“No, but General Braddock, he didn’t believe in listenin’ to advice. Colonel Washington, he tried to tell him he couldn’t march troops like they was on parade grounds,” Boone said sadly, “but Braddock, he wouldn’t listen to him.”
“Tell me about it,” Paul said. He wanted to hear about the battle, but he also wanted a chance to study Josh Spencer, so he listened as Boone described how Braddock had taken a large force through the heavy woods, having to chop a road to haul the guns and heavy wagons.
“They call it Braddock’s Road now,” Boone said. “When we got to the Monongahela, I thought it might be all right, but as soon as we crossed, they started shootin’ from the cover of the trees. Braddock tried to get the men to line up like it was formation on a parade ground.” Boone shook his head sadly, sipped at the cider, and said, “But it was no good. The general, he got shot almost at once. If it wasn’t for Colonel Washington, I guess we’d all have lost our scalps there. He formed a retreat and got us out of there.”
“What will happen now?” Paul asked.
“I reckon the Frenchies and the English will battle it out, and us Americans will be caught right in the middle.”
Josh had listened to the story, which he had already heard, and said, “Tell Paul about the land on the other side of the mountains, Boone.”
“Well, I reckon I could do that,” Boone said. “I ain’t what you call a settled man, Mr. Anderson. I don’t like to be cooped up, so I’ve been wandering around over the mountains.” His eyes grew dreamy, and he said, “You ain’t never seen nothin’ like it, sir! Not nothin’! Why, there’s cane fields that go for miles. Game so thick that you just let your gun off and somethin’ falls to the ground. The ground’s so rich it almost drips with fat.”
Paul listened as Boone spoke with glowing enthusiasm of the territory over the Appalachians. He knew his geography well enough to know that the English were spread out along a thin strip of the eastern seaboard from Georgia to New England. The mountains bounded them in there, and the country on the other side was claimed by the French. That was what the fighting between the English and the French was about—who would control that territory west of the Appalachian Mountains all the way to the Mississippi River.
“But you couldn’t live there, could you?” Paul asked, leaning forward. “That’s Indian land.”
Boone gave the young man a smile. “Indians don’t much believe in owning land. They just live on it.”
“But it’s really theirs, isn’t it?” Paul insisted.
“Maybe,” Boone said, “but there’s white settlers now, spreading out all over that part of the world. Sooner or later there’ll be trouble.”
“Are you going there, Boone?”
Daniel Boone fingered the coonskin cap that lay on the table and did not answer for a minute. “I’m a wanderin’ man,” he said. “Can’t stand to see the sight of cabin smoke close to me. There’s millions of miles out there. I figure there’s someplace for me and my family, and lots of others feel just like me. Over the misty mountains,” he said.
“The misty mountains?” Paul asked quickly. “What’s that?”
Boone seemed somewhat embarrassed. “That’s what they are sometimes early in the morning when the sun comes up. They’re just misty. They look almost like ghostly mountains.” He laughed shortly and put his hat on his head, the coonskin tail dangling down his back. He drained the rest of his cider. “I reckon it’s big enough even for me,” he smiled. “Suits me, anyhow.”
“That land, it can’t belong to no white people!”
A harsh voice had broken the relative silence of the tavern, and all three men turned to look across the room to the man who had spoken. He was a big man, well over six feet, with curly red hair and a beard to match. He had strange blue-green eyes, and his dirty buckskins were very much like those Boone wore. He had been listening, apparently, to the conversation, and now lifted the bottle in front of him and drank from it, his throat convulsing as the raw spirits hit him. He slammed the bottle down and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Rhoda Harper had come to stand beside him to replace the bottle. The trapper, for such he appeared to be, looked up at her and said, “Ah, sweetie, bring Jack some more whiskey.”
He waited until the girl turned and left to go to the bar, then he stood to his feet and moved over to where the three men were sitting. He stared at Boone and said, “I heard of you, Boone. The Cherokee, they don’t like you much.” Suddenly he struck his chest with a powerful fist. “I’m Jack Carter. The Cherokee, they like me very much. I treat them fair, not like you!”
Boone appeared unconcerned by the threatening appearance of the huge trapper. “I’ve always treated the Indians square,” he said quietly.
“Square? No! You take their lands and give them cheap beads. You call that fair? You’re a cheat!”
“Maybe you better go back to your table, Carter,” Josh said. He did not like the intrusion of the trapper, nor what he implied. Coldly he said, “Nobody invited you over here!”
Carter stared at Josh Spencer and said, “You ever been across the mountains? No, I think not! All you do is drink whiskey. You wouldn’t last two days among the Cherokee!”
Rhoda had brought the whiskey back, and Carter turned and grasped the bottle with his right hand. With his left, he pulled her close, and before she could protest, he planted a kiss noisily on her lips. “Now,” he said, “you’ve got a real man!” He turned to look at the three Englishmen and sneered. “These are not men! These are women!”
Boone said softly, “I wouldn’t be saying things like that, Carter, if I was you.”
“Why? Who’s gonna stop me?” Carter kissed the girl again. He hurt her, and she let out a small cry.
Josh moved to his feet at once. “Turn her loose, Carter,” he warned.
Jack Carter laughed loudly. “Who’s gonna make me? You?” Using the hand holding the whiskey bottle, he reached out and shoved Josh backward. Caught off balance, Josh became entangled with the chair and fell to the floor. He scrambled up quickly, and when he moved forward, Carter’s eyes glinted wickedly. Looking at Rhoda, he said, “You wait over there. I have a score to settle with this fellow, then you and me, we’ll go upstairs and—”
“Wait a minute,” Paul said, “there’s no point in starting trouble.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Carter’s left hand flashed out. It caught Paul across the mouth and drove him to the floor. Instantly Josh threw himself forward. The large trapper took the blow that hit him in the chest, but it did not seem to stir him. Moving quickly, especially for such a big man, Carter lifted the bottle and brought it down over Josh’s head. The bottle did not break, but the force of it drove Josh to his knees. Carter drew his leg back to kick the helpless man, but at that instant a loud click echoed through the room. Jack Carter looked up to see that Boone had picked up his musket and had drawn the hammer back, and now the weapon was pointed directly at his stomach.
“Old Betsy here might make a pretty good hole in you, Carter,” Boone said, almost pleasantly.
“You put that gun down, and we’ll see who’s the best man!” Carter growled. He dared not move, for the large bore of the musket stared at him menacingly. He knew what one of the large slugs could do to a man’s insides.
“Suppose you just take your bottle and leave,” Boone suggested. “Otherwise, I might have to waste powder and lead on you.”
For one moment it appeared that Jack Carter would not listen, that he would throw himself forward, but something in the light blue eyes of the smaller man who faced him apparently changed his mind, for he moved back a step. He swallowed hard, then forced a laugh. “He is whipped already, and I will see you sometime, maybe out in the woods, Boone, when I have my gun.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Boone said.
“Come on.” Carter grabbed Rhoda by the arm and dragged her across the room. She looked over her shoulder at Josh, who was struggling to get to his feet, but then she turned
to watch where she walked as Carter dragged her up the stairs, where they disappeared at the top of the landing.
“Are you all right, Josh?” Paul asked as he helped Josh stand to his feet.
Josh reached up and felt the bump on his head. “I didn’t make much of a fight of it, did I?” he mumbled. He knew that his reflexes were gone. The days of steady drinking had robbed him of that. He looked over at the two men, and shame filled his eyes. “Come down in the world, haven’t I? Fightin’ over a tavern wench.” He touched the bump gingerly, then nodded. “Thanks, Daniel.”
“Well, he wasn’t much of a man, but I’d watch out for him,” Boone said. “He’s the kind that would shoot you in the back if he got a chance.”
“Come on, Josh. You’ve got to go home. You’ve been neglecting your family far too long already.” Paul’s eyes searched Josh’s earnestly.
Josh looked at Paul and after a moment’s silence he said wearily, “I suppose you’re right.” He put his hand out, saying, “Thanks for your help, Daniel. And thanks for telling me about the other side of the mountains.”
“Maybe you can do me a turn one day,” Boone said. “See you on the other side of the mountains, maybe.”
The words seemed to catch at Josh Spencer. He stood absolutely still for a moment, as if a new thought had come to him, then he murmured, “Maybe so.”
The three men left the tavern, and on the way back to the Spencer home, Josh said nothing until they neared the street where he lived. Then he stopped abruptly. “Paul, I want to tell you something.”
Paul Anderson stopped. “What is it, Josh?”
“Were you listening to what Boone said about all that land on the other side of the mountains?”
“I guess everybody knows about that. I’m going there myself one day, to the Indians.”
Josh Spencer stood silently for a moment, and then said, his teeth almost clenched, “I’m going there, too, Paul.” He looked around the streets of Williamsburg and thought of Faith. He could not bear spending the rest of his life where everywhere he looked he would be reminded of the woman he had loved above all others. “I’m going there, too. I’m leaving Williamsburg, and I’m never coming back!”
****
Jack Carter, whose real name was Jacques Cartier, lay back on the bed and watched Rhoda dress. “I gave it to that fellow, didn’t I? I should’ve hit him again! I’d have stomped him to bits if that fellow Boone hadn’t put a musket on me!”
Rhoda finished buttoning up her dress. She was tired and angry, and ashamed, as always, when this sort of thing happened. Without a word, she started to leave, but Cartier came up off the bed. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Don’t leave until I tell you to. Sit down!”
Rhoda did not resist, for the giant’s hand was like an iron clamp on her arm. She sat down and stared at him. His flushed face was filled with jaded lust, and she felt the nagging shame for allowing herself to slip into a life like this.
“You need a man like me, Rhoda.”
“I don’t need any man, except for his money!” she said bitterly.
“No, you need a good man like me. Now, you take that Spencer fellow. He’s no good. He’s weak, and so is the other one with him.” An angry flush touched the broad cheekbones of the Frenchman and he said, “Boone, he won’t live long, you bet! When he crosses the mountains, I’ll see him, or I’ll tell some of my Indian friends to take his scalp.”
Rhoda sat there numbly, listening as the trapper rambled on. He drank from the bottle from time to time and spoke of things she did not understand. She had known him for some time, for Cartier had come to Williamsburg on some sort of business. Some suspected him of being a spy for the French, but nobody could prove anything. Finally, he drank himself into insensibility. The last thing she heard him say was, “That Josh Spencer, I am not finished with him, you bet! No, not yet!”
Rhoda saw that he was passing out. Quickly she arose and left the room. She was puzzled about Cartier’s hatred of Spencer and wondered if, perhaps, she ought to get word to Josh.
She knew that he had never recognized her, and a bitter twist came to her lips. Josh wouldn’t want to hear from me, not a tavern wench! The thought ran through her, leaving a pain, and she was shocked that after all she’d gone through, there was still a longing for purity that lay deeply buried in her spirit.
Chapter Three
Unto the Hills
A sullen sun had risen halfway up over the low-lying mountains as Josh Spencer took stock of his equipment. He was in the room that had become as familiar to him as his own hands, and as the feeble rays of light filtered through the cloudy panes of glass, he looked up from the musket he was holding and let his eyes run over the furniture, caught for a moment by fond memories that lay deeply embedded in his mind. The room itself had a slanting ceiling, and the floor was made of hard pine of varying widths, worn smooth by years of the passage of bare feet. Two handmade rugs, red and blue, made by his mother, were now worn, and he suddenly remembered how luxurious it had been when at eight years old he had for the first time gotten out of bed onto the warmth of the wool instead of the cold, bare floors.
There won’t be any rugs where I’m going, he thought abruptly and lifted his eyes to the miniature portraits of his father and mother that stood out against the pale green print of the wallpaper. He studied their faces for a moment, and a frown formed two vertical creases between his eyebrows at the thought of the sharp differences he had had with them since the death of Faith and the birth of his son. Quickly he passed his hand across his face, closing his eyes as if to shut the memory out, but his love for his wife had been the most consuming passion in his life, and he could not shake the memories. Night after night he had lain in his featherbed tossing and turning, many times getting up and walking the floor, often leaving the house and going out in the bitter cold, trying to tire his body out so he could finally fall asleep. Even when sleep did overtake him, he dreamed of Faith, of their days together, brief as they had been, all etched on his memory forever. He heard a scratching at the door, and rising, he walked over, still holding the musket in his hand. When he opened it, a large shaggy dog with a massive head and curly red fur pushed his way through the crack, reared up on his hind legs, and tried to lick Josh’s face.
“Get down, Charlie!” The words were rough, but Josh reached out and fluffed the floppy ears. He had found the dog in an alley and brought him home and fed him with warm milk soaked on a wet rag. The puppy had now grown to a monstrous size, and he had every bad habit a dog could possibly display, including tearing up furniture with his huge teeth and large claws. Seemingly, he was impervious to being housebroken, and he brought fleas from the outside as if it were his duty to infest the house.
Shoving the dog back down, he said, “You lie there and behave yourself!” Josh sat back down and began looking at the equipment he had piled up. The musket he held was a good one. It had been a present on his sixteenth birthday, made by Dave Devinny, one of the finest musket rifle makers in the state. He moved the hammer back on half cock and looked down at the frizzen, noting the smoothness of the action. Picking up a flint, he inserted it into the mechanism, pulled the hammer back to full cock, then pulled the trigger. The machinery clicked sharply, the flint struck the frizzen, and sparks flew. If there had been black powder inside, it would have exploded instantly, setting off the charge in the interior of the musket. It was a good piece, and he examined the flints, of which he had over a hundred. They wore out with use, and a piece shaped into a standardized form by a skilled flint worker was good, on the average, for some twenty or thirty shots, then was discarded.
Josh pulled the rifle up to his shoulder, closed his left eye, and sighted down the barrel. Under normal conditions a good musket would misfire once, perhaps, in twenty or more shots. Sometimes because of a poor, worn-out flint, often because in the rain it was practically useless. At other times the touchhole through the barrel became plugged with powder, fouling the priming flash, which in turn
would fail to ignite the charge.
Placing the musket down carefully, he picked up the powder horn and the bullet pouch, weighing them carefully in his hand. He had spent the last two nights molding the bullets out in the work shed. First shaving the lead into an iron pot, he then set the pot in coals. When the lead had melted, he would ladle it out into the bullet molds, watching as the hot lead flowed in a slithering, shining stream into the molds. The liquid metal fascinated him. He had always felt a strong urge to touch it, for it didn’t look hot at all—it looked silvery and cool. Once, he had tried it and, to his dismay, raised a blister the size of a shilling on his palm. When the bullets had finally cooled, he had taken them out and trimmed the roughness off with his knife. Now he removed the bullets one at a time from the pouch, rubbing them with an old piece of deerskin that was worn and slick. When he finished the last slug, he put it back in the deerskin bag and pulled the drawstring tight.
Standing up, he moved over to the nail driven in the side of the wall and lifted the deerskin jacket that he had bought from a trapper. It fit him loosely, and he held it for a moment, fingering the soft texture. It had an intricate design of porcupine quills and beads. As he stood there, his eyes went over to the suit that he had worn at the last ball he had attended. Somehow he knew that this change of clothes marked a change in his entire life.
“I’ve got to get away,” he spoke aloud, almost frantically. “I just have to!”
Quickly he gathered up his supplies—including blankets, bullets, powder, underclothes, extra boots—and wrapped them into a blanket in a roll. Then with one final look around the room, he turned quickly and went out into the hall. He passed by the door to his parents’ room and heard their muffled voices. The temptation was strong in Josh to leave without saying good-bye, for he knew there would be a scene, but he could not do that. Reaching out, he tapped on the door, and almost at once it opened, and his mother faced him. “It’s time for me to go, Ma,” he said.
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