The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn

by Benton, Lori

  If she was legally a person of mixed blood. Her father had been white. Had her mother a white father as well? At what point did a person stop being too mixed to marry white?

  There was her mother’s box, tied behind the horse’s saddle. Its contents might settle the question … or might not.

  She didn’t look at the box, and Mr. Bird didn’t seem to think of it. “If that’s settled, go put on those clothes, and we’ll see to getting this union made legal—at least as far as anyone else is concerned.”

  She swallowed further protest, her stomach doing a different sort of flip. “I’ll need to wear my stays again for the gown to fit. Will you tie them for me?”

  “Do I have to?” He was trying to look disapproving, but humor lurked in his eyes. If he aimed to calm her nerves, he’d struck the right note.

  She drew herself up straight, matching his gaze. “Yes, Mr. Bird. Unless there are more mountains to climb betwixt here and Jonesborough?”

  “No ma’am. Not from here on.”

  “Then, if you please, I prefer to be married in my stays.”

  In the log-built structure that served as the courthouse in the hamlet of Jonesborough, faced with the sheet of foolscap he was meant to sign to post a marriage bond, Jesse Bird felt the spit dry in his mouth.

  “You’re telling me I’m liable for how much?”

  “Five hundred pounds.” The clerk, a tall, bony man, angular as a wading heron, shuffled through a stack of papers on the table, then turned to call a question to someone in a back room.

  Till today, Jesse had never stepped foot inside a courthouse, Franklin or otherwise. A sense of urgent business taking place just out of sight, of nerves stretched taut behind harried gazes, had infected him the moment he entered the confined space, rifle slung at his shoulder, Tamsen Littlejohn at his side. Forced to wait while an older couple saw to some matter of a land deed, he’d been edgy to have the proceedings over long before he was called by the clerk. Tamsen, lovely in her borrowed gown, still occupied the bench beside the door, along with several later arrivals, all within hearing of every word Jesse uttered.

  “I’m back from east of the mountains, all my furs turned to winter supplies. Not hard coin.”

  The clerk jerked his chin at the crowded bench. “Post bond or don’t. I haven’t time to jaw over your private business.”

  Jesse’s frustration must have shown in the beat of silence when the clerk finally met his gaze.

  “You don’t have to do it this way,” the man informed him. “Find a minister. Have the banns read. But you’ll have to wait three weeks in case anyone objects to the union.”

  Jesse glanced at Tamsen. Her eyes had widened at the clerk’s pronouncement, reflecting the unease that had coiled inside him when he learned they’d have to put their names in writing. He hadn’t thought through the details of what two people had to do to be married legal, never having the need. Signing their names seemed like leaving a trail a crawling babe could follow. But having banns read three weeks in a row was nigh as bad. Parrish and Kincaid might spend those weeks nosing along the French Broad, or they could show up in Jonesborough by suppertime.

  The clerk waved away a fly that had come in through the open door. “I can’t see what the problem is. You do want to get married?”

  The man didn’t need to know the worst of it. “The problem is I ain’t got five hundred pounds to lay down. I’d like to know who does.”

  The clerk’s brows shot high. “You don’t have to pay it today. You’re only pledging that price to your wife if some impediment to the marriage should arise after the fact.”

  Far from reassured, Jesse asked, “What sort of impediment?”

  “You don’t have another wife stashed away somewhere?” The clerk gave him a looking-over and leaned close. “I don’t mean an Injun. That don’t count.”

  Hot blood flooded Jesse’s face. Tamsen’s gaze bore hotter into his back. He ground his teeth. “She’ll be my first. And only.”

  “Well, then, is she twenty-one, or have her parents’ consent?”

  “Her parents are deceased,” Jesse said, skirting the former question which he couldn’t answer. Tamsen might be twenty-one. Or eighteen. Why hadn’t he asked?

  Sweat was gathering on his brow. The clerk batted the persistent fly.

  “If you mean to sign, I suggest you make it fast on account—”

  “Amis!” Another man stuck his head around the doorway of the adjoining room. “Need you in here to witness.”

  “Sign or make your mark—there.” The clerk jabbed a finger at the paper, then ducked into the back room.

  Jesse beckoned Tamsen to his side.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Outside the courthouse voices rose and there was the stamp of horses hooves. Was this why all the tension and hurry? Some big proceeding set to get underway?

  “Just need to sign this. Then we stand before the justice of the peace, who I’m guessing’s in that back room.” The blood pounded in his temples. Every instinct was telling him this was a mistake.

  The clerk poked his head in view, shot a glance toward the door. Not a harried glance this time. One of plain alarm. Anxiety leapt from the back room, licking like flames at the edges of Jesse’s mind. They had to do this. They’d ridden half the day into Jonesborough. They had to be married, for both their protection. Hadn’t they?

  He took up the quill, dipped it, but had written no more than Jesse before the disturbance outside escalated to shouts.

  “We aim to enter the premises of this unlawful court. Stand aside!”

  “Over our rottin’ corpses you’re coming in here!”

  “If needs be—”

  “Ye got no right!”

  Two men waiting on the bench leapt to their feet as the doorway darkened. A scuffle ensued, men pushing in, others pushing back, then the tangle burst like a festered sore and bodies spilled into the courthouse. A dozen men, armed and grim, fanned out through the front room. Jesse knew the figure at the center of the throng—Colonel John Tipton. A big man with a big voice, Tipton raised it above those clamoring for his immediate removal from the Franklin court premises. “By the authority of the State of North Carolina, I demand all records of this illicit court be remanded into my keeping.”

  “Absolutely not, sir!” The shrill rebuke belonged to a gray-haired man who charged out of the back room, riled as a fighting cock and nigh as small. “How dare you insult this honorable court with such outrageous accusations and demands?”

  Jesse calculated their escape. A few paces of open floor space separated them from the confrontation—one balanced on the blade of a knife, violence a word or misstep away.

  “It’s this so-called court that insults the General Assembly and the good order of the State of North Carolina.” Tipton motioned to his men, three of whom headed for the back room with rifles ready.

  The older man flung his short arms wide. “Calumny—thievery!”

  Tamsen clutched his arm. “Jesse, are they going to—”

  “Come on.” He snatched the bond paper off the desk, cramming it inside his coat, then grabbed her hand and edged toward the door, glancing back to see the clerk lunge from the room and throw a wild punch at one of Tipton’s men.

  Whatever restraint had held till then evaporated. Others rushed toward the back of the courthouse, leaving the door temporarily clear. Jesse hurried Tamsen through it.

  Behind them a brawl erupted.

  From cabins, smithy, stores, stables, and tavern, men came at the run, dodging wagon ruts and stumps left standing in cleared lots. Jesse recognized faces in the crowd but hoped stranger and acquaintance alike were too set on the melee to pay them any mind. He unhitched the horse, took the reins in hand, and made for the edge of town, Tamsen trotting along on the horse’s other side, clinging to the stirrup. They’d reached the tavern on the track leading out of town when a familiar voice cried above the commotion.

  “What’s this? Jesse Bird d
own out of his holler?” It was Dominic Trimble, sandy headed, blue eyed, slowing his dash for the courthouse, grabbing at his brother as he did so. “Lookit who’s graced Jonesborough with his presence.”

  “Jesse!” Seth Trimble, younger of the two, called. “Where you going? Fun’s this a’way.”

  “Not for me.” Jesse turned the horse so it blocked their view of Tamsen, praying she’d stay behind it. “Some other time, boys.”

  “You been saying that for how long? Too good for the likes of us!” Dominic waved him off like a lost cause, grinning as he followed his brother and half the town toward the courthouse. Jesse hurried on, sweating in relief. Beyond the last cabin on the outskirts, he slowed the horse.

  Tamsen came around to face him, breathless and worried. “Friends of yours?”

  “Just a pair of rascals from back in Virginia.”

  “They seemed to know you.”

  “We’re acquainted, aye. I let them lure me into betting on a horse race once, over in Sycamore Shoals—lost what little coin I had and found out later they likely fixed the race ahead of time. Cade was furious with me for mixing with ’em at all. He’s heard tell they came Overmountain on account of trouble with the law back east.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “No idea, and they aren’t likely to say.” Jesse tried to smile, though his heart had yet to cease its pounding. He didn’t think the Trimbles had taken note of Tamsen. Not even a courthouse brawl would’ve pulled Dominic away had he seen her.

  She glanced back the way they’d come. “The clerk … that little judge … Will they be all right?”

  “I couldn’t linger to get drawn in.”

  “I know.” She met his gaze, knowledge that he’d fled for her sake clear in her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “If it ain’t come to shooting yet, it won’t.” Even the shouting had died down. “What you saw wasn’t the start of things, and it won’t be the end. It’ll be Franklin men storming Carolina’s courthouse next, or something like it.”

  Tamsen’s breathing slowed. He could see her coming to grips with the scuffle they’d narrowly evaded. “I’d hoped you had exaggerated.”

  “Wish I had. But I don’t know … It might’ve been for the best.”

  That surprised her. “You’ve changed your mind?”

  “No.” Lord, no, he had to restrain himself from saying. He took out the crumpled bond. “It’s only that our names would’ve gone on record with this. Maybe not the wisest notion, all things reconsidered.” It wasn’t till he glanced again at his half-signed name that it hit him, what she’d called him right before they fled the courthouse. Not Mr. Bird. Jesse.

  He couldn’t suppress his grin even when she shook her head as if he’d lost his mind, confusion in her searching eyes.

  “What do we do now?”

  He didn’t have an answer yet, but he was already working on it. “Let’s go.” Putting his back to Jonesborough, he led his horse and his almost-wife toward a new plan taking shape.

  It had turned into another wearisome day of traveling. They’d ridden double for a time, but now Mr. Bird led her on the horse, the borrowed petticoat rucked up above her moccasins. He hadn’t said much since leaving Jonesborough, though plainly he was thinking hard. Tamsen had held her peace, chary of asking the questions swirling through her head. How many miles they’d come, heading roughly north, she didn’t know. They were traversing a hilly track that passed an occasional cabin, a plot standing in corn and tree stumps, sometimes a fellow traveler. Mr. Bird trudged on like a man with a destination in mind and precious little time to reach it.

  Curiosity at last surmounted Tamsen’s weariness. “Exactly what are we doing?”

  He glanced up at her. “We’re going to be married. If that’s still what you want.”

  She nodded, bereft of any other course. “A North Carolina court?”

  “Same problem there—our names on record.”

  “Then where? How? We can’t wait three weeks for a minister.”

  “There’s one other way. If I can get him to agree to it.”

  “Who?”

  “We’re nigh there.” He nodded ahead and pulled in a deep-chested breath.

  The homestead they were making for just off the track they’d followed looked like others they’d passed—a cabin, corn scattered through girdled trees, a garden, outbuildings—except for the large log structure at the edge of the skirting forest opposite the cabin. At the garden’s edge a flock of yellow finches darted among tall sunflowers with heads bowed like a congregation at prayer. The sun was in the west, casting the clearing in a green, peaceful light. No outward sign labeled it so, but Tamsen, gazing from the back of the horse as they passed, might almost have guessed the larger structure to be … “Is that a church?”

  Jesse nodded. “It is. Mine and Cade’s. It’s a fair piece to travel from our place, though, so we don’t make meetings often.”

  Mr. Parrish didn’t go in for religion, so she and her mother hadn’t set foot inside a meetinghouse in years. But when her father was alive, they’d attended Anglican services. She felt an ache of longing. “What sort of church is it?”

  “Bible-preaching, deep-water Baptist.” They stopped in the cabin yard, where Mr. Bird hitched the horse to a post. “He might be tending his other flock, over to Doe Creek. I’ll see if he’s about the place.”

  Mr. Bird helped her out of the saddle before she could ask a single question. She was brushing down her rumpled skirts when he spoke, but not to her.

  “Reverend.” His tone—an odd mingling of warmth, respect, and apprehension—more than his address made Tamsen look up.

  A man stood in the cabin doorway. He was of middle height, thick waisted, with a head of dark curls heavily silvered, cropped at the collar of his shirt. His gaze rested on Tamsen before darting with the quickness of the finches to the man beside her. The lines of his face deepened with welcome.

  “Jesse. This is a surprise. Aren’t you meant to be shepherding cows back east?”

  “Aye sir.” Mr. Bird swallowed. Hard. “Had us a minor set-to with some Chickamaugas, but Cade and I got the cows and the drovers down to market. All but one—cow, I mean. Rhodes, Billy, Jabez, they all made it fine. Cade’s heading back with a passel of settlers, but I—we come on ahead.”

  Tamsen had never heard Mr. Bird chatter so nervously. He touched her elbow, and she jumped.

  “Tamsen, this is Reverend Luther Teague, our preacher.”

  Mr. Bird urged her forward as Reverend Teague stepped into the yard, reaching out a hand. Whether by design or instinct, Mr. Bird raised hers and placed it in the reverend’s, who clasped it warmly.

  It was the only hand he had. The man’s left sleeve dangled empty from the elbow. Tamsen looked away from it, into a pair of deep-set brown eyes as kind as they were keen.

  “This is Tamsen Littlejohn,” Jesse Bird said, his voice dry-sounding at the edges. “She and I aim to be married, Reverend—today, if you’d oblige us.”

  “There now. That’s everyone settled, is it?” Molly Teague stood back to survey the table laid with tea, shaved from a brick of pressed black leaf. “Saved for my most special guests,” she said, then brushed her hands down her apron’s ample front, beaming at them seated in the cabin’s homey front room.

  Jesse glanced across at Tamsen, who cradled a china cup between her hands as if its contents were too precious to bring to her lips. Finally she took a sip.

  “Mrs. Teague, this is—heavenly.” She closed her eyes. Her mouth trembled, and she crumpled into tears.

  Jesse half-rose from his chair, uncertain what to do, but neither of the Teagues showed the slightest upset while Tamsen sniffled and gulped and tried to stem the tide of emotion.

  The preacher, seated at the table’s head, grasped his wife’s hand. “Thank you, Molly. You’ll join us?”

  Molly slid into the last empty chair, giving Tamsen’s shoulder a squeeze and offering a ready handkerchief. �
�It’ll all work out, my dear, and for the good. You wait and see if it doesn’t.”

  The gesture and words brought on a new freshet, but Tamsen put the kerchief to use. “I didn’t mean to spoil such a pretty tea.”

  Reverend Teague took a swallow. “Molly’s tea tastes just fine. Nothing’s spoiled that I can tell.” His eyes twinkled at his wife, then at Tamsen, till she returned a watery smile.

  Jesse settled back in his chair, too wretched over Tamsen’s misery for tea drinking. Her sudden upset perplexed him. He stared at the delicate, rose-patterned teacup still cradled in her graceful hands. It was a far cry from canteens and creek water. She wouldn’t have seen a thing so fine since …

  Understanding dawned. The kindness of the Teagues, the china, the homey comforts of the cabin—she was thinking of her mother and everything she’d lost, sitting there grieving while he studied on how to talk his preacher into pronouncing them man and wife. He wanted more than ever to go ’round the table and console her, but before he could budge, Luther Teague got down to business.

  “Jesse, Tamsen, the two of you wish to marry, do you?”

  Jesse bit back a hasty aye, waiting for Tamsen to speak.

  “We do,” she said, with far less certainty than he’d hoped for.

  “Today,” Jesse added, with enough to make up for her lack.

  Reverend Teague shared his gaze between them. “Is there some reason for haste?”

  Tamsen colored like a ripe strawberry. Jesse was a beat behind in comprehending.

  “No sir. Not that. We haven’t …” Face warming, he leaned forward, hands fisted on the table’s checked cloth. “It’s complicated, Reverend. Tamsen’s parents are both passed. Her step—” He glanced at her, then hastily away. “We met in Morganton after Cade and me got the cows to market. Tamsen was in a spot of trouble and needed the protection of a man not bent on using her for his own gain.”