When I was a little girl, I loved to climb trees. I’d climbed hickory trees and oak trees and dogwood trees. I’d climbed the tallest pines and sat in their tops. I dragged my cedar and carried the ax and greenery across the hill. I found an oak with mistletoe in the top, but it had no limbs until about ten feet above the ground. The trunk was too big to shinny up. Even if I took off the coat I couldn’t put my arms around the tree.
I looked around and saw the shaft of a dead maple lying on the ground. It was partly rotten, but I thought it might bear my weight. I broke it off and leaned the pole against the trunk of the big oak. I took off the coat and laid it on the ground. Gripping the pole with both my hands and elbows and knees, I shinnied up to the first limb. From that perch I was just able to reach the next limb. From there I pulled myself up the big tree. There was only one place about halfway up where I had to shinny between limbs.
The view from the top of the tree took my breath. I could see way across the valley to the birches along the river. I could see smoke from cabins. And I could see west to the mountains, to the black scald on Bee Water Mountain and to the higher peaks beyond. I was so high I felt close to the gray sky. There were white berries on the mistletoe. The leaves were golden green, like they were filled with honey.
I tore off all the bunches I could reach and flung them down. I watched the clusters bounce on limbs below. It was the most mistletoe I’d ever seen.
Then there was a shout and out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. Turning, I saw a line of men on horses on a trail not too far away. They had seen me and were pointing at me. Maybe they thought I was a spy. They were riding toward me. I started down the tree fast as I could and scratched myself on the rough bark, dropping limb to limb. When I got to the lowest limb I jumped to the ground.
Flinging on the coat, I grabbed the tree and holly and turkey’s paw, and as much of the mistletoe as I could carry, and started running down the ridge. It was hard to drag the tree, but I hated to give up what I’d come after. I heard the men hollering behind me. They were on horses and if they found me they could ride me down. My only hope was to stay hidden and run through a thicket where horses couldn’t follow.
I figured they would expect me to run straight away from them. It was what anybody would do that was scared. But when I came to the branch at the bottom of the hill, I turned right and started running on the rocks and in the sand and mud. The branch splashed between laurels with low overhanging limbs, and I had to duck and twist sideways to get through. The cedar dragged in the mud and sand, and I dropped some of the mistletoe.
It came to me that I would have to hide the tree and greens and come back later for them. There was a place by the branch with lots of briars and vines and I parted a way into the mess and put the greens and tree behind some stalks and canes.
With my hands free I could run faster. But the hollering was getting closer. I saw they had crossed the branch and then come back because they’d lost the trail. And when they came back they saw my tracks in the mud and sand of the branch.
I ran faster, bending low and panting hard. I was worn out from climbing the oak tree, and my feet were sinking in water and mud. There were cushions of mud and tongues of sand the farther down I went. I sank up to my ankles. Even where it looked like leaves on solid ground I sank up to my shins. Under grass there was mud, slick and soft as cream. I couldn’t move faster because the mud was sucking at my shoes.
The mud was cold but I didn’t even notice it. I fell across a log. It sounded like the men had gotten off their horses to follow me. I heard them splashing and breaking limbs. At least they didn’t have any dogs to follow me.
I couldn’t outrun them, and if they caught me they would beat me and hang me, the way they did with spies. No matter what I said they wouldn’t believe me. If they caught me, John would never see me again. He would be left to wait on himself and heal by himself.
I saw a sinkhole beside the branch. It was a place where a seep spring had undercut the clay and eaten away the bank. Vines and roots hung over the edge in a kind of curtain. I thought about jumping into the hole and pushing myself behind the veil of roots and vines.
Somebody hollered and a horse’s hooves clattered on rocks. In the sinkhole I would be just a few feet away when they passed, and if they saw me I would be trapped. I had to keep running. It was hard to pull my legs out of the quick-mud, but I knew it was my last chance to escape. The mud slurped at my feet and sucked as I clawed my way out of the hole. And once I put a foot on the rocks I saw I’d lost my left shoe. My left foot was bare in the cold gritty mud.
I limped ahead on the rocks and sticks and mud as fast as I could. But it seemed they were going to catch me, for the hollering was louder and closer. There was nowhere to hide, and they could follow my tracks in the mud. You have to think like a fox, I said to myself. Even if I climbed out of the branch they could follow my muddy tracks up the bank. I’d made a foolish choice to run along the stream.
Just then I saw a tall white pine on the side of the hill. It was taller than the other trees, but its limbs started almost at the ground. If I could reach the pine tree and climb it I could hide in the thick branches. But how could I get there without leaving muddy tracks? My only chance was to make them keep going down the branch.
I ran through the deepest pools to wash the mud off my feet and legs. And when I’d gone past the pine tree I came to a place with rocks on the bank. There were rocks up the side of the hill, mossy and covered with lichens. I jumped from rock to rock, hoping the moss would soak up the water from my feet. And when I got above the branch I walked as fast as I could without disturbing the leaves back to the big pine tree.
Staying on the side of the pine away from the branch, I climbed the limbs like a ladder, reaching the limbs with lots of needles just as the men came into view. The leader had his pistol pointed ahead, and some of the men carried their swords bare. They were red-faced and out of breath and angry.
Slowly and quietly as I could, I slipped farther up the tree, out of sight of the ground. I could only fool them a few minutes, so I didn’t dare climb the tree any higher than I had to, for when they found they’d lost my trail they’d double back. And when they followed my tracks to the tree they would climb it.
Soon as they were out of sight I slipped down the pine tree. And then I walked carefully. I took off the one shoe and hurled it toward the creek, thinking it might confuse them. I walked on tiptoe and tried not to break any sticks. And when I got out of sight of the tree I ran fast as I could, circling way across to get back to the cabin.
“YOU LOOK LIKE you’ve been drowned,” John said when I came into the cabin. I was so tired I stood in front of the fire with my hands on my knees. My pants were covered with mud and my coat was splattered with mud and frayed by briars and sharp brush.
“You have painted your face in mud,” John said.
I touched my cheek and dried mud crumbled off the skin. I reckon mud was splashed on my face and I had smeared my face in the sinkhole. My feet were scratched and bleeding, and my ankles and arms were scratched.
I got some water from the spring and heated it on the fire and washed myself. There was nothing to do but take off my clothes by the fire and scrub myself. I wanted to drop into bed but couldn’t until I had cleaned myself up. I took a rag and washed my face and neck. I washed my shoulders and arms.
I saw John out of the corner of my eye watching me. I bent over to wash my legs and ankles.
“I was an ungrateful wretch,” John said.
I didn’t answer him. I wrung the rag out and washed my feet. My arches were scratched and bruised by all the rocks I’d run over.
“I talked like a fool to you,” John said. “I have chastised myself and now I ask you to forgive me.”
When I was clean I put on Mr. Griffin’s long shirt, and I climbed into the loft and wrapped myself in a blanket and fell asleep.
SEVEN
AS IT GOT CLOSER to Christmas John f
elt better. While his backside healed up, he could stand easier than he could sit. He stood by the fireplace, baking his back and the back of his legs. He stood up and read his books in the firelight. He read the Bible and The Pilgrim’s Progress. Sometimes he read aloud to me. I liked to hear his voice, and I never tired of the story of the pilgrim.
Finally he felt well enough to play his flute. He put the silver pipe to his mouth and touched the stops and the music sounded sweet as a dove calling in the morning, soft as the voice of a little stream. He didn’t play for long, but it pleased me to hear him play again.
One day a member of John’s congregation at Briar Fork came with a turkey and a bundle of newspapers. It was a man named Waitley, who was known as a hunter. He took off his cap when he stepped into the cabin. He had a long beard and was stooped, like his back had been hurt by a fall or disease. He wore a long gray hunting shirt.
“Every morning that gobbler came out to the cornfield to eat the ears,” he said. “And I hid in the bushes to wait for him.”
He said some soldiers of the Crown, must have been a scouting party, had marched through the end of the field and scared the turkey, and he had to wait another hour before the gobbler came out again.
“I could have shot the soldiers easier than the turkey,” he said, and added, “if I’d had a mind to.”
And then Waitley dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “I have heard a rumor, Reverend, that the redcoats are going to arrest you.”
“Why would they arrest me?” John said. “I have not taken sides. I only sing and preach the Gospel.”
“Just a rumor I heard,” Waitley said.
Besides the bird, Waitley brought the newspapers from Charlotte. John would read the news to me that night, but first I had to fix the turkey.
Turkey feathers are so big it’s hard to pluck them. And a turkey is so long there’s nothing to scald it in but a washtub. I heated water at the fireplace almost to boiling and poured it in the wooden bathtub, and then I dunked the big ugly bird in the smoking water. But after soaking for several minutes the feathers were still hard to pull out. I had to jerk them out and tear them out in fistfuls and handfuls. I did it outside so I wouldn’t get feathers on the floor. And you don’t want to burn up feathers, for they will stink up a house.
Once the turkey was plucked, I lit a pine knot to singe off the pin feathers, the down around the neck. Then I took the butcher knife and sliced open the belly. The guts inside were cold, and I raked out the slimy coils and the heart and liver. I hate the smell of bird guts. They’re not as bad as hog guts, but the stink is still sickening.
After cutting off the feet, I tied the legs of the turkey together before roasting it. I got a piece of wire to do that, and I found a rod to use as a spit. The body turned like a wheel on the stick and I hung it over the fire to start roasting.
As the bird started to cook, grease dripped into the flames and the fire hissed and spat. A drop of grease hit me on the arm and it felt like a needle prick.
“What if the rumor’s true?” I said. “What if the redcoats are going to arrest you?”
“Why would they arrest me?” John said.
John said it was foolish to listen to rumors in those crazy times. He said he knew there was a British officer named Withnail who didn’t like him. But he’d been careful to give him no cause to arrest him. I shivered when he said the name Withnail.
WHILE I TRIMMED the cabin with greenery, John read to me from the newspapers. They were a month old, from November 1780. He read that Lord Cornwallis was marching with his army up through South Carolina to Charlotte. The newspaper said the vast army of the Crown was marching up the east side of the Broad River on its way to North Carolina. Col. Banastre Tarleton was sweeping with his dragoons through the upcountry west of the Broad River. He had burned a lot of houses and hanged rebels from their own fruit trees. He had fought skirmishes with bands of volunteers and killed every man that tried to surrender or flee. He took provisions from every house he passed. But he had fought at a place called the Blackstocks and lost a lot of his Green Dragoons.
John was so angry he stamped his foot and slammed the paper against his knee. “The devil has the rule of this earth,” he said.
“Can’t anybody stop Tarleton?” I said.
“Nobody but the Lord himself,” John said. His face was chalky with anger. I wondered if he was thinking of joining the militia himself. John often said he would never kill.
I hung strands of turkey’s paw moss over the doorway and over the mantel. It brightened up the cabin to have some green there. I hung holly from the mantel too. The red berries seemed to glow and sparkle in the firelight. I put mistletoe on the mantel and kissed John, and I hung mistletoe from a string above John’s bed.
John read in the paper that the Continental army in the South was to be commanded by General Nathanael Greene. “General Greene of Rhode Island has been appointed commander of the Southern Department,” he read. “He will make his headquarters in Cheraw or Charlotte. He will resist Cornwallis in his progress toward Virginia.”
I tried to think what I could use to trim the cedar tree. I’d nailed the tree to a board so it stood up in the corner of the room. I didn’t have any glass balls and I didn’t have any candles to put in the branches. I didn’t even have painted corn to thread on strings. I had one candle to put on top as a kind of Christmas star.
John had a pair of scissors in his sewing kit and I took the scissors and cut a star from the newspaper he’d just read. And then I cut a paper angel and another. I cut angels with their wings spread. And I cut a snow-flake and more stars.
As I hung the angels and stars on the cedar, the tree seemed to come alive. I thought of the tree of life in the Bible. The little tree seemed bigger and deeper. The angels appeared to be flying out of the dark inside the boughs. The stars were large and white, like the sky was close and heaven was close. And the snowflakes I cut were a hundred times bigger than actual snowflakes. They made you feel you had shrunk in the falling snow.
I wished I had some colors to put on the tree. I wished I had some red and green, some blue and yellow. I wished I had something gold and something silver.
John looked at the tree as though he hadn’t noticed it before. “You have made a little heaven,” he said. “Out of the darkness comes shining angels and sparkling snowflakes.”
ON CHRISTMAS EVE John was feeling stronger than he had since the fire on Bee Water Mountain. The holiday excited him and his eyes were shining. He looked at me with a long and steady look.
“We will sing some carols,” he said. “And then we will read the Christmas story. And then we will go to bed.”
I had hung a paper angel right over the fireplace. “What song do you want to sing?” I said.
John said he would like to sing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks.” I knew that’s what he would say. It was a song that fit him, and fit his feeling about Christmas. We stood in front of the fire and held hands. We didn’t sit down, for John could hardly sit down.
AS WE SANG it seemed that in spite of the dark and cold the world was lighted up with sweet music and fellowship. Even though there was a war now, we were at peace in our house together. Even though John had been burned and scarred he was almost well. But I didn’t want to feel too happy. It was dangerous to be too happy.
I WAS RIGHT to fear being happy that night, for just after we sang carols John looked into my eyes and then looked away. “Josie, I still don’t really know how you came to me,” he said.
It was the first time he had asked a question like that in several weeks. Surprise shuddered through me, but I tried to laugh. “You know I walked here,” I said.
“But where did you walk from?” John said. I don’t know why he suddenly got so curious on Christmas Eve. Maybe it was because his back was mostly healed and he was worried about what we were going to do.
I told him I came from the country north of Charlotte, as I had told him before. I asked him did
it matter, since the important thing was I’d found him at Zion Hill Church that night in October.
“I have not wanted to pry,” John said. “But I know something terrible happened to you, something too sad to talk about.”
“How do you know that?” I said, surprised at the irritation in my voice. The last thing I wanted to tell was what Mr. Griffin had done to me, and what I had waited in the dark to do to him. And I didn’t want to talk about Mama’s sickness either. If a mama could go mad a daughter might also. And nobody wanted to admit their own mother had driven them from their house.
“You say nothing,” John said. “You have told me nothing.” The sudden anger rising in his voice made me angry too.
“This is Christmas Eve,” I said, “a time of peacefulness and joy.”
“It is not a time of peace,” John said, his eyes burning at me in the firelight. “You deceived me once. Are you continuing to deceive me?” His anger astonished me.
“And you have deceived your congregations,” I said. But soon as it came out I knew I’d said the wrong thing. If I’d learned anything it was that you shouldn’t accuse a man of what scares him the most.
“Don’t tell me about my congregations!” John shouted. He grabbed me by my arms and shook me. I thought he was going to hit me. All the goodwill and peacefulness had gone out of him. He was sharp and hard with fury.
“I don’t want to quarrel,” I said. I felt weak in my throat and in my arms and all over.
“You have told me nothing,” John said, his eyes blazing. “What are you hiding? Are you a thief? Are you running from the loyalists? From the constable?”
“I had to run away from home,” I said. “My stepdaddy beat me.”
“And your mother let him?”
I told John that Mama always took my stepdaddy’s side, and that was why I had run away. I told him they had locked me in the corncrib for the night, and I told him that my stepdaddy was a spy for the British. Everything I told him was the truth, or mostly the truth. I left out that Mr. Griffin had shamed me and that I had waited for him in the dark with the ax. And I left out how Mama wasn’t perfect in her mind. I couldn’t tell John about those things.
Brave Enemies - A Novel Of The American Revolution Page 15