“Joe?” I called silently.
He had been waiting for me. He opened the door to his mind and welcomed me inside. I said nothing, only watched.
The soldiers prepared to hunt us down. Powder was checked, horses were watered as the captain, brisk and efficient, walked toward Joe, looking for guidance within the deep woods.
I saw Joe’s regret, the understanding that this was the moment when he would have to choose. He had seen Adelaide fall, and had been relieved at her rescue. His thoughts filled with questions and answers, and a sudden understanding of me. Warmth swirled through his chest and he stood straighter. Something within him reached out and my own heart beat faster. I understood. He honoured me. He respected my right to be free.
He met the captain halfway, then made a circular motion with his hand, pointing downstream. The opposite direction from Soquili’s easier passage. The men discussed Joe’s plan and there was much nodding before the captain turned away to speak with the soldiers under his command.
Joe would lead them the wrong way. He would get them hopelessly lost, and then he would disappear. Joe was good at disappearing.
PART 6: ANDREW
Resurrection and Resolution
Chapter 32
Another Life
It was near midday when the ship landed in America, dropping anchor at Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. Andrew, Iain, Janet, Seamus, and little Peter and Flora all clustered together at the rail, kilts fluttering like flags, watching the unfamiliar landscape loom up before them.
Noises from the shore carried across the waves: chickens in crates, seamen whistling and yelling incoherent remarks, dogs barking, hooves clopping like rapid hammer blows. Ragged children ran amongst the boxes and people, playing, laughing, picking pockets.
Andrew ran his hand over the bristles covering his cheeks and chin, and thought how nice it would be to bathe properly. With a good, thick cake of soap. He breathed in, savouring the stink. The ship’s decks were cleaner than the streets, but the travelers had been on the sea for so long they drank the pungent town air as if it were ale. Gulls circled overhead, shrieking at the ship that bobbed beneath them, a treasure chest of food.
A raven cried out from the shore. It circled low over the docks, a black giant among the gulls. It flapped toward the ship and looped over the mast before returning to land, its wings caressing the sky like a lover’s touch. Andrew had the impression the bird had looked him in the eye. If it had, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Ravens had always come to Andrew in dreams. They visited him still, whispering messages from Maggie. He smiled at the thought of her, barely noticing the gust of wind that whipped his hair across his cheeks. The New World. A new life. Maggie was here.
The ship pulled alongside the dock, and the seamen heaved massive mooring ropes across to wind around cleats. A gangplank was lowered, bridging the pier and the ship. Andrew had visited the purser earlier in the day, and for his three months of labour he had been given two pounds, five shillings. Fair compensation, Andrew thought. He hadn’t hoped to become a rich man by working on the ship. The coins could buy a few things, beginning with a good night’s food and lodging. Andrew aimed his worn leather boots down the gangplank and finally stepped onto American soil.
He attracted the attention of more than one woman as he stepped off the ship. He was a large man, over six feet tall, with a ruggedly handsome face the sun and wind had darkened to a dusky bronze. His muscles were solid beneath his shirt, defined and stronger than ever from working the ship. He walked up the main road, feeling the heat of the sunshine on his back and thinking this warmth was one aspect of the colonies he already preferred to the perpetual mists of Scotland.
Andrew’s destination was the closest tavern. He needed a cup of ale to wash away the salt of the sea that had coated his throat throughout the journey. Real ale. Not the swill from the ship. He turned to wait for his friends, just coming off the gangplank, and they hurried to catch up.
“I was thinking,” Andrew said to Seamus, “we’d stop in at—”
“Say no more, my friend,” Seamus answered in his laughing Irish lilt. “A tavern was my first thought as well.” He gave Andrew’s shoulder a companionable smack.
Peter was perched on Seamus’s shoulders. Flora enjoyed the view from Iain’s. The group walked past a few unmarked doors until they arrived at one that practically vibrated with sound. A trio of men stood outside the door, teasing two women, who giggled in response.
“Seems as good a place as any,” Iain said, lifting Flora down and setting her on the ground.
Andrew pulled the heavy door open and, with a gallant bow, swept his palm across his body, ushering his friends ahead of him.
The pub was dark and smelled of spilled ale and unwashed bodies, but Andrew and his friends grinned as they stepped inside. It was crowded and noisy, men trying to yell over each other. Serving girls winked and flirted while they worked, delivering ale and meals through the comfortable pandemonium. Seamus, Andrew, and Iain moved into it with ease, Janet squeezed between them. Flora clung to a handful of Iain’s plaid, and Peter trotted to keep up with Seamus. The Irishman parted the crowds with a few words from his quick tongue and led his friends to an empty corner table.
Andrew couldn’t wait for a barmaid, so he sidled up to the weathered pine bar and ordered an ale. After the barkeep handed him a cup, Andrew turned and leaned back against the bar, sipping at the warm amber liquid as he perused the crowd.
The tavern’s patrons were mostly scruffy, unshaven men, and an occasional woman in subdued browns and grays. The men carried fatigue in their posture as well as in dark circles around their eyes. From what Andrew could surmise, most of the men were Scots. He didn’t recognise any of the faces, but saw reflections of himself in their eyes. Many of them, talking Gaelic from behind grimy beards, would have been Highland warriors who had fled their homeland after last April’s battle. Like Andrew, so many defeated men had risked their lives and those of their families for the opportunity of a better life. Only time would tell if the risk had been worth it.
Andrew enjoyed the noise of the tavern. Unlike Seamus, he wasn’t one to demand attention. He preferred to experience its buzz from a distance. The sights, smells, and sounds of the place enveloped him like a blanket, smothering the relentless chill that had gripped his bones throughout the sea voyage.
From his observation post against the bar, Andrew watched a waitress bring ale to his friends’ table. He grinned as she gave Iain a beguiling smile, leaning over the table so her generous bosom was displayed to its best advantage. Iain took no apparent notice. The waitress nodded at something Janet said, then turned and waddled back to the bar, her pudgy arms balancing the tray she carried while simultaneously shoving customers aside.
Most of the conversations going on around Andrew focused on this land. He listened for a while, gleaning information. The farmland in the colonies was said to be second to none, and if one were brave and hardworking enough to settle deep in the backcountry, the government was giving away grants of land for next to nothing. That promise made it easier for newcomers to overlook the endless stretches of hostile forests before them.
Andrew ordered another ale and went to join his friends at the table. He sat, leaning against the wall with a sigh of contentment, always watching the crowd. The waitress returned, carrying a tray of meat and cheese.
After swallowing a mouthful of surprisingly tender meat of some kind, Andrew told his friends what he’d learned from the tavern chatter. “So it seems we should travel the coast on one of the local flat boats,” he said. “It’ll take us to Cross Creek, in North Carolina. We’ll get a wagon there an’ go to Charleston.”
“Oh aye?” Janet said. “An’ what’s there?”
Iain cleared his throat. “Is that no’ where land permits are handled?”
“It is,” Andrew said, smiling. “Our own property. Think o’ that.”
“So it is, so it is,” Seamus said with a nod. He took a gulp of
ale, then sat back. “And enough trees an’ rocks to keep a fellow workin’ for a lifetime. It’s not going to be pretty, lads. But,” he said, smothering a burp, “I’ve nothin’ else planned for me day.” He grinned. “Let’s have another ale,” he suggested. Seamus was just putting up his hand to attract the waitress’s attention when his fiddle was spotted.
“Oy!” shouted a burly, cheerfully inebriated fellow. “Let’s ’ave some music!”
Seamus, always happy to be the centre of attention, grinned and stood up. He opened his worn leather case and lifted out the fiddle then plucked at the strings and adjusted the tuning pins while he spoke to the man.
“Sure an’ I’m happy t’oblige. What’ll it be, sir? Let me see.”
The patrons howled with enthusiasm, and fists hammered on the tables in encouragement.
“That’ll do, lads,” Seamus said. “Now hush if you’ll care to hear it at all.”
The level of the din lowered, and all faces turned toward the Irishman. Seamus cleared his throat and began to play and sing.
What Cato advises
Most certainly wise is:
Not always to labour but sometimes to play.
He paused and grinned around at the men, who cheered and raised their glasses. Seamus sang on.
To mingle sweet pleasure
With search after treasure,
Indulging at night for the toils of the day.
And while the dull miser
Esteems himself wiser,
His bags to increase while his health does decay,
Our souls we enlighten,
Our fancies we brighten,
And pass the long evenings in pleasure away.
The waitresses were suddenly busier. The bartender, thrilled with this unexpected boon, filled drink orders and encouraged the revelers to throw a few pennies in a cup for the entertainment.
Andrew sat back and smiled, watching his friend. It had been a long voyage, and there was a long road ahead, but for now Andrew was fed, comfortable, and content. The flight from Scotland had been a desperate attempt to save his sanity and his life. Sitting here, with an ale in his hand, he was glad he had come all that way. Here was hope and anonymity. The exhaustion of the past year began to peel away, revealing a tentative core of excitement.
And Maggie was here. He was sure of it. From the moment he stepped onto the soil, he could feel her.
After a few songs Seamus placed the violin back in its case, apologising profusely to his protesting audience. If it had been up to the tavern’s patrons, he would have performed all night. But even Seamus was tired. He nodded when Andrew motioned with a quick wave toward the door. Their group rose and went with him, but before they reached the door, the bartender grabbed Seamus’s shoulder, spun him around, and thrust a bag into the fiddler’s free hand.
“An’ what’s this then?” Seamus asked, peering into the bag. “Ah! Treasure for me hard work. I t’ank you all from the bottom of me Irish heart, I do.” He gestured his thanks over the noise, then joined his group as they left the building.
Evening was settling over the land, and with it came a darker populace. Earlier in the day Andrew had asked where a decent inn might be found and had been directed toward The Swan, where they now stood. Iain knocked, and a round woman in a stained apron pulled open the door and scowled at the visitors.
Andrew followed her substantial hips up the stairs and turned toward one of the two rooms she indicated. Both rooms were furnished with two small beds, a ewer, and a chamber pot. A closed window overlooked the street. Iain settled a sleeping Flora into one of the beds and was backing out of the room as Peter climbed in beside his sister. Janet would sleep in the other bed.
The men retired to their room across the hall. Seamus lay fully clothed on one of the beds, his hands clasped behind his neck as he stared up into the rafters.
“I was t’inking perhaps I’d take a bed if ye’d no’ mind, lads. Ye see, what happened was I sat down and now me legs won’t be bothered to get up again.”
He grinned at the other men, looking for opposition, but they only shrugged.
“It’s you who’s payin’ the bill tonight, is it no’?” Andrew said. “You take the other, MacKenzie. I’ll claim it at the next inn.”
“Ye’re a fine gentleman, MacDonnell,” Iain replied. “I’m happy to accept. ’Tis a joy to see a bed an’ not a wee hammock. Och, I barely slept a wink on that damn ship.”
Iain blew out the solitary candle in the room, and they were plunged into darkness. Moments later the big man’s snores rumbled through the room. Andrew took off his boots, bundled his plaid under his head, and fell asleep on the floor.
For much of the sea voyage Andrew had suffered from nightmares. Before long it became apparent they had followed him to shore. They were always the same, or at least variations of the same dark theme. In the black and gray depths of sleep he was running, twisting through trees and rocks, his feet jamming into impossible crevasses as he climbed. His lungs felt tight, straining for air. Maggie was somewhere ahead of him on the rough path, but he couldn’t see her. She was in danger. He had to get to her, but every time he caught a glimpse, the distance between them seemed to double until he couldn’t sense her anymore.
In tonight’s dream, though, the threat of malevolence seemed less. For the first time, his torn feet had a destination. They carried him to a spring in the midst of a tall stand of birch, where he stood, chest heaving. The air was clear of threat. All was calm. He knelt at the water’s edge and leaned in, filling his hands with the cool water. The reflection of his face, clean shaven, peered up from the clearing ripples. Behind him stood Maggie. Her long brown hair tumbled toward him, almost close enough for him to twine within his fingers. Slowly, afraid to disturb the peace of the moment, he turned from the pool to face her, but she was gone.
The next morning Andrew was awakened by Seamus’s shoe as it bounced off his head. The Irishman had been awake for a while and was impatient to set off. Andrew sat up, frowning and rubbing the spot where he’d been hit. He yawned, then threw the errant footwear back at its owner, who caught it deftly in one hand. Iain rolled over with a groan, scratching his big hands over his face as if to wake it.
Andrew stood, stretching to his full height so his fingers brushed along the rough slivers of the rafters. He stared into a small looking glass propped by the ewer but barely recognised his reflection.
The travelers moved quickly, finding a flat boat to take them to Cross Creek, then using some of Hector’s money to purchase what they thought they might need for the journey to Charleston, including a horse and a wagon. The horse was nothing special, an ordinary gelding of about eight years, strong enough and not fussy about who led him. Andrew liked to look at the horse because he was so different from what he was used to. He stroked the animal’s long russet neck, admiring the smooth texture. The hair on Highland ponies was coarser—as were their personalities, generally speaking. This horse was larger than the ponies in both height and breadth. As great a beast as he was, Andrew admitted, he would never have been able to keep up with his stout cousins among the crags of the Highlands.
When they arrived in the streets of Charleston, the atmosphere was brisk but cheery. Voices called to each other and bounced down the road like pebbles. The group walked toward the Court House: a fine, stone building at the end of the road where optimistic travelers could petition for land. They had arrived on an opportune day: the magistrate was going over petitions and, being in a cheerful mood, was handing them out like candy. The royal officials granted the land free, subject only to a small surveying and transfer fee: four shillings proclamation money per hundred acres.
When they swung out onto the crowded dirt road a few hours later, all six of them were smiling from ear to ear. Even the children tried to look as if they knew what was going on.
They wandered to the side of the road and sat on a patch of grass. Iain cleared his throat and read the land grant document aloud.
&
nbsp; CERTIFICATE OF LAND GRANT:
George the Second by the Grace of God of Great Britain
France and Ireland King Defender of the Faith & c
To all to whom these presents shall come—Greeting
Know ye that we for and in consideration of the rents and return therein reserved have given and granted and by these presents for us our Heirs and successors do give and grant unto Iain MacKenzie, Andrew MacDonnell, Seamus Murphy a Tract of land containing 100 Acres of land… in our Province of North Carolina… as by the plot hereunto annexed doth appear together with all woods waters Mines minerals Hereditaments and appurtenances to the said Lands belong or pertaining (one half of all Gold and Silver mines excepted) to hold to him.… In testimony whereof we have caused the Great Seal of our said province to be hereunto affixed Witness our trusty and well beloved Gabriel Johnston Esq Our Captain General and Governour in Chief at Bladen County this third day of April in the twentieth year of Our reign, Anno Domini 1747.
Chapter 33
Almost Home
All the way up the Cape Fear River, Andrew and his friends met with migrant families who provided food and lodging whenever possible. The new buildings they passed were completely different in construction from the dark peat cottages of Scotland. Homes and barns were built from the towering pines dominating the land, and their floors were wooden planks instead of dirt. They had occasional windows and chimneys. Here in North Carolina, sweet-smelling smoke from the hearth curled up through chimneys and over shingled roofs. The insides of homes were no longer blackened by smoke and soot.
Scots had established themselves along the route to the Keowee Valley, where Andrew’s group planned to eventually build their home. The terrain constantly changed as they travelled north. Beneath massive sandy hills stretched acres of freshly turned earth, planted with Indian corn and grains. Thickets and canebrakes surrounded the cleared land, and towering above it all were hills and pine trees. There were so many trees the limbs crossed each other, over and under, forming a natural thatched ceiling, beneath which nothing grew. Scaly, reddish bark protected their inner gold mines, the source of turpentine, rosin, pitch, and tar.
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