The Cumberland Bride

by Shannon McNear

  His chest tightened, just a little, at the reminder of Truth and her passel of young’uns.

  Not for him. Not now, maybe never. “I’ll not leave a woman to cry over me.” This was employment, plain and simple, in lieu of the post-rider position. Although if those boys in Danville dragged their feet getting the post running again, maybe he’d just go farther west and volunteer for militia service after all.

  In fact, between the chatter of the women, the babble of the young’uns, and the barking of the dogs, militia was sounding better and better. Or rejoining the Shawnee.

  A pang struck him. Regret? Longing?

  Nudging aside his thoughts and hefting his long rifle, he sauntered toward the packing operations. Setting a load was not one of his stronger skills, but he could lift a bundle well enough, and the more hands that helped, the sooner they could be on their way. Jenkins, the leader of the pack operation, glanced over and gave him a nod. “Bledsoe. You come to lend a hand?”

  “I have, that.”

  With work for his muscles to attend to, the gnawing restlessness abated some. Enough at least for him to tuck it aside and enjoy the prospect of simply being out on the road.

  About an hour later, the horses were completely packed, and the party formed up in a line, ready to go. Thomas returned to Ladyslipper and mounted up, then meandered toward the rear while children were tucked into pack saddles, taller ones behind the small, and room was found for the mothers with babes.

  He passed Karl Gruener, helping settle onto a saddle the child his oldest daughter had been holding. The young woman glanced up and offered a shy smile, and he nodded in return.

  At the rear of the line, he waited, and then the pack masters themselves mounted up. The leader waved his hat for attention. “Before we move out, let us commit this journey to prayer.”

  Thomas removed his own hat and by habit bowed his head, but he kept his eyes open, periphery alert.

  “Sovereign, Almighty Lord, we beseech Thy help and guidance as we take this path before us. Protect us, lead us, overshadow us beneath Thy mighty wings. Grant us Thy peace and Thy presence….”

  Just what they needed, a pack master who aspired to preach. Thomas let his thoughts drift and sent discreet glances about. Plenty of others didn’t have their eyes devoutly closed either, but they all pretended not to notice each other.

  Finally the droning prayer ended, and the party stirred to action once more. The pack leader whooped, and Thomas held Ladyslipper still while the line moved out, segment by segment.

  On their way at last. Thomas drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Impatience would do him no good. Neither would it hurry the traveling party along a whit.

  Why again had he agreed to do this?

  As the line stretched before him, with folk and beasts finding their stride, he scanned and counted. Ten packhorses, all bearing at least a pair of young’uns as well as baggage, three saddle horses ridden by the pack master and his crew. Ten men, counting the older youths and himself, and at least nine guns. Gruener had mentioned his wife and their colored servant carrying a pistol each as well and both being proficient in reloading.

  At least they carried the prospect of being sensible, even if the daughter did tremble like a wild rabbit in his presence.

  Said daughter walked alone near the packhorse carrying the child she’d been tending and a slightly older girl. Her head turned this way and that, scanning the mist-cloaked tree line beyond the scattered buildings of Bean’s Station—which he ought to be doing, rather than gawking, but part of the task of being scout meant counting how many were in their party and making sure they were all present at any given time.

  As they passed, many waved and called a farewell. Thomas kept his response to the occasional nod, and only to those he knew—although those were not a few. The post runs had served to good stead there. Still, the settlers passing through moved too quickly for him to be familiar with all.

  He stifled another sigh. Several weeks, a couple of months at most, and he could reasonably expect to be shed of scouting. And hopefully he’d learn something useful for Carrington as well.

  At last—the journey had begun.

  It wasn’t as if this was the first. Close to a year ago, they’d made the journey from the upper Shenandoah Valley, down the Great Road, and eventually to Bean’s Station, while Papa went on to find work and land in Kentucky. He’d worked as assistant surveyor for a while and been part of discussions about improving the Wilderness Road to accommodate wagons. Why he’d decided not to wait for those improvements to be made was still largely a mystery to Kate, but even when her papa was most inscrutable, his judgment usually proved sound.

  He warned them that only the first part of the road north, from Bean’s Station to Powell Valley, would be decent road—in fact, they could easily get a wagon to that point, possibly even trade it to someone coming south out of Kentucky.’Twas once they crossed the Cumberland Gap that things would be more difficult, and he preferred to use the packhorses at the outset. Kate could see the sense in that, even though Mama argued stridently, because one never knew if the wagon would have to simply be abandoned at the gap.

  The first day would be easy, she knew—and it was for the most part, with everyone in high spirits, smiles and greetings from all. Even Jemmy and Stefan chatted as they rode a packhorse together, although it remained to be seen how long that would last.

  Probably only until one needed to use the necessary.That should prove to be an adventure all its own. The pack leaders had decided that unless there was an emergency, no one would be slipping off alone, but they’d be stopping for a few minutes at a time. So it was Kate’s task, when the little ones began fussing, to keep them diverted until it was time to stop.

  On this stretch of the road, everyone knew the precautions were mostly for practice only. They had but a couple of miles until they began their climb of Clinch Mountain in earnest, but for now the party behaved as though they were only strolling out for a picnic. Most of the men loitered up near the front of the line, talking and laughing and paying little attention to the woods surrounding them. Johann, who Mama had tasked with assisting her, was in the thick of them, strutting next to Papa as if he were already a man full grown. Getting to accompany Papa on this last journey up into Kentucky had increased his pride as well as his stature.

  The other girls and women kept to a loose cluster as well up ahead. The mothers with babies were riding of course, along with the smallest of the children. Kate didn’t mind walking. It was good that they’d enough horses—pack animals notwithstanding—for the ones who’d have more trouble with the journey.

  The one who kept drawing her attention was that tall, lean rider bringing up the rear. Unlike the other men, he remained alert, head tipped to scan the country around them, sometimes stopping his horse as if to listen. His worn felt hat, bleached brown by much wear in the sun, boasted a turkey feather as its lone embellishment. Both brim and feather fluttered with the wind.

  Someone at least was keeping watch. Kate tucked in her smile from the corners of her mouth and tried not to stare. The man moved as one with his light-footed mount, whose chestnut coat gleamed bright against the grey mist as they wove back and forth behind the rest of the party, up the slope to one side of the road for a short way, and then across and down the other.

  He seemed well absorbed in taking in their surroundings but, as if he sensed her attention, turned and met her gaze.

  A shiver swept over her. Even across the short distance, she could see the paleness of his eyes, found herself transfixed by the calm directness of his look.

  And she’d been caught staring. Face heating, she ducked her head and refocused on the road ahead just in time to avoid stumbling over a stone in the path.

  She had to find a way to speak with him, to ask him about himself. Several weeks of travel should provide plenty of opportunity—but she would make her own if none presented itself.

  For now, however, as the ground ro
se and roughened, she should give attention to the path. They approached the foot of Clinch Mountain, which folk had warned would be a steep, hard climb, likely the worst until they made Cumberland Gap itself. But it wasn’t the difficulty of crossing Clinch Mountain that unsettled most of them. It was the possible dangers that lay beyond the Clinch River.

  Kate nudged those aside. This was a better route, most said, than the old one that led most directly from the Holston River’s north fork across to the upper end of Powell Valley, the advantage of Clinch Gap to the north notwithstanding. The new road south along Holston Valley to Bean’s Station, they argued, was able to be widened to a wagon road, and it had been mostly improved to such, even on the southern crossing of Clinch Mountain.

  She’d noted these and many other details in her journal over the past few weeks—details she longed to verify for herself, and indeed would, on this journey.

  Their party had drifted to mostly single-file, and as they made the descent to one of the creek beds, the splashing from the horses’ hooves ahead of her grew louder. Fortunately this crossing was made easier for her and other walkers by the placement of stones along the road bed.

  Gripping the lead rope in her small hand, Jemmy clucked to the horse to cross the trickle, but when the beast hesitated, she turned wide eyes to Kate. With a small shake of her head, Kate took hold of the halter and tugged to encourage the horse across, while balanced between two stones. The horse tossed its head, then with an odd little hop, scrambled across. Kate scuttled along beside, her hand on the horse’s rump to steady herself, in case one of the small ones tumbled off, but all remained well.

  She blew out a breath. Too early in the journey to let herself be ruffled by a possible mishap. But hopefully the horse wouldn’t prove to shy later at the prospect of a water crossing.

  “Kate, don’t leave us!”

  Jemmy’s thready voice hastened her steps and drew her alongside the gelding, who swung its head toward her with a whoosh of breath, as if it too needed her presence for reassurance as the ground grew more rough. Kate reached for a handful of mane and used the horse’s bulk to help pull her up the bit of bank.

  As she made the short rise, the wind tugged at her hat, but she gripped the crown and tipped her head to catch a glimpse of Clinch Mountain. All remained under a veil of mist beyond the closer, lower ridge forming the foot of the mountain, as if the long ridge still wore a shawl of cloud tucked close about her, over her dress of deep forest and rhododendron.

  A shawl that would likely prove to be cold and wet, once they neared the top of the mountain.

  Up the smaller ridge they labored, tall oaks and walnut swaying and moaning in the wind. Kate kept one hand tangled in the gelding’s mane. As they rounded the top, passing through a small gap in the ridge, Kate peered this way and that, past trees and boulders, for snatches of the misty landscape, but all she could see clearly yet was the valley they’d just departed, with Bean’s Station small and forlorn behind them.

  Then it was downward again, this time leaning against the shoulder of the packhorse as she picked her way down the trail, stepping on exposed rock for better footing. It was tricky avoiding the smoothest spots, but she managed the entire slope without slipping or sliding too much. Then a narrow, burbling creek—the packhorse stepped more confidently this time—before they began the long incline toward the peak of Clinch Mountain.

  The road wasn’t a simple matter of going upward, but dipped and climbed through the little hills and valleys forming the mountain’s side. They went slowly enough—she didn’t feel the least out of breath—but before they reached the edge of thickening mist above, someone called halt. Again leaning on the horse’s shoulder, she smiled up at her siblings and stretched this way and that to ease the burn in her leg muscles.

  “I need to use the necessary,” Jemmy said, a plaintive note in her voice.

  Others were making their way into the dense laurel, so with a nod, Kate reached up to take Stefan, then helped the girl down. “Don’t go far,” she said, and pointed straight downhill to a cluster of bushes just beginning to bloom.

  Kate stepped a little off the road to encourage Stefan to make water, and after he happily obliged, she set him back up onto the packhorse. Jemmy returned and climbed up after.

  The line was setting out again, the leaders disappearing into the fog that wreathed the mountaintop.The packhorse plodded upward, and Kate took to gripping its mane again.

  The fog closed about them, cool and cloying. Damping sound as if their heads were all wrapped in wool. The horse’s hoofbeats and her own steps seemed dreamlike, and a breeze still blew, but with palpable moisture. The exertion of the climb, however, kept Kate well warmed, and seeing Jemmy and Stefan huddled together, she took off her shawl and wrapped it about them.

  Still they climbed. Stefan and Jemmy both sagged in the saddle, and Kate poked them to wake up. She thought of singing, just softly, so to be in keeping with the pack master’s wish that they make as little noise as possible, but the first notes died in her throat, strangled by the almost unearthly quiet.

  The plodding of their feet, the soft huff of labored breaths, the drip from bush and tree branch, all these filled her world. Kate thought of the copper-skinned people who must have run this path for long years before white people had come—of a hundred fireside tales of death and capture. Just last year several parties had met a terrible fate on this, the lower end of the road—not on Clinch Mountain but farther on a bit.

  She scanned the foggy mountainside both above and below, its folds hidden in mist. This would be as likely a place for ambush as any.

  Though her skin still flushed with the heat of their exertion, a deep chill settled into her middle. She leaned harder into the horse’s shoulder. The beast’s warmth and bulk did little to ease the unfamiliar hollowness yawning inside her, edged by a beating panic.

  What was this? She’d not thought herself afraid of the dangers of the road, indeed had turned the matter to prayer so often that it should be as second nature to do so now. But the threat of attack seemed so imminent she fancied she could almost hear rustling in the laurel as they passed, could anticipate the first flying arrow and menacing shriek.

  The quiet itself pressed in upon her, breathing its dark threat along her shoulders.

  God…oh sovereign Lord…have mercy.

  Warmth settled around her, calming, soothing.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, thou art with me.”

  Not a valley but a mountaintop had her spooked—but God was no less present. Perhaps they’d have to face such dangers farther on in the journey, but for this moment—

  Thank You, oh Lord, for being with us. Thank You for the peace.

  Behind a cluster of boulders taller than the horses’ heads, emerging from the fog, the ground ahead abruptly leveled. They’d reached the top of Clinch Mountain.

  Riding through mountaintop fog was always an interesting and slightly unnerving experience. Thomas kept watchful, his ears open, uncomfortable with not being able to see the entire party, much less the lay of the land around them. He’d no real concern about attack—there’d been no sign of Indians, and they tended to not like the cold and damp—but it made him twitchy, nevertheless.

  The wagon road wended its way between tree and boulder, so easy at this point, even with the ascent, that the settlers’ decision to use packhorses already seemed pointless. Thomas knew otherwise. And even here, the steep ascent and passage across the ridge, followed by a sharp downward pitch, was made far less worrisome than wagon travel would have been.

  Below, the mist thinned, and the shapes resolved themselves into traveling folk. Through breaks in the trees, the Clinch Valley spread below them, north and south, with the river just a couple of miles distant as the crow flies. They’d likely camp after crossing the river—give folk time to dry out their footgear before needing to walk a whole day again.

  And once more, Thomas felt he could breathe.
No sign as far as he could see—or hear—of trouble.

  His gaze skimmed along the road as it descended the mountain, then angled away toward the river. It was five, maybe six miles from the top of the mountain to the ford, as the road actually ran. From this distance he couldn’t tell how high the river might be. With spring rainfall, it was hard to say.

  The party itself seemed to be doing just fine. One or two walkers had the beginnings of being footsore, so that would bear watching.

  The journey down from the mountain passed without incident. One more necessary stop near the foot, and a quick dip into provisions to keep the young’uns bellies from grumbling—he was glad enough of a piece of jerky, himself—and they were on their way.

  About midafternoon, following the road along the river, they made it to the ford of the Clinch. The river looked a little on the high side, and there was one most likely crossing on this stretch, so the pack leaders were taking their time finding just the right approach. These men knew the road as well as he did—or nearly as well—so he hung back and let them do the picking.

  His eyes strayed down the line of travelers, now stopped and waiting for the first ones to start across. A couple of the women who’d been walking were being helped aboard the packhorses—one of those the young Gruener woman. Her father handed her up between the tot and younger girl, and she took the horse’s reins with what appeared to be a decent amount of confidence.

  Whether she could follow that with experience remained to be seen. But he’d keep watch on all of them.

  The first ones in line were headed down into the water now, men on foot wading with rifles and muskets held high, going slow to find their footing in the swift current. Horses snorted and splashed before resigning themselves to the water.

  With reasonable caution, the entire party made their way into the river, and the leaders were just emerging on the other bank as the stragglers went in. Thomas nudged Ladyslipper after them. The water was never deeper than chest high on the horses, a bit more than waist high on the men, so with the exception of one young man who lost his footing and got a wetting all over, they made the crossing without incident. The Gruener girl with the two young children had no trouble that he could see, but Thomas bit back a smile at the cursing of the young man at discovering his powder had gotten wet right along with his clothes.