Over the Misty Mountains (6 page)

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.

“Come in.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

His father was there almost instantly. “Your mother said come in, Josh!” James Spencer’s voice was harsh, but there was pain in his eyes. “We’ve got to talk before you leave.”

Josh hesitated, then put his bundle down out in the hall and stepped inside the bedroom.

James stood watching his son, and a sense of hopelessness swept through him. However, he felt he had to try. “Son, this is a foolish thing you’re doing,” he said.

“That may be, Pa. But I have to do it! I’ve got to get away!”

“Why do you have to go now?” Esther Spencer came to stand beside her tall son. She was not a tall woman, and she had to turn her head upward to look into his face. Her tone was pleading, and with something close to a mixture of pity and worry in her voice, she said, “You’ve got a family here, Josh. You’ve got a son to raise.”

He could not meet his mother’s eyes or his father’s stern gaze. Quickly he glanced over at the cradle where the baby lay sleeping quietly. Suddenly he felt an impulse to go over, look down, and even pick the child up. He knew that was the right thing to do.

Josh was not a hardhearted young man. On the contrary, he was gentle and compassionate to those less fortunate than he. But the death of his wife had snuffed something out in him. It was as if a candle had been burning brightly, and then suddenly a snuffer had closed over it so that nothing was left but a smoldering, evil-smelling wick. He hated what he had become, but each time the dark cloud of despair and hopelessness settled on him, he had found it easier to run to the tavern and drink it all away than to face it.

Quickly he shook his head. “You’ll be a better mother and father to him than I’d be. Right now I just can’t think straight.” He saw the hopelessness on his parents’ faces and quickly added, “I’m just going out to see what the country looks like west of here. Maybe I’ll do some trapping or just wander around for a spell.” When he saw a lack of comprehension in their faces, he said, “I can’t explain it, but I need some time alone.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I . . . can’t say, Ma.”

The three of them stood there, and a silence fell across the room. The feeble rays of the sun slanted downward on the patterned carpet beneath their feet, and millions of tiny dust motes danced in the bars of golden light. The slow, monotonous ticking of the Seth Thomas clock on the mantel was the only sound in the room for a time, and then suddenly the baby, as if startled by the silence, awoke and began to cry.

“Don’t you even want to hold your son once, Josh?”

Josh glanced quickly at his mother. Again the impulse came to go over and hold the tiny bundle. He knew that, even as little as he had seen the child, he would remind him of Faith, and this, perhaps, was what stopped him. He could not bear the thought of another reminder of the great love that had been torn away from him. “No! It would just make going harder! Maybe when I work through this, and he’s older, I’ll be able to handle it.”

“I think you’re going against God’s will,” James said firmly.

A hardness came over his face, and he looked at his father and said, “Pa, don’t try to talk to me about God. If God’s so good, why did He take Faith away from me?”

“Wiser men than you or I have pondered such questions,” James Spencer said. “We’re living in an evil world, and I can’t explain it. Job struggled with it. Why did evil things happen to him when he had done nothing wrong? The only answer is the verse that says, ‘Shall not the judge of all the earth do right?’”

“Do right? You think it was right for Faith to die?” Josh snapped bitterly.

“I think this world is full of evil, son. But one day it will all be taken away.”

“Well, I can’t wait for that!” Josh said harshly, then immediately was sorry, for he saw his mother’s face become contorted, and he knew she was fighting to keep the tears back. Awkwardly he reached out, put his arms around her, and held her close. He kissed her cheek, felt the wetness of the tears, and whispered, “I might be back, Ma, and maybe things will change.” He released her quickly, put his hand out, and when his father took it, he squeezed it hard. Swallowing convulsively, he said to both of them, “Try not to think too hard of me.” Then he turned and left the room as quickly as possible.

When the outer door slammed, Esther said, “He’s gone, James.”

James walked over to his wife and put his arms around her. “We’ll have to trust God. We’ve tried our best to raise Josh, and you know the promise. You raise up a child in the way that is right, and when he is old he will not depart from it. We’ll have to hang on to that.”

“There’s another one, too. I came across it just last night. Let me show it to you.” Releasing herself from James’ embrace, Esther walked over and picked up the Bible that lay on the rosewood table beside the bed. It was open, and she said, “Here. Read this one.”

James Spencer took the Bible and read the lines that Esther had marked with a thin spidery line. Aloud he read, “All thy children shall be taught of the Lord.” Tears came to his eyes, and he whispered, “It’s hard to believe, but we’ll have to trust God. His promises never fail, do they, sweetheart?”

“No, they never do.” Esther turned, went to the cradle, and picked up the baby. She held him tightly, and he stopped crying at once. “Jacob,” she whispered, “you’re going to grow up to be a fine man. And someday your father will come back to teach you how.”

The large dark eyes of the child studied her thoughtfully, then without preamble a gurgle came, and the infant seemed to smile.

“Look at him! He’s laughing!”

James leaned forward, studied the baby’s face, then reached out and traced the silky cheek. “By gum, I think he is! He looks like Josh, doesn’t he?”

“Except the nose. He has his mother’s nose.”

“There’s some of both of them,” James nodded. “You know, as long as this baby’s alive, there’s something of Faith alive, too. That’s the way it is with children. They’re the heritage of the Lord.”

The two stood there, looking down at their grandson. Their thoughts were with their son, who was running from his pain and his responsibility of being a father—and his Lord. Inside, both of them were praying the same silent prayer.
Lord, teach him—and then bring him back home again
.

****

Anderson’s General Store stood out both by its size and ornate design from the other businesses on the main street of Williamsburg. Silas Anderson, Paul’s father, was a man astute in catching the winds of business. Before designing his own, he had visited several large stores in Boston and New York. As Josh entered the establishment, his ears filled with the hum of many voices, for the inside of the store was almost cavernous. Merchandise of all kinds was stacked and neatly organized in sections, and everything from French lace curtains to plows and fancy harnesses were available.

At once Josh was greeted by Paul Anderson, who had seen him enter through the front door. Anderson was wearing a black wool frock coat with a pair of matching knee britches and white stockings. The brass buckles on his shoes glistened, and the cravat that rose high around his throat was of a pristine whiteness.

“Josh! It’s good to see you!” he said. He stopped abruptly when he saw the coat Josh had on and asked, “Are you going hunting?”

“Let me talk to you privately, Paul.”

“Why, of course. Come over here.” Josh’s friend led the way to a deserted section of the store that dealt primarily in blacksmithing supplies. “How’s Jacob?”

A slight hesitation broke Josh’s speech, which told Anderson a good deal. He had spoken with James and Esther Spencer often, and he was aware of Josh’s reluctance to enter into his responsibilities as a father. Now he saw the rather adamant cast of Josh Spencer’s tanned features and knew that nothing had changed.

“He’s fine. A healthy child.” The words were short and clipped, and at once Josh changed the subject, saying, “I’m leaving Williamsburg, Paul.”

“Leaving? Going on a hunting trip?”

“Yes, a long one. Maybe all the way over the mountains.”

Paul Anderson was speechless for a moment. He ran his hand through his sandy brown hair, which was clubbed in back, and a stubborn expression clouded his light green eyes. “It’s a bad time for you to be leaving,” he said simply. “I know you’ve had a hard time since losing Faith, but—”

“I didn’t come here to discuss anything, Paul!”

The terseness of Josh’s words stopped Anderson short. Paul was a rather stubborn young man himself, but he had good insight into people. He saw now that Josh was waiting for him to argue, and he knew that it would be useless. “Well,” he said tentatively, rubbing his short nose with a forefinger, “maybe it’ll be good for you to get away from things for a while.”

“I want to pick up a few more things.”

“Of course, Josh. What do you need?”

For the next thirty minutes, Josh carefully looked over the stock of items, picking things carefully, for he knew that he would have to carry all of the equipment he would need on his horse. Finally his eyes lit up, and he said, “I want one of those, Paul.”

Anderson looked over quickly and smiled. “A coonskin cap! Tail and all!” Picking it up, he said, “See if it’ll fit you. It’s the only one we’ve got.”

Josh took the cap, which was lined with heavy silk, and clapped it on his head. “Perfect fit,” he said, grinning. He turned his head from one side to the other, feeling the tail brush across his shoulders. “Well, I look like a long hunter, even if I’m not one.”
Long hunter
was the name being given to those men who left the East and plunged into the dark and unknown recesses of the western lands past the Appalachians. Men like Daniel Boone.

“Add it all up, Paul.”

Paul shook his head. “Nope. It’s a going-away present from me.”

A moment’s silence fell, and then Josh smiled. “Why . . . thanks, Paul.” He hesitated, then added, “I know you think I’m crazy, or worse.”

“No. Just a bit confused. We all get that way sometimes, and you’ve had about the roughest blow a man could get.” Paul Anderson had a great affection for Josh Spencer. The two of them had spent most of their lives together, and though they were far different in temperament and inclinations, there was still a bond between them that was not easily broken. As he wrapped up the purchases Josh had selected, he said quietly, “You’ll be back.”

Josh took the package, then lifted his eyes to his friend. “I just don’t know, Paul.”

“You will be. Your parents are praying for you, and you can depend on my prayers, too.”

Josh considered Paul’s words for one moment, then he shook his head and appeared to put the whole thing out of his mind. He reached forward suddenly and grabbed the smaller man and gave him a hug. “I’ll think about you when I’m out, hiding from the Indians and the bears.” Then he turned quickly, as if he was afraid he would say too much, and left the store.

Standing still, Anderson watched him go, and a regretful look touched his countenance. Once again he rubbed the bridge of his short nose with his forefinger, and a long thought came to him about the ways of God and man. He was not a theologian, and yet suddenly he knew that the fate of Josh Spencer was somehow tied up with his own life. He thought of the baby—the innocent child, the victim of the tragedy—and said a quick prayer for him, then for the grandparents, and finally for Josh himself.

****

The bitter cold numbed Rhoda Harper’s fingers. She stuck them into the muff that she carried to warm them. Her face felt stiff. She had walked aimlessly for over an hour down the main business street of Williamsburg, looking in the windows. Once she went into a dress shop and looked at the items of clothing. She had been well aware of the proprietor’s disapproval. The owner was a tall lemon-faced woman with a pair of muddy brown eyes set too close together. Her words had been like bait in a trap when she had asked, “Yes? What is it?”