Over the Misty Mountains

by Gilbert, Morris

  Just as she put the finishing touches on top, the door opened. She looked up to see James enter with a newspaper in his hands.

  “That smells good,” he said with a pleased expression. “What is it?”

  “What do you care? You eat whatever I put before you, and you never taste anything!”

  James laughed and came over and put his arm around Esther’s waist. “That’s because your beauty takes my mind off of what I’m eating.” He kissed her heartily, and she flushed.

  “Will you get away and leave me alone, or I’ll never get this meal ready!” However, as he grinned at her and left to take his seat at the Dutch table, she thought, Not many women my age have a husband who’s kept a little romance in his soul. I hope he never loses it. Aloud she said, “Well, what does the paper say? Nothing good, I suppose.”

  James laid the broadsheet flat on the table, pulled a pair of silver-framed spectacles from his inner pocket, and placed them methodically on his nose. “I don’t expect good news from a newspaper,” he announced. “That’s not news. Politics, floods, wars, murders—that’s what folks want to hear about.”

  “Not me!” Esther said firmly. She put a kettle on the fire and pulled the English tea setting out and sat down while the water was boiling. “What’s the bad news this time?”

  “Well, let’s see. Robert Clive has recaptured Calcutta. That pretty well gives England control of India. He’s quite a fellow, that Clive!” He ran his eyes down the paper and said, “Says here Ben Franklin’s gone to England. He’d like France better.”

  “Why do you say that, James?”

  “Oh, Ben’s quite a ladies’ man. I’d think he’d find the French females more to his taste than those frozen English fillies.”

  “Not in my kitchen, if you please, Mr. Spencer!”

  James laughed aloud and said, “Sorry!” and continued to read the paper. “I see the tide’s beginning to turn against the French. The British have taken the Forts Duquesne, Frontenac, and Louisbourg.”

  “I never understand these things, James. What kind of a war is it, anyway? It has so many names.” The teakettle began to whistle and Esther got up and poured two cups. Coming back to sit down she said, “Why can’t they have just one name for it?”

  James scratched his head thoughtfully. “It is complicated,” he said. “Basically, France and England are fighting to see who will control this continent over here. All of the ruling monarchs have had little wars named after them—King George’s War, Queen Anne’s War, and some call it the French and Indian War. But basically it all boils down to this.” He shook the newspaper out and a grim look clouded his face. “Before it’s all over, everybody in this country will either be speaking French and kissing the pope’s ring—or else we’ll be speaking English and staying Methodists, Episcopalians, and Anglicans.”

  “Here, drink your tea before it gets cold.”

  As they sat there drinking their tea, James tried to explain to Esther what was happening in the war all along the frontier. She had little interest in political matters, and he had almost given up trying to explain the portion that the Indians played. However, he tried again. “There’s an Indian called Attacullaculla,” he said slowly. “He’s nicknamed the Little Carpenter.”

  “Why do they call him that?”

  “Why, because when he works out a treaty he can join the two parties together as easily as a carpenter joins woods.”

  “Is he friendly to the English or to the French?”

  “To the English. He’s about the best hope we’ve got. Look, let me show you something.” He rose, went into his study, and came back with a large map, which he spread out on the plain wood table. “Look. You see right here? This is a new fort called Fort Loudoun. It’s garrisoned by British troops, put there to protect the Cherokees—their women and children, and the old people. And it’s important that we hold it. Look. Here’s a map of it. . . .” He found another sheet of paper, and Esther leaned across the table to stare at the map of the fort. She listened as he explained how it was one of a chain of similar forts along the frontier to safeguard the settlers from attacks. Finally they finished their tea, and James said, “Fort Loudoun is important. If it falls, the Cherokees will lose all confidence in the English. Most of the other tribes hang with the French, anyway.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “Because the French want the Indians to keep their ways. That way they can keep buying their furs, which is all they want. Our people want to settle the land and make farms and towns. When that happens the Indian way of life will disappear.”

  “I’m surprised the Cherokees would be friendly to that idea.”

  “Well, frankly, so am I. If it wasn’t for the Little Carpenter, I think they would have attacked our settlers on the frontier already.”

  ****

  “Well, that’s it. Fort Loudoun.” Hawk shifted the bale of furs on his back and turned to look at his companion.

  Sequatchie was carrying a smaller bundle, and he was staring at the fort that seemed to rise up out of the ground. Then his eyes came back to Hawk, and Sequatchie thought, Two winters ago he couldn’t have carried that much weight, much less walked so softly for so far. Sequatchie felt a fondness for the strong young man. The time that Hawk had spent in the village of the Cherokees had been good for both men. They had made many long journeys together deep into the forest, and Hawk had quickly grown in the knowledge and the ways of the Cherokees.

  Hawk glanced over now and, as if reading his companion’s thoughts, said, “It’s a good thing you found me that day I was on the ground with a bullet hole through my back.” He had not spoken of this all of these months, but now as they moved slowly toward the stockade, he said, “I know Indians don’t like to be thanked very much, but my people like to say that. I owe you a lot, Sequatchie.”

  Sequatchie shook his head. “We are brothers. Someday you may save my life. Until then we will speak of it no more.”

  The two men entered the fort and stopped just inside the gate. It was the first time that either one of them had ever seen the inside of such a place. They stood looking at the perimeter, which was roughly star-shaped. The walls were formed of tall logs, six inches or more in diameter, with the tops sharpened to needlepoints to discourage enemies from climbing over. At various positions there were bastions with cannons pointed out. They stuck out from the walls so that they could sweep the walls themselves of enemies who attempted to scale them. Inside, along the walls, houses had been built—lean-tos, for the most part—which served as dwelling places for those inside the fort. Pigs and chickens roamed about, and in the middle of the structure was a large parade ground that was swept clean. Even now a group of red-coated soldiers was drilling under the direction of a harsh-voiced guard.

  “That looks like the office over there,” Hawk said. “Let’s go see if we can peddle some of these furs we worked so hard for.” Fort Loudoun had become the most convenient place for the Cherokees to come to do their trading. Their enemies, the Chickasaw and the Creek, dared not attack such a strong fort, and so an active trade went on within its walls.

  As they drew near to the building that housed the traders’ supplies and the bales of furs, Hawk suddenly drew up short.

  “What is it, my brother?” Sequatchie asked. His dark eyes traveled in the direction in which his friend was staring. “Do you know that one?”

  “Yes. His name’s Jack Carter. Boone and I had trouble with him back in Williamsburg.”

  “I’ve heard of him. He is a bad one. He cheats the Indians. He sells firewater to them and gives them cheap beads for good furs.”

  “I doubt if he’ll remember me,” Hawk said. He was mistaken, however, for as soon as the two men stepped up, Jack Carter’s eyes flew open wide. He seemed to gasp for breath, and Hawk could not understand why he was so shocked. He remembered well the fight that he had had with Carter at The Brown Stag, and his thoughts went at once to Rhoda Harper. He only said, “Hello, Carter. I didn’t
expect to see you here.”

  Carter seemed to get control of himself. He was wearing what appeared to be the same dirty hunting shirt, and his red and curly whiskers were longer than ever. “Hello, Spencer.”

  “You remember me? I suppose you remember Daniel Boone, too.”

  “I remember both of you. I’m not likely to forget.”

  Hawk studied the man’s face and saw a crafty light had come into the trapper’s eyes. He almost asked about Rhoda, but not wanting to stir up more trouble, he felt that might be unwise. “Come along, Sequatchie. Let’s get rid of these furs.”

  “Wait a minute,” Carter said. “Sell ’em to me. I’ll give you a top price.”

  “Make your offer,” Hawk said. The two men watched as Carter pulled out some cheap beads, poorly made tomahawks, and a pile of shoddy-looking blankets.

  “Is that all you got to offer? I think we’ll look a little further.” Hawk nodded, ignoring the anger in Carter’s face. They moved down the line toward another trader, a Scotsman with red hair and freckles. “You buying furs?”

  “Yes, man, I am. Let me see what you have.” The Scotch burr rang clear in the man’s voice, and when he saw the furs that Sequatchie and Hawk had brought in, he exclaimed, “Why, these are prime! First-rate! Will you have goods or silver?”

  “Silver,” Sequatchie said at once.

  The Scotsman, whose name was McDougal, nodded. “That’s good sense. Might I know your names?”

  “I’m Sequatchie. This is Hawk.”

  “Hawk, that’s your Indian name?”

  “Yes, my English name is Jehoshaphat Spencer.”

  McDougal nodded and offered his hand. “Glad to see you here. I hope we can do more business in the future.”

  Hawk and Sequatchie looked over the goods that were for sale and made some purchases. McDougal had sold them most of them, and Sequatchie whispered once, “This man, he talks like Elmo McGuire. His speech is the same.”

  Hawk nodded. “Both from Scotland,” he said. He turned and asked, “Do you know a man named McGuire?”

  McDougal turned quickly. “I know three McGuires. Which one do you speak of?”

  “Elmo McGuire,” Sequatchie said.

  “Ah, yes. I know the man. He came from my part of the world back in the old country. He was a preacher there. Do ye know him?”

  “He is gone to be with God,” Sequatchie said.

  Sorrow came into McDougal’s eyes. “Too bad. He was a bonny preacher. How did he die?”

  Sequatchie shook his head. “Of sickness,” he said briefly. He hesitated, then said, “He was an honest white man.”

  McDougal smiled suddenly, rather ruefully, and nodded toward Hawk. “Our reputation’s none too good with the Cherokees. I suppose we’ve earned most of it, though.”

  “Not you,” Hawk said at once to McDougal. “You too are an honest man. Have you heard news of the war?”

  “Ah, it’s still the French talking the Indians into making raids along the frontier. Not ten miles from here two families were massacred and their homes burned just last week.”

  “It wasn’t the Cherokee,” Sequatchie said at once.

  “No! They were Creek, I think. They’re in thick with the French.”

  “They’re wrong. The French will lead them astray,” Hawk said.

  The three men spoke for a while, and Hawk noticed that Jack Carter had been eyeing them steadily. “What about that fellow there, McDougal?”

  “Ah, nobody knows about him, but he’s not good for the Indians. Trades them cheap whiskey for good furs.”

  At McDougal’s words, Carter’s countenance turned cold and his eyes narrowed. He did not speak again that day to Hawk or Sequatchie.

  Later that night Carter crept outside of the fort. He made his way silently through the forest. When he was far enough away from the fort, he stopped and made a cry that sounded almost exactly like a hunting owl. Far off in the distance the screech of another owl answered him. Soon he saw a shadowy movement and spoke out in Creek, “It is I, Jacques Cartier.”

  Figures stepped out from behind the trees. Three of them were Indians, and one was a white man. “What ’ave you found out, Cartier?” the man said with a heavy French accent.

  “The fort can be taken. How many soldiers can you get to attack?”

  The French lieutenant studied the face of Cartier and shook his head. “Right now, not enough. But our time, eet will come.”

  Cartier turned to the three Indians and said, “There are two men inside. They will leave the fort. Probably tomorrow. They will have much silver. I will send you word when they leave. Kill them and you can keep the silver they carry for yourselves.”

  “What do they look like?” asked one of the warriors.

  “One is Cherokee. The other is a big white man with black hair, black eyes. Kill them! Plenty of silver to buy whiskey.”

  The Indians all nodded. Two of them were Chickasaws, the other a Creek, all sworn enemies to the Cherokees. “Come, Lieutenant,” Jacques said. “I will show you the trail that leads to the fort. When you lead your forces here, I will come with them. I can get inside the fort anytime. They trust me there. When the attack starts, I will see to it that the gates are open.”

  The lieutenant nodded eagerly. “We must take this fort,” he said. “That would put the Cherokees into our arms. They must believe that the English are powerless. The taking of Fort Loudoun will prove that!”

  ****

  Early the next afternoon, Hawk and Sequatchie were saying their farewells to McDougal. The Scotsman said, “I wish ye wouldn’t go now. There’s been reports of Creeks and Chickasaws in the area, maybe French forces, too. We’ll need every gun if we get attacked here.”

  Hawk looked at the small Scotsman. “I wouldn’t mind staying. What about you, Sequatchie?”

  “No, my people need these supplies. They are hungry after the long winter.” He had bought a horse and loaded it down with sacks of grain and food supplies.

  “I guess I’ll go along with Sequatchie.”

  “Watch your scalp,” McDougal said.

  At that moment, Jacques Cartier stepped outside of the factor’s office. He had been drinking heavily, and he had been thinking of Rhoda Harper. For the two years he had thought Spencer was dead, he had been at peace. Now his mind went back to the brawl they’d had. And now Spencer had snubbed him to buy goods from a filthy Scotsman. He felt the hatred burn within him. He could not handle liquor well, and now he staggered across the parade ground, murderous intent on his face. Hawk did not see him approach. When Cartier lunged forward, Sequatchie simply stepped up and, reversing his tomahawk, struck the trapper between the eyes with the blunt end. Cartier uttered a gasp, his eyes rolled upward, and he fell limply to the ground, the knife he had intended to use on Hawk falling beside him.

  Hawk wheeled and saw what had happened. Reaching down, he picked up the knife and studied the face of the unconscious man, then looked up to Sequatchie. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Why does he hate you so much?” McDougal asked.

  “I think he hates everybody.” Hawk hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward with the knife.

  “You’re not going to—” McDougal gasped, for Hawk had removed the trapper’s fur cap and had grasped his long, thick red hair. “You’re not going to scalp him!”

  “Not really,” Hawk said, smiling grimly. He took the knife, held the thick hair up, and cut it off close to the scalp, without drawing blood. He stuck the red hair inside his belt and looked around at those who had come to watch the scene silently. “Tell this coward that Hawk has his scalp. Tell him I’ll swap it to a squaw for a bowl of stew.”

  McDougal watched them as they left the fort, his eyes on the tall form of the man called Hawk. Then looking down at the unconscious form, he said, “He’ll be like a mad animal when he wakes up. Hawk would have been better off if he’d put a knife in his throat. He’ll have to do it someday, I fear.”

  Chapter Seven

&nb
sp; Encounter at a Stream

  October of 1757 brought a beautiful fall. As Hawk and Sequatchie made their way through the towering trees, Hawk remarked, “Somehow, I always liked autumn the best, even though there’s always something of death in it.” He looked up at the garish colors of the season—the reds, yellows, and oranges—colored the forest, and he became more philosophical than was his usual manner. “I guess there has to be death or there wouldn’t be life,” he murmured. “Every year autumn comes, and then winter, and everything seems to be all over. The ground’s hard and frozen, and the trees look dead. Nothing but dead grass, but then spring comes, and new green shoots begin to break their way through the hard ground. The trees sprout their new growth, and the first thing you know the earth’s all renewed again.”

  Sequatchie, who was plodding along beside Hawk leading one of the pack animals, nodded and said, “That’s the way it’s always been. Death and life. Does the Book say anything about that?”

  Hawk was accustomed to the Indian asking him questions about the Bible. He had read the Bible through more than once during the two years he had been with the Cherokee, and now a verse came to him. “The Lord kills and the Lord makes alive. I guess this is His world,” he remarked, looking at the white clouds scudding across the blue skies overhead.

  Hawk was silent for a long time, and Sequatchie knew that his white friend was thinking of the things in the Book, as Sequatchie called it. He had an instinctive knowledge that Hawk was a man who was deeply unhappy and dissatisfied. Once he had said to his mother, Awenasa, “My brother Hawk is a man who wanders lost. He has learned to find his way through the woods—but he has not found his way as a man.”

  Awenasa had agreed at once. “He needs a squaw and sons, and little ones about him. No man is complete without that.” She had given Sequatchie a reproachful look, for it was a constant argument between the two about Sequatchie’s own lack of a wife. He had been married once, but his wife had been killed in a raid by the Creeks, and he had never spoken of taking another wife. He had looked at his mother, knowing what was in her thoughts. Ignoring her hints about his own marital status, he said, “Hawk was married. He did have a squaw.”