Over the Misty Mountains (27 page)

Sequatchie had wisely said nothing. But he had seen the pain in the boy, and the longing to have his father stay. Desperately, he wanted to do something to bring Hawk to his senses. He had prayed, but he knew that Hawk did not want to hear about God. When they rose that morning and went down to breakfast, Jacob was not there. After they sat down, Mr. Spencer asked the blessing, and Hawk asked, “Is Jacob sick?”

“No,” Esther said simply. She tried to think of some way to soften what the boy had told her, which was, “I never want to see him again! He doesn’t care anything about me!” Looking at her son, tears threatening to spill over, she simply said, “Jacob does not want to see you.”

Hawk started to say something but stopped. He felt miserable and ate only a few bites. He pushed the food around on his plate, and finally when the meal was over, he stood up and said, “Well, they’ll be waiting for us. We’ve got to get them over the mountains safely.” He moved to the front door, accompanied by Sequatchie, then he turned. His mother embraced him, and tears ran down her cheeks.

“Come back safe. Your father and I, we pray for you every day.”

“I . . . I know you do, Mother.”

James Spencer embraced his son also. His heart was breaking at the thought of Josh leaving so soon. He wanted to hold him tightly and keep him from going. His voice choking with emotion, James muttered, “We love you here, Josh. We always will. Remember that.”

Upstairs, Jacob was in his room. He was crying, and as he looked out of the window, keeping well back, he saw his father and Sequatchie step outside and move around to the side of the house where the stable was located. Soon they came out, mounted, and rode away. The sounds of the horses’ hooves rang on the stone pavement, and Jacob’s eyes blurred so that he could not see clearly. He watched until his father and Sequatchie disappeared, and then with a choking sob, threw himself on the bed and stuffed the bedclothes against his face so that he made no sound as he lay there weeping.

Chapter Nineteen

The Journey Begins

As the two long hunters made their way down through the busy streets of Williamsburg, Sequatchie’s eyes ran over the assorted shops and townspeople in bewilderment. Several times he stopped and asked, “What is this place?” At one of them he insisted that Hawk go inside. It was a wigmaker’s establishment, and Sequatchie had never seen anything like it. Because of France’s King Louis XIII, wigs were all the rage. As rumor had it, the young French king was going bald at twenty-three. He became depressed and put on a wig, and soon all his courtiers followed suit. Soon women followed, adorning their wigs with jewels and fresh flowers. European wigs were quite colorful, and some even dared to wear blue or pink ones. The colonists were more reserved and stayed with the natural colors, though there was a preference for white powdered wigs.

Sequatchie prowled around the store, and the diminutive wigmaker’s eyes never left him. The man’s hands were trembling, and Hawk grinned, for he saw that the wigmaker expected to be scalped.

Hawk was amused by Sequatchie’s curiosity, and he said, “How about if I buy one of these for you, Sequatchie?” He picked up a large wig with masses of curls and stuck it on the Indian’s head.

Sequatchie glanced at the mirror in front of him and was startled at his strange reflection. Jerking the wig off, he threw it at Hawk and said, “White men are foolish!”

“I expect you’re right about that, Sequatchie. At least where wigs are concerned.”

Sequatchie stomped out of the shop, and the wigmaker gave an audible sigh of relief. As they made their way farther, Sequatchie asked many questions about Williamsburg and the ways of the people who lived there. Finally, turning to face Hawk, he ventured, “Maybe sometime soon we come back and visit your son.”

“Maybe,” Hawk grunted.

Encouraged by even this much response, Sequatchie said quietly, “A boy is like a piece of pottery. You’ve seen the squaws make them. When they’re soft, they can mold the clay into any shape they like, but when the clay gets hard, it’s too late. What’s done is done.” He paused and glanced at his friend. “Boys are like that. Your boy’s already almost a man, but he needs you still.”

Hawk shook his head. He did not want to talk about it and quickly changed the subject. “I’ve got a friend I want you to meet. We’ll pick up some supplies at his place and then go meet these folks we’re supposed to guide back to Bean’s settlement.”

****

Jacques Cartier entered
The Brown Stag
and ran his eyes across the room. At once he saw Rhoda Harper, who had her back to him as she stood behind the short bar, putting glasses on a shelf. Stealthily the big man advanced and without warning threw his arms around the woman, squeezing her. “Ah,” he said. “You little pigeon! I am back!”

Rhoda was accustomed to being grabbed and mauled by those who frequented the place. It went with being a tavern girl. When she turned around, however, and saw the face of the man who held her, she gasped. “Jacques!”

Cartier grinned and kissed her noisily. “Yes, little pigeon. It’s been a long time. Too long! But now I am back, as you see.” He looked carefully and saw that she had aged somewhat. Her smooth face had a few lines that were not there the last time he saw her. But her figure was better than ever, fuller and rounder. “Come,” he said. “We must talk.”

Rhoda did not protest as he led her out of the tavern to the single door at the back. She followed him inside the small room with a table and four chairs used for card games and meals. She sat down in the chair, leaned over, and put her chin in her palm. “I didn’t expect to see you ever come back here, Jacques. As a matter of fact, I heard you were dead!”

“I am in good health, for a dead man,” Cartier said.

He was lolling in the chair, and she saw a scar across his neck and down to his chest that had not been there before. He looked tired and worn, but Rhoda knew how strong he was. The buckskins were molded to his muscles, which were large and heavy. “What are you doing in Williamsburg? I thought the French had all left this country.”

“No, we have not all left. There’s still a few of us here, and we have some big plans.”

“Frenchmen aren’t too popular around Williamsburg,” Rhoda said.

“Ah, what does it matter what they think of Jacques Cartier? Let them say so, and I’ll slit their throat.”

“You haven’t changed, Jacques.”

“You have not changed either. Still the beautiful Rhoda!”

He sat there boasting about his exploits, and Rhoda wondered why he had come back to the Colonies. Since the Line of Demarcation, most of the French had left the country. Finally she said, “I know you, Jacques. You’re not here for nothing.”

“That is right, my Rhoda. I have come to do you a big favor.”

Rhoda laughed without humor. She ran her hand through her hair and shook it free, saying, “You never did a favor for anyone in your life!”

“Maybe I am a changed man.”

“And maybe the moon’s made out of buttermilk! What are you up to, Jacques?”

“I have a little job that I want you to do for me, and I will pay you well. Look.” He pulled out a leather thong around his neck and extracted a heavy deerskin bag suspended on it. Tossing it into the air, he caught it, and it made a musical clinking sound. “Gold,” he grinned. “Lots of gold, and some for you if you do this little job for me.”

“What kind of a job would I do for you?”

Cartier leaned forward and whispered, “There is a party of settlers that will be leaving Williamsburg soon. They are going to a place called the Watauga. I want you to join up with them.”

“Why should I go there? Where is it?”

“Very far away. Across the mountains.”

“I don’t want to go there. I’m afraid of the Indians.”

“As long as Jacques is around, no Indian will harm you. But that doesn’t matter, you will not actually go to the mountains.”

“Stop talking in riddles, Jacques. What do you want?”

“All right. Listen to me. I want you to join this group. They’ll be glad to take you. They need new people at the settlement.” He grinned at her, tossed the bag up, and listened to the coins jingle inside.

“And why would you want me to do that?” Rhoda demanded.

“I do not want them to reach their destination. I want them to turn back before they get to the Watauga.”

“What can I do about that?”

“I will tell you what you can do. These are soft people,” he said contemptuously. “It will not be hard to frighten them. Things like their cattle pulling loose and running away in the night, their food getting something in it perhaps, or their water, a wheel breaking down. It will not be hard to discourage them and turn them back.”

Rhoda sat there thinking of her life. It wasn’t much of an existence. Her mother had died the previous year; her brothers and sisters had all moved away. She had no reason to stay around, and she was growing older and knew that no decent man in Williamsburg would have anything to do with her. The thought of getting away, even for a while, attracted her. Finally, she looked at Cartier and said, “I’ll do it . . . if no one gets hurt.”

“Why should anyone get hurt? All I want them to do is come back. It will be better for them anyway. If they keep on going, those Cherokees will have their scalps. No one will get hurt. I promise you. You will do it then?”

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“That’s my good girl. Here!” He opened the bag, poured out a few coins, and put them in her hand. “This is for you now. When you get back after the settlers return, I will give you that many more.”

In Rhoda’s hand was more money than she had seen in a long time.
If I can just get the rest of it, it’ll be enough to leave this place
, she thought desperately.
I can start over again somewhere
.

“When do I go?” she asked.

Jacques grinned as he said, “Let’s get you ready. Your new life begins now.”

Rhoda could not stop herself from shuddering as she walked out the front door of
The Brown Stag
with Jacques Cartier.

****

“Josh!”

Paul Anderson had seen Hawk come in along with the Indian, but he had not recognized him. The two had walked right up to him, the Indian remaining in the background, and only when they were less than five feet away did Paul finally recognize his old friend. He moved forward and put his hands out, pleasure spreading across his face. “Josh, when did you get here? Where have you been? Look at you! A long hunter!”

“Hello, Paul. It’s been quite a while. It’s good to see you again.” One of the pleasant things Hawk remembered about Williamsburg was being with Paul. “This is Sequatchie, my Indian brother.”

“I’m happy to see you. Both of you. Come along and sit down.”

“Well, we actually came to buy some supplies.”

“We can take care of that later. In the meanwhile, I want to know all about what you’ve been doing. Come, sit down!” He practically dragged them to a table and set some apple cider down in front of them, which they drank with evident pleasure. Sequatchie had never tasted it before and finally picked up the jug, ignoring the glass.

“Help yourself, Sequatchie,” Paul grinned. “Plenty more where that came from.”

“You’re looking well, Paul. I guess you’re an old married man by now.”

“No, just an old bachelor. Have you been by your folks’ house yet?”

“Yes, we just came from there.”

“That boy of yours. Isn’t he something? Fine-looking lad! Better looking than you, I think.” He expected a smile, but Hawk’s face clouded and he looked down at the table.

Paul knew the loneliness of Jacob Spencer. Since Josh had left, he had become a friend to the boy and had tried to be as much of a father as possible. Once Jacob had opened up and said what was on his heart.
I wish I had a father, Mr. Anderson
.

Paul remembered the boy’s words now and could almost see the boy’s loneliness as it had spread across his face. Seeing his friend’s reaction, Paul knew it was not the time to pursue the subject, so he said, “Let me tell you what’s been going on here.”

Hawk listened halfheartedly as Paul related the events happening in the Colonies. He was not really interested in Williamsburg, or Virginia, or anything except getting away from there. The town depressed him, and he wanted to return to the wilderness he now called home. But when Paul continued to press him, he told how he had become a long hunter, and then nodded to Sequatchie. “He’s taught me how to be a hunter. I feel more like an Indian than a white man now. They even gave me another name—Hawk.”

Sequatchie said suddenly, “He reads the Bible to my people. I tell him how to live in the wilderness. I think we have the best of it.”

Paul Anderson stared first at the Indian’s bronze face, and then at Hawk. “Why, I think that’s wonderful,” he said. “Do your people like to hear the Bible?”

“Many of them are Christians. I have been baptized myself, and so have many of my people.”

He repeated the story of how a missionary had converted many of the Cherokees, and Paul Anderson’s eyes grew wide. When Sequatchie finished, Anderson hesitated. He swallowed hard, then said, “You won’t believe this, but God has been speaking to me. He’s been calling me to go across the Appalachian Mountains as a missionary, but I’ve never felt the time was right, but now I feel strongly that He wants me to go to your people, Sequatchie, to the Cherokee.”

Sequatchie instantly sat up straight, and his eyes gleamed. “You would come and preach to my people the gospel of Jesus?”

“God has been putting it on my heart for several years now, but I didn’t see any way. I don’t speak the language, and I don’t know the territory.”

Sequatchie shook his head. “You come! I will be the servant of the servant of God.”

“Wait a minute,” Hawk said. “You don’t know what you’re getting into! It’s rough out there, Paul. A lot of men are lying in shallow graves, killed by animals, by Indians, and some by renegade whites.”

“God is calling me to do it,” Paul said simply. “I must go. And I take your coming at this time as a sign that it’s time to go now. Sequatchie, shall we shake hands, or how do your people agree on a thing?”