Elijah. And Azuba, Moses and his family, Phoebe and Sybil and their families. We are quite the village on our own, though we are no longer alone.
I have held off mentioning my beloved Alex and his doings until now. As you know he journeyed west into the mountains months ahead of the rest of us, Moses with him, to raise cabins, put in a late crop of corn, and establish our settlement while we waited with Governor Johnston in Edenton for Papa to regain strength enough for the journey. There was little more for you to see here last year than what Moses and Alex accomplished. Now I could write pages about the additional acres ready to be planted in corn, the gardens, the smithy under that big chestnut, the new cabins, and the mill I can hear Alex building as I write. It is to be a grist mill. Down where the creek spills into the Yadkin others have settled, drawn not only by promise of a mill but by the nearness of a blacksmith. Alex has grown in skill with Elijah by to continue his training. “His brain and my hands,” Alex is fond of saying.
I do love the man, and am grateful for King George’s mercy that brought him to us, and our Great King’s mercy that returned him. He is a leader of men, so full of vitality and drive at times he still overwhelms me. Yet where once there was in him a hardness of heart and will, I find now a willingness to yield, to allow that strength to be channeled where he sees God leading. He says he is the blessed one to have someone as patient and steady and forgiving as me for his wife, but I know better.
Moses will be our miller, though his first love will always be the horses, of which we have the beginnings of what we hope to be a respectable herd one day. He and Papa talk often of fillies and colts yet unborn. Azuba looks forw
ard to the next building project we have planned once the mill is finished, what she calls a Proper House. I quite like our snug cabin, though Azuba maintains there is not room enough to cuss a cat—if we had a cat. What we do have is a need for the extra space, and soon, as we anticipate our first child’s arrival. She will be a June baby. Or he will. Or they will. Azuba thinks it’s twins. Alex is partial to the notion, but I am not sure I want to believe her.
A trader has come up from the river on his way into the mountains. He says he will find you at Crooked Branch’s town and put this letter into your hands. Though the high-country snows were deep this year, he expects the trails are passable. If so, you will read this soon.
You are in my prayers daily, as are Jemma and Runs-Far, Blue Jay, Shelled Corn, Blackbird and her son, and many others. All here bid me give you greeting. Alex bids you greet Thunder-Going-Away with these words: “Before the snows come again, little brother, you will see me.” He has a hunting trip planned for after our babe is born and our crops sown. I hope soon to see you again, dear friend.
Yours most sincerely,
Joanna Carey MacKinnon
MacKinnon’s Cove, North Carolina
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
Toward the end of the New Testament, following several lengthy epistles by the apostle Paul addressed to the early churches, is an epistle Paul penned to a friend, a wealthy Christian man in Colossae called Philemon. In this brief letter, Paul writes concerning another man he encountered while a prisoner in Rome—a runaway slave belonging to Philemon. This encounter changed the life of this slave, Onesimus. In the letter, which Onesimus is bearing back to his master, Paul describes this slave, once unprofitable to Philemon, as having become a fellow laborer and brother profitable to them both. Paul asks Philemon to receive back his runaway—as a personal favor to Paul. The letter is written with an air of confident hope that forgiveness and reconciliation would be its outcome.