Beyond the Quiet Hills

by Aaron McCarver

  “How is that, Sequatchie?” Elizabeth asked quickly. She had known little of Indians before she moved across the mountains, but this one godly man had changed her entire concept. She knew there were none more loyal or more honest than this tall man who sat across from her, and now she leaned forward to hear his answer.

  “Why, as more white men come, the more they will spread the word of the Lord Jesus.”

  “Not all the white men who come will be good,” Hawk warned.

  “I know, and I hate what those who are greedy and selfish will do to my brothers—and to the land. The time will come when this land will not be what it is now, for the Indians honor the land, but the white man will cut down the trees, plow up the forest floor, kill off all the animals, and one day all this will be gone.” He would have said more, but at that moment Jacob, Andrew, and Sarah entered the room, so he fell silent.

  “Pa,” Andrew demanded at once as he plopped down into his chair, “please let me go with you! Maybe I can be of some help.”

  Hawk shook his head at once, saying, “Andy, it seems like we go over this every time I leave the house. I need you to stay here and watch out for your mother and your sister.”

  “Jacob is here. He can do that.”

  “It will take both of you,” Hawk said. “I know things have been quiet lately, but that’s exactly the time when you need to be alert. You never know when a hostile raiding party might come through, so I need both of you.”

  Jacob had said nothing, but now at these words he felt some resentment. He wanted Hawk to say that he alone could take care of the family, even though in all reality he knew this was not true.

  Actually, Hawk was doing his best to keep both Andrew and Jacob out of danger, for he knew that the trip he and the others would endure would not be easy. He was slowly learning how to be a father, and he and Elizabeth had talked this over the previous night, agreeing that it would be safer for the two boys to stay on the homestead.

  After breakfast the two men rose to leave, and as Hawk pulled his gear together, he mentioned, “Paul and Rhoda must miss having Sequatchie with them on their travels with the Cherokee, but this time I’m glad he’s going with us.” He said this more to change the subject, for he could tell that Elizabeth was worried about Jacob’s sullen attitude lately.

  “I’ll be glad when they can come for a visit. I’ve learned to love Rhoda so much, and of course it’s always a joy to have Paul around.”

  Hawk came over to her, holding his rifle in his right hand, with a bag slung over his shoulder. He put his left arm around her, drew her close, and ran his hand along her back. They were silent for a moment, and he whispered, “I still liked the idea about a man staying home for a year and pleasing his wife. Those Old Testament Jews had the right idea there.”

  Pulling his head down, Elizabeth kissed him fervently, then whispered, “Oh, be careful, Hawk!”

  “I’m always careful. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  When the two stepped outside, he found the three youngsters standing beside the cabin and Sequatchie already mounted and holding the lines of the two packhorses.

  Hawk turned to Andrew, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Good-bye, son. Take care of things.” He reached down, picked Sarah up, and twirled her around until she squealed. “Don’t you get any prettier until I get back. You hear me?”

  Jacob had watched this, and when Hawk turned to him, he had a momentary desire to go to him, but the same perverse spirit still kept him back.

  “When I come back, Jacob,” Hawk said, “we’ll have some time together.”

  “Good-bye,” Jacob nodded briefly, then watched as Hawk turned to Elizabeth and hugged her again.

  “Take care of our little one,” he whispered so quietly that only Jacob, who was standing closer, heard it, then he turned, swung onto his horse, and took the lines from his own packhorse. The two men swung away, and as the family watched them disappear, the last thing they saw was Hawk, who turned and waved to them with his free hand.

  As soon as the cabin was out of sight, Sequatchie said, “It’s hard to leave your family.”

  “Yes, it is. I haven’t had one for so long, I’m having to get used to it.”

  The two men said little as they made their way to their rendezvous at William Bean’s homestead, both filled with their own thoughts. When they reached the clearing around the Bean cabin, James and John were there waiting.

  William Bean had come out to see them off, and now he said nervously, “I wish I was going on this trip. I didn’t see how I could make it, though.”

  “That’s all right, William,” Hawk said. “We’ll do the best we can without you.”

  “All right,” William shrugged. “Get back as quick as you can. Cameron’s not going to be put off too much longer. As soon as you return, we’ll have to make some decisions about what to do. Off with you, now, and God be with you!” He stood and watched as the four men disappeared into the forest, leading their packhorses. Worry shaded his eyes, and he shrugged his shoulders impatiently, wishing that he could go. Finally, he turned and moved back toward his house.

  ****

  “There it is. That’s Chota, the sacred town of the Overhill Cherokee.”

  Sequatchie had pulled up his horse as the four men had topped a long crest. Hawk, Bean, and Robertson dismounted and stared down at the village. “It’s not much, is it?” Robertson murmured, shading his eyes with his hand.

  The village itself was made of longhouses that consisted of uprights of saplings buried in the ground, forming structures some fifteen feet wide and as long as forty feet. Dogs wandered among the children who were playing, and several Cherokee women were smoking meat over a large fire.

  “It’s been a hard trip,” Hawk murmured. “I don’t think my horse could have made it much farther.” He turned to look up at Sequatchie, asking, “Do we just ride in?”

  “Yes. You have not noticed our escort?”

  “Escort?” Hawk said with surprise and looked around. “You mean we’ve had folks watching us?”

  “For the last ten miles. You’ve grown careless living in the settlement.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Hawk admitted with chagrin. He strolled ahead, his eyes more alert. As they made their way down the slope toward the longhouses, he indeed saw signs of life that he had missed before. I’d better open my eyes, he thought grimly. I don’t want to lose my scalp just when I’m starting to live.

  By the time they reached the heart of Chota, a crowd had gathered. Advance scouts had obviously brought word that they were in the vicinity. Most of the men bore arms of some sort, many of them holding ancient muskets, while others kept their tomahawks and bows ready.

  “You must be patient,” Sequatchie murmured. “My people are not in as much a hurry as white men.”

  Though the party was received well enough by the older chiefs, it was late that afternoon before any sort of formal meeting could take place. After a meal that consisted mostly of roasted venison, the chiefs arranged themselves in front of a large fire the young braves had built up, and a small, unimpressive Cherokee rose to make the welcoming speech.

  “That’s Chief Attacullaculla,” Sequatchie whispered. He was sitting between James and Hawk and kept his voice only loud enough to be understood by these two and John, who was next to Robertson.

  “The one they call the Little Carpenter?” Bean asked quickly.

  “Yes. They call him that because he fits together peace treaties as a carpenter fits pieces of wood together. He is a wise man, and I’m hoping that he will be able to keep the wild young braves from violence.”

  The preliminaries took some time, for it included the smoking of the peace pipe and long speeches by several of the older chiefs.

  All the time this was going on, however, Hawk was watching a fierce-looking warrior who sat directly across from him. He was very tall, and his muscular arms and powerful torso revealed a brute strength that must have been phenomenal. His s
moky eyes were narrowed to slits, and as the Little Carpenter and others spoke of peace, the grim look on his face clearly showed he was opposed to it.

  “Who’s that? The big man right across from me?” Hawk whispered to Sequatchie.

  “That is Akando.”

  “He looks like a firebrand.”

  “He is the strongest among the Cherokee, and the one most likely to cause trouble.”

  “What does he want?”

  Sequatchie hesitated for only a moment, then said, “He wants all the white men in this country dead.”

  “Why does he hate white men so much?”

  “Because, my friend, the maiden he wished to marry chose a white man who was traveling through. He took her back to his people to live. Her name was Awinita.”

  “He’s got an unforgiving look about him,” Hawk whispered.

  The negotiations dragged on for some time, but finally a fierce argument broke out between Little Carpenter and Akando.

  Neither Bean nor Robertson understood the language of the Cherokee enough to follow it all, but it did not take a language expert to understand that Akando was in favor of war and the Little Carpenter’s caution was for peace. At one point Akando jumped to his feet, yanked a glittering tomahawk from his belt, and glared across the fire at the two white men. Hawk’s hand went to his knife and he felt Sequatchie stiffen, for there was a maniacal gleam in the eyes of the tall warrior.

  Little Carpenter leaped between Akando and the white men, speaking rapidly, and was soon joined by two of the older chiefs.

  The visitors watched, almost holding their breath, and finally Sequatchie breathed more easily. “It will be all right. Little Carpenter has persuaded enough of the chiefs to go along with the white men.”

  “What will they agree to?” Robertson asked.

  “The land will be leased for ten years. Little Carpenter will go to Watauga shortly to work out the final terms and the final payment.”

  “Akando, will he go along with the decision of the chiefs?” Hawk demanded.

  “Until he is strong enough, he will.”

  “I’d just as soon leave here in the morning,” Robertson said. “I’d like to get back. William says we need to make some decisions.”

  “Yes, we will not linger,” Sequatchie agreed at once, knowing that it would be dangerous to keep his white friends in the village.

  As the four left at dawn the next morning, they saw no sign of Akando or his faction, but as they left Chota all were firmly convinced that the tall Cherokee would not accept the decision made by the older chiefs. Hawk remembered the fierce look of hatred in the brilliant eyes of Akando, and his eyes moved ceaselessly as they pulled out of Chota and drove their horses at a fast gallop until the village was far behind them.

  ****

  For two days the party traveled hard. The horses were tired, and finally they had to slow down to a more reasonable gait. As they moved along on the third day, Hawk finally turned and stared back at the trail, his eyes drawn down to narrow slits. “Sequatchie, I feel that we’re being followed.” He waited, but Sequatchie only shook his head, saying nothing.

  “Maybe we’re just being escorted,” Robertson offered. “Just to make sure we leave the area.”

  “No. Hawk is right. We are being followed.”

  “You think we’ll be attacked?” Bean shot back quickly.

  Once again Sequatchie did not answer, but his silence was enough to make the other three men more alert. All day they moved as quickly as the tired horses would carry them. Finally, they pulled up and made camp that night, and it was Sequatchie who said, “A cold camp. No fire.”

  They took turns sleeping, leaving one to keep guard throughout the night. When they pulled out the next morning at daybreak, all of them felt a sinister quality in the silence that hung heavy in the woods.

  They had not gone more than a half mile from their camp when the trail led between a gap formed by two masses of rock. Sequatchie was in the front and his alert eyes suddenly caught a flash of movement. At once he pulled his horse up and cried out something in the Cherokee language that neither Robertson nor Bean caught.

  Even as his warning was in the air a shot rang out, and Hawk felt the wind from a musket ball on his cheek. At once he jerked his horse to the left, shouting, “There’s cover over there! We can make a stand!”

  The four men drove their horses toward a rise of ground that was capped by a grove of towering walnut trees. Hawk said, “James, give me your musket! John, tie up the horses in the grove. We’ll need them to get away from here.”

  “You have chosen well, my brother,” Sequatchie said, coming to stand behind a tree with Hawk. He glanced at the wall of rock at their backs and nodded with satisfaction. “They can only come at us from this direction.”

  At that moment a series of wild cries broke the air, and the Cherokee began advancing, waving their muskets in the air. Hawk drew a bead on one of them but paused to say, “If we kill them, it may kill the treaty as well.”

  “No, shoot to kill!” Sequatchie said sternly.

  At his word, Hawk pulled the trigger, and a short, heavyset Indian was driven off the back of his horse. He cartwheeled, fell to the dust, and his legs kicked spasmodically, then slowly grew still.

  Hawk picked up Robertson’s weapon and without hesitation took another shot. This time the Indian was not killed, but he let out a yelp. As he did, Sequatchie’s musket exploded and the horse of the leader, whom they all recognized as Akando, suddenly collapsed. Akando was thrown to the ground and dropped his weapon. He was unhurt, however, and shouting commands, he drew the warriors of the small band off.

  “They’ll be back,” Hawk said as he rammed a musket ball in on the charge. “You load, James, and let Sequatchie and me do the shooting.”

  Knowing the deadly accuracy of his two companions, Robertson obeyed. Soon the firing began to die down. The Indians were not particularly good shots, and although their musket balls came close, none of the men were touched.

  The unerring fire of Hawk and Sequatchie, however, was more potent. More than one of the renegade Cherokee were struck by the two who fired carefully until the battle settled down and no sign of the enemy was seen.

  “They’ll be waiting for night,” Sequatchie said. “Then they can come in with knives and tomahawks. Muskets won’t help us then.”

  “Then we’ll have to make our break as soon as it gets dark,” Hawk said.

  “Yes, that’s our only hope.”

  The four men settled down for a siege. Fortunately they had water in their canteens. As the hot sun rose, they portioned it out sparingly.

  As the afternoon sun began to fall, Hawk, who was watching the land below carefully, asked, “What do you think, Sequatchie?”

  “About what?”

  “About our chances of getting out of here.”

  “That is as God wills. If He wants us to get away, we shall. If it is our time to die, then so be it.”

  Hawk turned and grinned at his friend. “That puts it on pretty plain terms,” he said. There was a relaxation in Hawk’s strong form, despite the danger. He had learned to live with danger, mostly beside this tall Cherokee who stood a few feet away from him. “I feel a little bit differently now,” he said. “Always before, when we were in a spot like this, I was pretty scared of dying—because of what might come after.”

  “I knew that, but now you will be in the hands of Jesus if we die here. But I do not think we shall. Do you hear something?”

  Hawk turned his head to one side and listened. “No. What is it?”

  “Horses coming.”

  Robertson and Bean grew more alert then, and finally Hawk said, “I hear them.”

  “It’s from over there. Many horses.”

  Five minutes later Hawk exclaimed, “It’s Little Carpenter!”

  It was indeed the Cherokee chief, Attacullaculla! He was accompanied by a band of some thirty warriors, and from their vantage point, the four men could see that h
e had surrounded the smaller band of Akando.

  “Let us go down. I think we will be all right now,” Sequatchie said.

  Quickly the four men piled on their horses, rode down the hill, and sat quietly as the Little Carpenter and Akando had a violent conversation. Once again neither Bean nor Robertson understood enough of the language, but it was clear that the Little Carpenter had the upper hand. He spoke harshly, and Akando clamped his lips together. His eyes were filled with rage, but the party of armed warriors surrounding him and his followers clearly outnumbered them.

  “These men will be dealt with,” Attacullaculla stated flatly. “They have broken the treaty, and they will pay for their actions.”

  “I thank you, Chief,” Sequatchie said. “It is bad when brothers cannot be trusted.” He put his hard glance on Akando, who returned it defiantly.

  “I will send two of my warriors with you while we take these back to Chota to deal with them.”

  Hawk spoke up, thanking the Little Carpenter, and the chief listened and said briefly, “I will see you in Watauga.”

  As the Little Carpenter led his men away, surrounding Akando and his band, James Robertson drew a shaky hand across his forehead. “A mite close,” he said rather fearfully. “Let’s get back while we still got our scalps.” Glancing at the impassive faces of Hawk and Sequatchie, he looked at John Bean and rolled his eyes as if to say, “These two ain’t got any nerves! Wish I didn’t . . . !”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Watauga Association

  The bitter winter broke off short, and by May 1772 the entire land was splashed with wild flowers, making the hills garish with color. Mild winds blew and a beneficent sun beamed over all the land so that the settlers’ gardens seemed to spring up almost of themselves. It was a time of peace and harmony—which most felt could not last.

  Hawk looked up from hoeing his garden to see Jacob and Andrew, who were listening to Sequatchie carefully. He felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched the two boys; they had protested against working, wanting to go fishing instead. Now Sequatchie was explaining something to them in a voice so low that Hawk could not hear it. He thought back over the weeks that had passed since he had returned from Chota, and a sense of apprehension rose in him that had become familiar of late.