Marty took the bedroll off the back of the mare and used it as a pillow, setting his tricorner hat on his head sideways to block the splotchy sunrays coming through the tree branches. His frowning face transitioned into a contented grin. Tomorrow night, he’d be lying down with Bibb at his side, or even closer…
Ж
“What the…!” Marty shouted, his hand inadvertently knocking his hat away from his eyes. He had been asleep, that much he knew, but someone was trying to pull his bedroll out from under his head.
“Stay still if you know what’s good for ya!” the gapped tooth man instructed. He jerked the bedroll out from under Marty’s head with one hand and twirled the carved bone handle of his knife menacingly with the other. “I just want to see what you have for me here,” he added with a snort, finishing his report with a wad of spittle a scant foot from Marty’s face.
Marty gingerly scooted up to a seated position, keeping one eye on the highwayman, and looked to see if anyone else was with him. Bandits usually traveled in groups of three or more. He couldn’t see or hear anyone other than a teenaged girl with a baby, squatted down by the creek. She wasn’t paying attention to what was going on with the robber, his knife, or him. She was dipping her bare bottomed son in the water, laughing at his giggles as he kicked his feet into the slow moving, warm current.
Marty looked back up at the thief and felt braver. It was only one man and a knife—he could handle this scenario. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked sarcastically. He knew there wasn’t anything but a blanket in his bedroll. He didn’t think it wise to have a lot of money with him so hadn’t traveled with more than a few shillings and those sewn into his vest lining.
The man answered with a sneer, “As a matter of fact I did.” He re-rolled the blanket, hastily tied it together, and stood up. “Take off your boots,” he commanded.
Marty’s eyes cut to the woman and the baby at the water’s edge. They weren’t involved in the theft, but they were probably traveling with him. The young pair wouldn’t be on the road alone; there weren’t any homes nearby, and he hadn’t seen a wagon or any horses. “Shit,” Marty mumbled as he pulled off his right boot, hoping that he hadn’t cut his hand enough to bleed. He was trying to palm his hidden boot knife and had sliced himself in the process.
“What d’ya mean ‘shit’?” the man asked.
“Shit: you’re taking my boots and I’ll bet you’re seriously considering taking my horse, too,” Marty said to cover his fumbled cursing.
“Oh, so you’re a betting man, are ya?” Grant asked snidely. “Well, I’ll bet this morning you didn’t see your day finding you barefoot and without a horse by noon, did ya?” The raggedy man picked up the boots and dropped one of them beside his foot, estimating the fit potential. They looked to be bigger than the ones that he had on but that didn’t seem to bother him. He picked the boot back up and stuffed it under his arm. “Rachel, bring the horse over here,” he called.
Marty watched as the girl threw the laughing baby over her shoulder, his bare butt exposed to the sunshine, his little feet pedaling with glee. She walked twenty yards to grab the reins of the horse that was only ten feet from the robber. She bent down and loosened the knot on the hobble rope with one hand as she clutched her child to her with the other. She didn’t say a word as she handed him the reins, but did cut her eyes to Marty. It didn’t look like she was any happier with this scenario than he was.
“See what he has in his saddlebags,” Grant commanded gruffly. He walked a few steps away from Marty and grinned as he moved his knife through the air flamboyantly, almost asking his victim to attack him—he wanted a fight.
Marty subconsciously gulped then looked to the girl. She was dispassionately pulling the straps off his flat saddlebag. There was nothing in it; he had given all of his food and cookware to Wee Ian. He only had his canteen and a pocketful of granola. She flipped up the flap on the bag and stood on tiptoes to look inside, confirming what she already knew—it was empty. “Looks like he has even less than we do,” she commented idly then walked away from the humble nag, back towards the creek.
“Where is it?” Grant demanded. “No one travels without food or a way to get it. You don’t even have a pan to cook with? Nah, somethin’ fishy’s goin’ on here.”
“You’re right,” Marty said with a twinkle in his eye. Even in dire straits, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a joke. He took off his hat and pulled out the small fishing lure with the twisted line attached to it. “Fishy. I eat fish: fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, and fish for dessert after I’ve had my fish for supper!
Smack! Grant didn’t think much of Marty’s wit and used the back of his hand to tell him so.
Marty was knocked for a loop, literally, landing face down in the dirt with the backhanded slap. He rolled over cautiously; making sure his knife was still hidden and hadn’t been revealed in the unexpected assault. Marty rubbed his jaw and asked, “Now what’d you go and do that for? I’ll share the fish. I mean, if you and your wife are hungry, I’ll see what I can scare up. Although, it might be more lucrative if we waited until sundown.”
“She’s not my wife—she’s my stupid sister,” Grant snorted. “And what in the hell is Luke ruh tive?”
“Oh, it’s just a Scottish word that means you catch more fish when the sun isn’t high,” Marty answered, making sure he didn’t smile at his lame fabrication. The man was obviously unschooled on top of being short tempered. Hopefully, he’d just take the boots and horse and leave—leave him with his life. Marty suddenly panicked at the thought of dying.
“Well, I don’t speak Scottish and I don’t like to eat fish. But, I will take this hat and the hook and line. She can catch fish for herself. I’ll eat this,” he said as he pulled out a fat tortilla wrapped sandwich from his pocket and waved it around, showing off his bounty.
“You said all the food was gone, Grant,” hollered Rachel as she made her way back up from the creek, stomping her bare feet angrily.
“I lied,” Grant sneered then took a big bite of the ham and cheese fare. He tossed the hat he had taken from Marty down to her. “Here, there’s a hook and line on it; go catch yourself a fish. Oh, and you can keep the hat. I still like this one best,” he said as he tapped the dusty crown of his black silk edged tricorner hat. “It always looked better on me than Atholl anyhow.
Rachel huffed in disgust but took the hat and carefully pulled out the hook. “Come on, Junior, we’ll have better luck with a hook, I promise.” She looked over at Marty, trying to decide if she should give him back his hat or not, then glanced up at the high noon sky. She would probably look odd wearing a man’s hat but Grant had taken hers and she didn’t want it back after what he had done to it. “Hey, it’s softer than the leaves and I had the runs from the food that those Pomeroys fed me. You can wash it out in the creek—it’ll be as good as ever.
Rachel settled the hat that was one size too big on her head and caught Marty’s eye. She didn’t dare speak to him but lowered her eyes, saying, ‘I’m sorry but I need it,’ with her expression. Marty bit back the words, ‘It looks cute on you.’ She wouldn’t have understood his odd sense of humor and her brother would probably use the uninvited conversation with his sister as an excuse to hit him again. Instead, Marty bent his head and prayed silently that he would get out of this predicament with his life. He just wanted to go home. He glanced up to heaven and added silently, ‘And in one piece would be nice, too, Lord.’
“Hurry up and catch your fish. We should be able to make New Bern in two days if you don’t…”
“Oh, keep your pants on,” Rachel answered sassily, cutting off his admonishment. She wrapped up the hook and line and stuck it back on the hat brim. “They won’t be biting until later, anyhow. Let me have a couple of bites of that sandwich and then we can leave.”
“Gettin’ a bit chatty in your old age there, aren’t you?” Grant barked back, twirling his knife haft between thumb and index finger me
nacingly. “Here, I saved you a bite,” he said, and threw the last bit of sandwich at her, intentionally tossing it short so it landed in the dirt.
Rachel glared at him but picked up the soiled bit of tortilla with a couple of bits of cheese and mayonnaise still stuck to it. She carefully pulled the dirt and grassy pieces away from it and nibbled at the morsel, savoring the bite. She stuck the tip of her tongue through her lips, removing a pebble that she had missed. She plopped the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, suddenly afraid that Grant would take the meager meal away from her. “Let’s go,” she said with her cheeks full. “He won’t follow us,” she added then looked over at Marty, telling him with her eyes to stay put if he knew what was good for him.
Grant looked over at his victim and crowed, “Well, I don’t think he’ll be going too far without these boots.” He turned his heel and showed off the purloined footwear to Marty, “or these, either.” Grant took his worn out boots and stuffed them into the saddlebag. “And I think I ought to ride the horse for a bit. You know how new shoes always give me blisters,” then swung up on the horse. He trotted the horse a few yards down the deer path then called back snidely to the stern faced woman-child trying to catch up with him, “And don’t dawdle—we have a long ways to go until sundown.”
Marty sighed in relief at his close call. He didn’t care about the horse; he was going to let her go anyway. However, the ground was rocky and his feet were as soft as a baby’s. “Shoot, I’d be better off if I could walk on my hands. At least they’re calloused!” He turned over his hands and looked at his palms in frustration. “New Bern?” he asked himself, suddenly changing his focus from the dilemma of his newly attained tenderfoot status. “They won’t be there in a few days; that’s probably 200 miles away. It looks like someone is even more lost than I am.”
Marty lifted the rock at the base of the tree where he had stashed the map just before taking his nap. “Gee, and I just wanted to make sure it didn’t blow away,” he said to himself, grateful once again at his good fortune. “Okay, okay, I get it, Lord, You’ve got my attention. Thanks for saving my bacon, I mean, thanks for saving my life today. And please, please, please, please, get me back to my time and Bibb safely. And, guide those doctors doing the transplant and make sure they put the right parts in the right person and, well, You know what I need and please, just help me to listen to what You want me to do; in Jesus name, Amen. Oh, and would you look out for that girl, Rachel, and her baby, too? Thanks, Amen again.”
Marty spread the map out on the ground. “Okay, Lord, I’m looking at it with You right here next to me.” He grinned as he realized that there really was Divine intervention in his map reading. He had forgotten that he had coded his map by turning the coordinates 180 degrees so that north was south and east was west. “Gotcha! Thanks.”
Marty stood to start his trek to the trees and was quickly reminded of his other dilemma: no boots. “Crap!” he cursed mildly then looked around. “Well, at least you have the knife,” he told himself. He looked around at his surroundings, trying to find something, anything, that he could use as shoes. He looked down at his pants. Yes, he could fabricate something from strips of the brown denim duck that he had chosen over the homespun wool the re-enactors had suggested. “These are close enough in looks and will wear for years if I need them to,” he told the seamstress. He never thought that he’d have to cut them down for sandals though.
“Sandals! That’s it.” Marty picked his steps carefully as he walked to the still, shallow area of the creekside. He pushed aside some reeds and yanked a tuft out of the mud. He tried to pull the long leaf apart lengthwise but couldn’t. Yes, they would be suitable. He’d never woven a basket but these grasses seemed tough enough to braid and stitch into soles. He bent to the task, selecting the midsize reeds as his weaving material. He cut a few of the young shoots, too, and brought the green bundle to his little dayroom under the tree. “Lunch!” he exclaimed as he stuck the soft, tender end of a young reed into his mouth, biting the succulent portion and chewing his micro salad carefully before he bent to his work. Just because he’d never made shoes, didn’t mean he couldn’t accomplish the task. He’d just never been motivated. And, getting back to his family, Bibb and the son he never even knew he had, was plenty of motivation.
Marty braided a pair of two-yard-long reed switches, making sure he kept them the same width and density. He wound each whip into a long oval then set a rock on top of each to flatten and secure them. He hastily carved a needle out of a hardwood branch and used it with a length of tough grass as cording to stitch the concentric rows of braided reeds together. “Thank You, thank You, thank You,” he praised over and over again as he worked at his cobbler task. He glanced up at the sun and saw that it was almost evening. Should he leave now or wait until tomorrow? “Duh!” he said aloud. “Remember what taking a break did for you today!” he shuddered, recalling Grant. Something was definitely wrong with the man. Too bad his little sister and nephew had to tag along with him.
7 The Right Road Home
August 19, 1781
Somewhere in North Carolina
kay, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road, I know this is the right road,” Marty chanted as he trudged down the familiar path—or so he thought. All the bushes, trees, and hills were beginning to look alike.
“This has to be the right road, this has to be the right road, please, Lord, let this be the right road,” he prayed, his lips cracked from thirst. He didn’t want to take a drink yet; he was conserving the water in his canteen. He had tanked up before leaving the creek, knew that his constant chattering was drying his mouth, but his soul and sanity needed his mantra more than his mouth and body needed water.
“So close, so close,” he babbled softly, suddenly unsure if he was on the right road. The daylight was gone, but he knew the moon had been full three days ago and would be rising soon. Marty stopped where he was and debated with himself, wordlessly in order to save his saliva, about the wisdom of proceeding rather than resting. The afterglow of the sunset was gone. He knew how easy it would be to get turned around without his solar guide. It would be wise of him to sit and wait for moonrise: wise, but not what he wanted to do. He pivoted in a tight circle to check the area one more time and suddenly became confused, disoriented, and afraid. “Okay, okay; I hear you, Lord. I’ll sit and wait for your lunar compass to come up.”
Marty plopped down right where he stood, too scared to venture even the scant ten yards to his left to sit beneath the trees. He would be more comfortable leaning up against one of the sturdy sentinels but he was afraid to venture from where he was. He didn’t want to chance heading the wrong direction, or walk in circles, or go back to where he had been robbed. He shuddered. Or bump into Grant and that bone-handled knife of his that he seemed so eager to employ.
Marty decided it was best to remain where he was—seated in between two stands of locust bushes, scrubby oversized weeds that looked just like the hundreds of others he had passed. Everything looked the same; it was no wonder he was lost.
He shifted his weight, but it didn’t do any good. His bony butt was painfully parked on the sharp, rocky gravel that was everywhere—there was no way to get comfortable. He accepted his lot, sighed in temporary defeat, then carefully slipped off his sandals. He set them on the ground in front of him, pointing them, he hoped, in the direction he was to take when he resumed his journey. But, before he went any further, he had to take a short nap. He set his forehead down on his knobby knees and breathed deeply, trying to avert the panic that was sneaking in. “I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay,” he chanted until he finally fell asleep, his hands falling lax to his sides, his body gently tumbling sideways to slumber soundly in the fetal position.
Marty slept hard and dreamed of kisses on his cheek. His beloved Bibb was giving him quick little chicken pecks, gradually increasing her ardor until she was licking the entire side of his face, leaving his smiling cheek wet with slobber…
/> Marty sucked in a lungful of wet, dusty air, awaking from his surreal dream, and realized where he was: lost.
The sky was rumbling, the growling thunder echoing against the low clouds that had rolled in while he slept. The firmament was a constantly changing pallet of blacks, grays, and whites. The lightning bolts streaked horizontally across the sky, rarely striking the earth, instead stretching and clawing their way across the pulsing panorama. The heavy rain was now coming in at him sideways, first one direction then suddenly changing courses. Marty looked over at the trees and briefly reconsidered seeking shelter under them. “Hmph,” he snorted and shook his head, “that’s all I need: to get struck by lightning.”
So Marty, now rested and recharged, stayed where he was and made the best of his situation. He put a few more rocks on top of his sandals to make sure they weren’t turned askew or blown away completely. He’d need his woven reed direction indicators pointing in the right direction when daylight finally came. He grabbed a few more stones and propped up his canteen, hoping to catch some of the sporadic, teaspoon-sized raindrops that were coming in at odd angles, not ‘dropping’ straight down.
Marty stood up, took off all of his clothes, and employed his shirt as a washrag to scrub the stink of the past two-week’s journey off his body. He danced in the rain, glad that he could both stand and move. “Thanks for the shower, Lord,” he sang as he twirled. He gathered as much moisture as he could into the shirt and pants and rubbed them together in a vain attempt at cleaning them.
Marty danced, and washed, and sang until he was worn out with his praises. “Ah, a good attitude will get you through tough times and woe more than any amount of money,” he gloated. “And I’ll be a bit less gamey when I do get back into town!” he declared positively.
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