Over the Misty Mountains

by Gilbert, Morris

  The Spirit of Appalachia, Book 1

  Over the Misty Mountains

  Gilbert Morris and Aaron McCarver

  © 1997 by Gilbert Morris and Aaron McCarver

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopying, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6232-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Cover by Dan Thornberg

  Dedication

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my parents, Jessie Lee and Jean McCarver.

  To my dad for all the things you did to ensure that my sisters and I would have a life just a little bit better than you did, for all the extra hours and the many Saturdays spent working. They were noticed and greatly appreciated. Thanks also for pushing us to get all the education we could and for supporting me in a decision that looked questionable at the time because of what it would cost, but look where it led! I especially thank you for making sure that we all attended church “every time the doors were open.”

  To my mom for always being there for a son that she understands better than anyone. I appreciate what you quietly took from others when you decided from the beginning that my sisters and I were more important than the things that money can buy. (I still would rather have you at home with me, waiting at the door with a kiss when I got home from school—as you still do!) But I especially remember you reading the Bible to us and praying with us each night. It was your love and strength that made our house a home.

  Thank you, Mama and Daddy, for giving me a Christian home and for teaching me that the only thing in this life that really matters is having a relationship with our heavenly Father. To Him be all the glory, honor, and praise! This book and any blessings it may give belong to the One who made it all possible!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Character List

  Part I: Hawk

  1. A Loss of Faith

  2. Incident at The Brown Stag

  3. Unto the Hills

  4. Cry of a Hawk

  5. Sequatchie

  6. Trouble at Fort Loudoun

  7. Encounter at a Stream

  8. The Cherokee War

  Part II: Elizabeth

  9. The Martins of Beacon Street

  10. Patrick MacNeal

  11. Charlotte Van Dorn

  12. Dreams of a New Life

  13. Discovery in the Library

  14. Conspiracy Unveiled

  15. A Mended Heart

  16. Appalachian Destiny

  Part III: Westward Journey

  17. Watauga

  18. Hawk’s Son

  19. The Journey Begins

  20. Sabotage!

  21. Amanda

  22. Through Storm and Flood

  23. Living Water

  24. Another Loss

  Part IV: As The Deer

  25. New Homes, New Lives

  26. The Settlers of Appalachia

  27. A Frontier Christmas

  28. Spring Returns

  29. The Regulators

  30. Hawk and Elizabeth

  31. Rhoda and the Preacher

  32. Mercy and Grace

  33. Jacques Cartier

  34. Never Thirst Again

  Notes to Our Readers

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Character List

  In the eighteenth century, America’s first pioneers left their homes and families and ventured beyond the seaboard colonies. With nothing but their faith and their dreams to sustain them, they struggled to carve out new lives on the rugged frontier . . . Over the Misty Mountains.

  Jehoshaphat “Hawk” Spencer—Devastated by tragedy, he leaves his home in Williamsburg and travels over the Appalachian Mountains to lose himself in the wilderness.

  Elizabeth Martin MacNeal—Daughter of the Martins, a prominent family in Boston, Elizabeth gives up a life of wealth to follow her husband’s dream.

  Patrick MacNeal—A Scottish immigrant, he came to the American Colonies with a dream of one day owning his own land.

  Sequatchie—A Cherokee Indian chief who knows the true Way. He has prayed many years for someone to come to his people to read the Word.

  Paul Anderson—A lifelong friend of Jehoshaphat Spencer, he is led to carry God’s message of salvation over the mountains to the Cherokees.

  Rhoda Harper—A beautiful woman caught up in a horrible life working in a tavern, she looks for a way of escape.

  Jacques Cartier—Driven by his hatred for Hawk Spencer, the Frenchman follows a path of destruction that could engulf them all.

  Part I

  Hawk

  November 1755-October 1761

  Lo, then would I wander far off,

  and remain in the wilderness.

  Psalm 55:7

  Chapter One

  A Loss of Faith

  A rough, tearing wind ripped through Williamsburg during the night. Powerful gusts tore down shutters and rattled the windowpanes so hard that the inhabitants feared the glass would shatter into a thousand shards. Overhead, huge ominous-looking clouds descended upon the small city like a mantle of doom. Even as the gusty torrents of cold rain pelted slantwise into the buildings and across the terrain, sharp forked whips of lightning reached down from the ebony heavens and scratched across the roofs of the drenched houses. Loose bricks from chimneys were dislodged, shakes and shingles were ignited by touches of lightning, and then went out with a hissing as the driving rain poured down from heaven like a second deluge.

  The Spencer house stood up boldly to the artillery of thunder and the crackling of silvery lightning, for it was a well-built house, designed specifically to withstand harsh weather. An oversized structure, it had a steeply pitched roof with five gables that shed the rain that ran down in torrents. Tall, narrow windows painted pale yellow stood out like jaundiced apparitions in the darkness of the night, and the extremely high, ornamented chimney looked like a soldier rigidly holding himself at attention. It was a red two-story house in the Federal style with windows evenly spaced, and in the front a double-paneled door stood firmly shut and bolted against the rampages of the weather. It might have been a country house, except it was built in the center of Williamsburg, which somehow gave the impression of its being slightly out of place.

  Although the hour was long past midnight on November twenty-fifth, flickering yellow reflections from whale oil lamps illuminated the windows on the first floor. To the right of the entrance itself was the largest of the rooms, a rather ornate study, most unusual for the year 1755. The walls were lined with walnut bookcases, their rich grain catching the gleam of bayberry candles that guttered in sconces along their lengths. A cherrywood desk dominated the room, the top littered with books, maps, papers of various kinds, giving the appearance of a busy office rather than a private study. The fireplace crackled with the cheerful sound of poplar logs as they sizzled.

  Two men sat opposite each other, one at the desk, his fingers drumming on the polished surface; the other sat rigidly upr
ight, staring blankly at the rows of leather-bound books that lined the walls. The man behind the large desk was James Spencer. At the age of forty-five, he possessed the same general looks of the young man sitting across from him. Though streaks of gray lined his hair, he scorned the wigs so treasured by many of his countrymen and fellow citizens. He was heavy in the middle, and an air of authority and aggressiveness lined his stern face and showed in the firm actions of his body whenever he moved.

  James Spencer leaned back now in his chair, his attention momentarily diverted by a blinding flash of lightning that illuminated the garden trees more brilliantly than any sun-filled day. He waited for the crash of thunder, and when it came, his eyes closed slightly and he shook his head. “We haven’t had a storm like this all year,” he murmured. When he received no answer, he leaned forward, picked up a quill, and stroked it with his left forefinger. “It hasn’t been a bad year for storms,” he remarked, not expecting any answer. He studied the face of his son, then said abruptly, “Don’t worry, Josh, she’ll be all right.”

  A strange, harsh expression flickered across the face of the young man who sat in the stiff Windsor chair. He sat with his feet planted flatly on the floor, his hands clasping his thighs almost as if he were prepared to leap to his feet and jump into action. Jehoshaphat Spencer was twenty years old, an even six feet, and a clean one hundred and eighty pounds of lean strong muscle. Thick jet black hair covered his head almost like a cap, with a slight wave that allowed a lock to fall around his broad forehead. He lifted his dark blue eyes to his father, and there was a blackness in them, almost as brooding as the night outside. His eyes were shaded by long thick lashes, and there was a firmness and a compactness in the man that spoke of years of hard labor. He had a dark-complected square face, a strong chin with a cleft, and a straight English nose. He was a handsome man, though not apparently aware of it.

  “It’s taking too long,” he said tersely.

  Quickly James Spencer looked over the desk and sensed what lay beneath the iron control of his son’s face. Josh’s nerves were as tight as a violin string and ready to snap. “It was the same when you were born,” he murmured. Hoping to be encouraging, he tossed the plume down, adding, “It will be all right.” They were useless, meaningless words, for when a child was born in the Colonies in 1755, there were no guarantees. Childbirth was a hard, difficult, dangerous thing, and many homes were filled with children who had never known their mother, having lost her in childbirth.

  “It’s taking too long!” Josh grated. “She should’ve had the baby by now!”

  Spencer, knowing this was nothing but the exact truth, still tried to reassure Josh. He knew that both Faith, his daughter-in-law, and Josh had never been able to bury their fear about this child, as Faith had miscarried two times before. A grimness came to James Spencer’s mouth, and desperately he searched his mind, trying to think of some way to comfort his son. James and his wife, Esther, had talked this over many times. Esther had said only the night before, “Josh’s faith isn’t very strong, James. If anything happened to this child, I’m afraid it would go ill with him. He might lose all of his faith in God.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” James had assured her. However, he had disguised his own fears, and now looking at his son, James sought desperately for some way to put a better face on the matter.

  Without any idea as to what to say, he suddenly reached over and picked up a thick Bible that lay close at hand. He opened it and began to read from the book of Psalms. It had always been his favorite book, and whenever he found trouble overwhelming him, he would open it to this section. Now the timeless words of comfort began to roll off his lips, and he lost himself in their meaning.

  Josh listened for a moment, then got up and walked over to the window. The drone of his father’s voice went on and on, and soon the very meaning of the words themselves became blurred. He had heard the Bible all of his life—from the pulpit, from his father, from his mother. He had even read it himself, but now the fear of the loss of another child that he longed for so desperately loomed up inside him like a dark specter. It sickened him, almost nauseated him, and yet he knew that he could not show his father the struggle raging within him.

  Outside, the rain fell in long, slanting silver lines, illuminated by brief lightning flashes. The raindrops made a monotonous drone as they hit the shingle roof, then fell off to the puddles below. There was a soporific effect about it that would have made him drowsy if the fear had not driven him to distraction. The lightning crashed again, blinding him momentarily. He shut his eyes, and as he did so, his mind went back to the first time he had met Faith Hancock. . . .

  ****

  The girl standing in the school yard was small and overly shy. Josh, who was not very good at guessing ages, asked, “How old are you? Ten, I’ll be bound.”

  “I’m twelve.”

  The girl’s face was pretty, but her clothes and hair were plain looking. From the first day she had come to school in Williamsburg, Josh had watched her carefully. He was bothered by how the other students made fun of the way she dressed. She was wearing a shapeless linsey-woolsey dress of gray that had no trace of beauty. Her hair was drawn back tightly, and she wore an equally shapeless white cap on her head. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes, and there was a frailty and vulnerability about her that attracted Josh Spencer.

  Even as he stood talking to her, Malon Jones came up and said, “Got yourself a lady friend, Spence?”

  “We’re doing all right without you, Malon,” Josh said sharply. He did not like the heavyset, bug-eyed boy. He had had trouble with the bully on several occasions.

  Malon reached over and grabbed the material of the girl’s dress. “What’s this made out of, a cotton sack? Well, I wouldn’t even use it for that.”

  “Take your hands off of her, Malon!” Jehoshaphat said sharply. The other boy was two years older, stocky, and had administered two severe beatings to Josh already.

  Now Malon grinned roughly, a cruel light glinting in his muddy brown eyes. “You ready for another thrashing?”

  “You can try it if you want to!”

  “Come on then! Outside!”

  The two went outside and soon were rolling in the dust, gasping and throwing blows at each other. Only when they had battered each other into insensibility did the schoolmaster come out. He grasped them each by the collar, yanked them up, and said, “Fighting again? Maybe a caning will make a difference to you!”

  Josh did not wince even once under the strict punishment administered by Mr. Highliger. Malon squealed loudly as the cane repeatedly struck, but Josh uttered not a word.

  Afterward he sat down, his back burning from the strokes of the hickory cane. His lower lip was bleeding where he had bitten it during the thrashing, but he said nothing. After the school day was over, he slowly got to his feet and walked out of the room, moving carefully.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry you had to take a whipping.”

  Josh turned around and saw that the girl had followed him. Her name, he knew, was Faith Hancock, and he shrugged, saying, “It wasn’t so bad.”

  “I bet it was. I bet it hurt like anything.”

  The two turned and walked down the dusty street. The August heat was dying down now, and as they walked along Josh began to grow curious about the young girl. “Who are your people?” he asked. Williamsburg was a small place, and he knew almost everyone who lived there.

  “I . . . I don’t have any people. I’m an orphan,” she said, looking down.

  Josh had known a few orphans before, but somehow the sadness in the girl’s voice struck him. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “What about your people?”

  “I’m a Spencer. My father’s name is James, and my mother’s name is Esther.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. Just me.”

  The two walked on, and finally she stopped in front of a cobbler’s establishment. “I’m staying here with the Ma
yhans. I’m going to be bound to them for six years, until I’m eighteen.”

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again. I don’t mean at school.” Josh suddenly felt shy and awkward. He was not good at making conversation with girls. Most of the time he felt clumsy and uncertain around them, but when the young girl lifted her eyes and smiled, a shock went through him. There was a gentleness and a sweetness in her face that he had not seen before.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Faith hesitated and then suddenly reached out and, with a rather daring motion, took Josh’s hand. When she leaned forward her voice was almost inaudible. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

  The touch of her hand was gentle and soft and gave Jehoshaphat Spencer a feeling of pride and power. Clearing his throat, he said huskily, “Oh, that’s okay! I’ll see you tomorrow, Faith.”

  “Tomorrow, Josh . . .”

  ****

  “Esther—!”

  Josh’s reminiscences were broken off abruptly when he heard his father call his mother’s name. Instantly, he sprang out of his chair and turned to face the woman who had come into the room. “How is she, Mother?” he demanded.

  Esther Spencer was only two years younger than her husband. She was a small woman with brown hair and clear brown eyes. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but now there was an air of trouble in her usually placid expression. Something in her eyes, in the set of her lips, or perhaps in the way she held her hands together tightly, brought a surge of fear into Josh’s heart. “Is it bad?” he demanded, rising and grabbing her arm quickly. He was a strong young man, not knowing his own strength, and he saw pain flicker in his mother’s eyes. “Sorry,” he whispered, then stood there waiting for her report.

  “Dr. Twilliger isn’t as happy with her progress as he would like,” she said evenly.

  “I wish Dr. Hammond were here,” James Spencer said. He rose and moved jerkily across the room. There was no smoothness about his movements. All were quick and rather awkward. He slapped one fist into a palm and shook his head, almost viciously. “Why did Hammond have to choose this time to go to Richmond for that meeting?”