Over the Misty Mountains (35 page)

Rhoda Harper was an emotional wreck. The sermon had torn her to pieces, and as soon as the meeting was over, she turned and walked quickly away, not wishing to speak to anyone. She wanted to get away from the train and put her hands over her ears, for it seemed she could still hear the voice of Paul Anderson saying, “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness.”

“Why can’t I do what Iris Taylor did?” she whispered in despair. Still, something in her would not turn loose, and for a long time she walked, hoping the misery that weighted her down would go away.

She was startled when a figure moved in beside her, and she gasped when she saw Jacques Cartier.

“What are you doing out here, little pigeon?”

“Don’t call me that anymore! I never liked it!”

Jacques Cartier was surprised. He scowled and his eyes grew small. “You’re getting hard to handle. Why haven’t you done more to get this wagon train to turn back?”

“I couldn’t do anything. Besides, it was wrong to poison that water. Some of these people nearly died!”

“If you would have put a little more in, maybe two or three of them would have died, then they would have turned back!”

“I’m not going to do anything like that again!” she said and started to head back down the trail to the wagons.

Cartier grabbed her by the arm and said, “Shut your mouth or I will close it for you! Maybe for good!”

Rhoda had always been frightened of the man, but now, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter. She looked up fearlessly into his face. “Why are you doing all this, Jacques? What do you care whether this little group of settlers finds a home in the wilderness?”

“All right. I will tell you. I work for the French government. We French have lost the war, yes, but we still want a colony here in this part of the world. France must have a presence in this country, and the more English settlers that come, the less France’s chance of retaking the territory. Me, and a few others, we are paid to stop the settlers from coming this way.”

“You can’t stop people from coming! It would be like trying to stop a river from flowing.”

Cartier gritted his teeth. “There is one way they can be stopped!”

Something in the large man’s tone caught at Rhoda, and fear shot through her. “What are you talking about?”

“Since you’ve botched your job, we will have to try something else.”

“Something else? Like what?”

“There’s going to be an attack. The Indians are going to attack this train. I’ve come to get you out of it. You’ve failed, but I don’t want you to die with the rest. You’re going to be my woman.”

Rhoda stared at him in disbelief. “You . . . you can’t mean that, Jacques! You can’t kill innocent people—what about the women and children on this train!”

Cartier shook his head. “Maybe we just kill a few, and they will go back. But the train will be stopped.”

“Please, Jacques, don’t do it!” Rhoda began to beg. She held her hands tightly together and squeezed them until they cramped.

Finally Cartier said, “Come and go with me. If you don’t, you’ll be dead, Rhoda.”

Rhoda had not even one instant’s temptation. “I won’t go with you, Jacques.”

For some time Cartier tried to convince her, then angrily he grabbed her and shook her. “You little fool!” he said. “You think the Indians will spare you when I turn them loose to attack the whites? They might take you and make you a plaything for a while, but you would be their slave, and you would die after that. You’d better come now. It’s your last chance.”

Rhoda did not doubt Cartier’s words or his intention, but she said, “No, I won’t go with you.”

Cartier stared at her, then he shoved her away so that she staggered. “Very well! Be a fool and die with the rest!”

As Cartier turned and disappeared into the forest, Rhoda stared after him and turned slowly. She walked back toward the wagons, and all the rest of the afternoon, she stayed by herself.

A few noticed she was being exceptionally quiet, and it was Elizabeth who said, “I think Rhoda’s under conviction, Patrick.”

Patrick, who had shared the good news of Andrew’s conversion with the family, said, “The Spirit of God is working. We’ll have to pray much for that woman. She really needs Jesus Christ.”

Rhoda said nothing of Cartier’s threat. She was stunned by his words and purposed more than once to say something to Hawk. She did determine she would tell Hawk the next day about the dangers that lay ahead from the impending Indian attack, no matter what they would do to her after finding out that she had helped Cartier. Finally she went to bed and drifted into a restless sleep, tossing and turning. Overhead the skies were dark, for it was not the time of the full moon. A few tattered skeins of clouds drifted across the heavens, and the people in the wagons slept.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Another Loss

Patrick MacNeal awoke early. He climbed out of his blankets and discovered that Elizabeth was already up and had started breakfast, even though Hawk had not sounded his usual wake-up call for the camp. “What are you doing up so early?” Patrick said, going over and putting his arms around her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. Looking up from the fire she was kindling, she said, “I’m so happy about Andrew, I didn’t sleep much last night. I kept waking up and thinking how wonderful it was that you were able to bring him to Jesus.”

“I didn’t sleep much myself,” Patrick said. He was tired and sleepy, but there was a peace on his face, and he said, “I think it was the best day of my life, expect maybe for the day I married you.” He kissed her cheek and said, “God is good, isn’t He?”

“Yes, He is.” She continued to work, and as he built up the fire, she pulled together the fixings for a simple breakfast. When it was cooking, the smell of meat soon drew the children out of the wagon.

Andrew looked at his father and mother and said shyly, “I still feel good.” He pointed over to the spot among the walnuts and said, “I remember what you said, Pa. I’ll never forget that place as long as I live. That’s where I asked Jesus to come into my heart.”

Elizabeth’s heart was full, and she smiled at this tall young son of hers and said, “I’m happy for you, Andrew, and I’m more happy that it was your father who led you to the Lord. You’ll never forget that. We never forget the ones who lead us to Jesus.”

“Who led you to Jesus, Mama?” Sarah asked.

“It was my own father, and I was just about your age.”

Sarah was quiet for a time, and Elizabeth saw the expression on her daughter’s face. “Maybe you and I ought to have a talk about Jesus.”

“I’d like that, Mama,” Sarah said quickly.

“All right. We’ll do it then.”

Dawn came quickly, and the family sat around the fire, eating their breakfast. Up and down the line, other fires were being started as families climbed out of their wagons. Sequatchie and Hawk walked by, acting like sentinels, as always.

“Don’t those two ever sleep?” Patrick said. He looked down to where Rhoda was sleeping under the wagon and said, “Rhoda’s sleeping late this morning.”

“I heard her tossing all night. I don’t think she went to sleep ’til a few hours before dawn. I think she’s very troubled about something.”

Patrick stared at the sleeping woman and nodded slightly. “We’ll have to pray much for her,” he said. “I wonder—” He never completed his sentence, for suddenly a wild scream rent the air and froze Elizabeth’s blood. She was holding a frying pan and dropped it, whirling to look where the sound had come from. Three war-painted Indians burst out of the woods and fell upon the Simmons family. Elizabeth and Patrick and the children watched in horror as tomahawks rose and fell, and all four of the Simmonses lay dead.

At once, Patrick cried out, “Indian attack!” and made a wild leap for his musket. It was leaning against the wagon wheel, as Hawk had taught them all to keep their weapons at hand. He leveled it and fired. One of the charging Indians fell and lay motionless twenty feet away. At once, Patrick groped for his powder horn and began reloading his rifle.

Wild screams filled the air from all around the camp. Hawk and Sequatchie were crying out the alarm. And as Elizabeth gathered the children and hurried them into the wagon, she saw Hawk kill one painted brave with his rifle, then run directly at two others. He and Sequatchie were soon engaged in a fierce hand-to-hand struggle with the screaming Indians.

Patrick had gotten his rifle loaded, and he ran forward to join the men who had collected their muskets and now had formed a little group. Musket fire was coming from outside now, from the woods, and Patrick saw Jed Smith go down clutching his leg, which spurted bright red blood. He turned and stared into the forest but could see nothing. Quickly he ran and joined the line of men.

Hawk had retrieved his rifle and was putting a bloody knife back in his belt. “Get under cover!” he shouted. “Make a circle! Sooner or later they’ll charge us. When they try a rush, hold your fire until they’re no more than ten feet away! We’ll get one shot apiece! Make every one count!”

The gunfire from the Indians was erratic. Ten minutes after the settlers had formed a circle there was a volley from the woods, and then someone screamed a command. Hawk shouted, “Here they come!” He held his rifle steady until a half-naked brave came charging directly into the center of camp. When the Indian was no more than ten feet away, Hawk shot him through the heart. With no time to reload, he grabbed up the Indian’s tomahawk and met the wave of attackers head on. Sequatchie was right beside him, and John and George Russell formed a little line that courageously fought against the attackers. The Russells were using their muskets as clubs, which proved very effective.

Patrick had saved his shot as Hawk commanded. When it was gone, he stood there momentarily confused. He started to reload, and then he saw a man, not an Indian, appear. He was a big man dressed in buckskins, and he had a musket that he was swinging up, aimed directly at Hawk. Without thought, Patrick leaped up and dashed wildly ahead, crying, “Hawk—look out!”

Hawk turned at the warning and saw Patrick MacNeal come between him and a large figure in buckskins. A shot rang out, and Patrick crumpled to the ground.

Hawk leaped forward and rolled Patrick over and saw that he had taken a bullet in the chest. Through the smoke of the black powder that scored the air, Hawk looked up and caught a fleeting glimpse of a big man turning and leaving the battle.

Hawk never remembered much about the rest of the battle. He fought like a madman, and finally he saw that the Indians were retreating. Quickly he yelled, “Load up! They may come back!”

The Indians, however, seemed to have been beaten. At least a dozen of their braves lay dead, and many more were groaning with wounds that would probably prove fatal. Hawk looked around and saw some of the settlers lying dead, too. He shook his head at the sight of the Simmons family, who had been the first killed in the attack.

Many others were wounded, including Jed Smith, but most would recover. Hawk’s thoughts went immediately to Patrick. He ran over to where Elizabeth was kneeling beside her husband. He looked at Paul Anderson, who was kneeling on the other side, and Anderson gave him a shake of his head, and Hawk knew that there was no hope for Patrick.

All around the circle of wagons could be heard the groans of the wounded, but Hawk stood there. He had grown fond of Patrick MacNeal, and suddenly he felt a tremendous guilt, for he knew Patrick had died saving his life.

Elizabeth was weeping, and the children were gathered around their father.

“Oh, Patrick!” Elizabeth cried. “You can’t die! You just can’t!”

The children were sobbing, too, and then Patrick opened his eyes. The front of his shirt was covered with blood, but for the moment his eyes were clear. He looked at his family, then his eyes fell on Hawk. He lifted a hand and made a motion.

Hawk quickly knelt down and took the dying man’s hand. “What is it, Patrick?” he whispered huskily.

“Hawk—” Patrick gasped and blood stained his lips. Elizabeth wiped it away and Patrick said, “Take care . . . of my family. Will you do that?”

Hawk nodded and said, “I’ll do that. I give you my word. I’ll care for them like they were my own.”

A peace flooded Patrick MacNeal’s face then. Elizabeth was supporting him. He reached up and touched her face and whispered, “I’ve always loved you, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, Patrick—”

“Never grieve for me. I’ve loved you, and you’ve been the best wife . . . a man can have.”

He reached out then and touched the faces of his children, and he said in a faint voice, “I want you all . . . to promise me.” He saw that they were watching, and his eyelids began to droop. He pulled them open, gathering his strength. “Don’t grieve for me, and never feel angry at God. I’m going to be with Him—my Father. I will . . . see you . . . in the morning.”

Patrick simply closed his eyes, his chest heaved twice, and then he was gone. Elizabeth cradled his head and wept. Outside the circle, others watched silently. One of them was Rhoda Harper. She had felt a deep affection for this man who had welcomed her into his family. As she watched, something seemed to die within her as Patrick MacNeal breathed his last. She turned away and began weeping bitterly. Hawk rose and walked blindly away with a hardened look on his face.

****

The service for those who were killed was brief. Paul read the First Psalm before the open graves. The bodies wrapped in blankets were lowered, and then Paul said a short prayer. The survivors were led away where they would not have to hear the clods of dirt falling into the open graves.

Elizabeth stayed by her children that day, but at twilight she went back to the grave. She was standing there looking at the raw red mound when she felt as if someone was watching her. Turning, she saw Hawk standing there holding his musket and staring at her, his face impassive.

Elizabeth looked down at her husband’s grave, and for a time silence reigned over the scene. Neither of them said anything, then she turned and said, “Everyone has been so kind.”

Hawk seemed unable to speak, but finally he said in a strained voice, “The train will have to go ahead and get to Bean’s settlement to beat the winter, but I’ll take you and the children back to Williamsburg. We’ll have time for that.”