Over the Misty Mountains (4 page)

But all that was in the past, before her father had deserted the family, leaving a frail and sickly mother and a houseful of children to fend for themselves. Rhoda Harper had struggled vainly to keep the family together, but it had been a hopeless task. She had been honest at first and kept herself from the advances of men. The endless struggle finally wore her down, and then bitterness had come, along with a sense of futility. She had gone the way of so many young girls—which explained her position at
The Brown Stag
.

“I’m gonna take him home.”

Dutch stared at the girl, mystified as he had sometimes been by what lay within her. He had led a hard life, and his opinion of women was not high. Nevertheless, he had formed a grudging respect for the girl. At one time he had considered taking her for his own woman, not as a wife, for he had two of those somewhere, perhaps dead, but he had been educated by them to the extent that he wanted no permanent attachments.

“A funny way for you,” he commented only. Then he stood there and watched as Rhoda went over, pulled a brown, worn cloak from a nail, put it about her shoulders, and pulled the hood up over her head.

“Come along, Mr. Spencer. Time to go home.”

Josh heard the voice, but it seemed to come from far away. He looked up blearily and tried to focus his eyes, but all he could see was a woman’s face. Dimly he seemed to remember a tavern girl had been filling his glass and bringing him fresh liquor, but she meant nothing to him. All he could think of was:
My wife is dead . . . !

“No, not . . . goin’ home!”

“Come along.”

Josh felt his arm pulled, and he angrily pushed away. “Get away! Leave me alone!”

Rhoda stood there, staring down at the man. Memories came back, trooping across her mind like faint specters—how in another life he had been kind to her. She had heard of his marriage, but she had never seen him since those early days. Now, she realized that whatever had brought him to this place, to drink himself into oblivion, was more than he could handle. Silently she watched him for a moment, then finally murmured, “All right,” then turned and walked away.

Josh watched her go, blinking to clear his eyes. Something came to him, and then he felt shame. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he muttered. He half rose to go apologize, but the room seemed to swim. He tried to hold himself upright, but suddenly he became terribly sick. He lost his balance, grabbing wildly at the table and overturning it. The bottle crashed and broke, and he heard a male voice curse loudly. Strong hands reached under his arms, and he felt hands moving through his pockets.

“I’ll take what you owe me, but I don’t need you in the place anymore. You want a room, or you want me to help you out?”

Josh desperately tried to keep his churning stomach from rejecting the raw liquor that he had poured into it. Shaking his head, he blinked at the innkeeper, then grabbed his hat and pulled it over his head. Weaving as he moved, he headed for the door. As he stepped outside, he heard a woman’s voice say, “Good-bye, Josh—” And then he was outside in the darkness. He turned blindly into the wind, hoping it would clear his head, but as he made his way along the streets of Williamsburg, he knew that he had lost that which could never be restored.

“Faith!” he moaned. “Why did you have to die?”

A bolt of lightning etched its way across the sky and lit up the tormented face of Josh Spencer as he reeled and staggered along the cobblestone streets.

****

Awkwardly Paul Anderson held the red-faced infant and smiled down into his face. Seeming to take this personally, the baby opened a wide mouth, exposing a fine set of gums, and rent the air with a loud scream.

Anderson blinked with shock. He was a young man of twenty, thin and wiry in build, and no more than five feet ten inches. Ordinarily there was a smile on his face, but the shrill screams of the child shattered his composure.

“What’s wrong with him, Mrs. Spencer?”

Esther Spencer had been watching the young man after handing him the baby. “Why, nothing, Paul. He’s just exercising his lungs.”

Anderson gave her a look of surprise, then turned his light green eyes back on the infant. “He might make a shouting Methodist one day. He’s got a good start on it.”

“Let me have him, Paul.” Esther reached over and took the baby, who stopped crying instantly. She cuddled him with a loving motion, traced the ruddy cheeks, then whispered, “He’s a fine child. I never saw a healthier baby.”

James Spencer had been standing to one side, staring out the window. He turned now and came over to stand beside the pair, looking down with them at the baby. “Jacob Spencer,” he murmured. “My first grandson.” There was pride in the older man’s tone—still, his eyes were troubled, and when he reached out and touched the fine dark hair on the baby’s head, he shook his head slightly. He started to speak, then pulled his lips tightly together.

Anderson had caught this motion, and his eyes went to Esther, who shook her head slightly as if to warn him not to speak. However, Paul Anderson was not a man to stay silent long. After a few moments of commenting on the baby, he asked, “Josh isn’t here?”

“No.” The monosyllable from James Spencer and the sharpness of the tone revealed the turmoil that was going on in the older man. “He hasn’t been back since . . . since the funeral.” Anger crossed his face, sweeping it momentarily, giving it a hard cast. “I’m surprised he even came for that!”

Esther reached over and put her hand on her husband’s arm. “We must be patient, James.”

“Patient? I think we’ve been patient long enough! It’s been two weeks since Faith died! Where is he? Probably down at the tavern, drunk again!”

“That doesn’t sound like Josh,” Anderson said quickly.

“He’s not the same man that you knew, Paul!” James said bitterly. “I never thought I’d be ashamed of my son, but he’s not taking Faith’s death right. He’s got to learn to live with grief, as all of us do. I wish he would draw on the Lord for strength, but he seems to blame the One who could help him the most. Why, he acts as if he’s the only man in the world who ever lost a wife! It’s common enough, and he’s got to learn to deal with it.”

“Aye, it is common,” Anderson said, “but Josh was so much in love with Faith. I guess it was harder for him than for most men.”

“I can’t see that!” James Spencer said stubbornly. “He’s turning his back on God and everything he has believed in.” He ran his hand through his hair and moved restlessly back to a window, staring outside. The bitter winter had struck in earnest now, and snow drifted down in flakes as big as shillings. Williamsburg was an attractive town, and the coating of snow gave it a pristine appearance, something of a fairyland look. The streets were glistening with a soft mantle of white, and many had put runners on their wagons and carriages, and bells on their horses so that there was almost a festive look to the city. None of this held any charm for James Spencer, however, as he stared, glowering out at the whiteness of the streets and the houses that were peaked with small castlelike pyramids on the chimneys. Smoke came out of most of them now, curling slightly upward, and the town seemed at rest.

Esther rocked the baby in her arms and began to feed him with a cloth which she dipped in rich goat’s milk that she had obtained from one of the neighbors. The baby sucked it lustily with his tiny fists clenched together as Esther crooned to him for a while, saying those sweet nothings.

Paul leaned back in the Hepplewhite chair, balancing on the back legs, watching as Esther fed the child. His mind, however, was on Josh Spencer. The two of them had grown up together and had gotten into the usual troubles of young men. They had courted the young women of Williamsburg, attended church together, hunted together, and now that tragedy had struck his friend, Paul Anderson felt a sense of helplessness.

If I’m going to be a minister
, he thought almost angrily,
I’ve got to learn how to handle crises better than this!
He thought of his father and his three brothers, all of them given over to running what was rapidly becoming the most successful business in Williamsburg. They had branched out from one store to three, and now they were talking of opening another in Savannah. Paul had learned early on that he had no aptitude, nor inclination, for business.

His parents had not been disappointed, however, by his decision. “It would be good to have a minister in the family,” Paul’s father had said fondly when his younger son had announced his call to the ministry. He had been less happy when Paul had spoken of his interest in someday going as a missionary to the Cherokee Indians.

The Cherokee Indians were not popular in the Colonies in the year 1755. The savage forays of the Indians against the settlers along the borders of the Colonies infuriated as well as terrified the colonists. Paul Anderson’s announcement that someday he would be a missionary to preach the gospel to the Cherokee had not been popular with his family—nor with anyone else.

As if reading his mind, Esther Spencer said, “Are you still thinking of going to preach to the Indians?”

“Yes, I am, Mrs. Spencer. God’s put it on my heart, although I don’t know when He’ll open the door for me to go.”

“They have their own gods, don’t they?” James Spencer said.

“They don’t have the true God,” Paul answered softly. “They need Jesus Christ as much as you or I.”

“I suppose so!” James snapped. He ordinarily was a kind man, but his son’s behavior of late had left him ill-tempered, and he could not see the future as being pleasant. He came over and stared down in the face of his grandson and said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with Josh.” He shifted his glance to the young man sitting in front of him and said, “Will you try to talk to him, Paul? You two always got along well.”

“Yes, of course I will. I thought I’d find him here.”

“You’ll probably find him down at
The Brown Stag
. He’s carrying on there, I think, with some woman.”

“You don’t know that, James!”

“Why else would a man take a room at a tavern and stay away from his family and his newborn son?”

“I think he’s lost, and he doesn’t know what to do,” Esther said.

“You always defend him! You always do!” However, Spencer’s tone gentled, and he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “And that’s as it should be. I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to be strict, but I’m worried about him.”

Paul Anderson got to his feet and said at once, “I’ll go find him, and I’ll promise you this—I’ll stay with him and try to keep him out of what trouble I can. He’s a stubborn one, though.” He frowned. “You know that better than I.”

“Do the best you can, Paul. He’s always thought a lot of you.”

“Of course. You stay here and pray—and take care of this fine young fella—while I go see what I can do with his father. . . .”

****

Josh looked up at the man who had entered, and his eyes brightened at once. “Paul,” he said, smiling. “Come and sit down. I want you to meet somebody.”

Paul Anderson was relieved. He had expected Josh to be drunk and belligerent. Now, as he squinted his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the murky atmosphere of the tavern, he said quickly, “Hello, Josh, good to see you.” He took the hand the other man extended, felt the strength of his grip, then took a seat at the table.
He’s been drinking some
, he thought,
but it’s not as bad as I thought
.

“This is Daniel Boone, Paul. Boone, this is a good friend of mine, Paul Anderson.”

Boone was not a large man, but there was something compelling about him. His face was clean cut, Paul saw, his eyes were bright, and his nose was slightly bent. He wore a hunting shirt of fringed deerskin, and there was an alertness about him that was lacking in most men.

“I’m glad to know you, Mr. Boone. Are you from these parts?”

“No, I’m from Carolina.”

“He just got back from the frontier, Paul. He was involved with Braddock’s campaign against the French at Fort Duquesne.”

“On the Monongahela?” Paul asked quickly.

“Yes,” Boone said. There was a glass in front of him, but the drink did not seem to contain alcohol. He lifted it and said, “This is good cider, Mr. Anderson. Better try some of it.”

“Thanks, I will.” Paul looked up and waved at the girl, who came over at once. She was an attractive woman, but with a hard look about her. She seemed remotely familiar to Paul, but when he couldn’t place her face, he just shrugged and asked, “Could I have some of the cider that this gentleman has?” He waited until the girl brought him some, filled his glass, then he tasted it. “That’s good.” He leaned forward and said, “We’ve heard a lot about the battle, but I hear different stories.”

Boone sipped the cider and shook his head. “’Twas a mess,” he said simply. “Braddock never should have gone there in the first place.”

“I heard George Washington was in the battle. Is that right?”

“He was there, all right, but he’d been pretty sick. He got out of a wagon when the fightin’ started,” Boone said.

“I can’t understand how British regulars could lose against savages. There weren’t many French regulars there, were there?”

“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.”