Over the Misty Mountains

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I would like to see that place again,” Sequatchie said. “I grew up there as a boy. My father taught me many things there.”

  “I’m headin’ that way to meet the other hunters,” Boone said. “Why don’t you two tag along? It’d pleasure me to have your company.”

  “Well, we’ve got plenty of deer hides. I don’t reckon it’d set us back none,” Hawk said. He enjoyed Daniel Boone’s company, for the man was already a local legend and held a fascination for him. There was something about Boone that drew Hawk, and he made up his mind instantly. “Sequatchie, let’s go along. Maybe we’ll find a way to get rid of these deer hides, if we can find a trader there.”

  “Might be you’d find one,” Boone agreed. “Well, if you’ve baited up enough, why don’t we start out now?”

  Hawk and Sequatchie agreed to go, and so the three men packed up their gear and mounted. As they made their way down the trail, they listened intently while Boone talked of the vast lands that lay to the west. He had an almost poetic gift of making things come alive, and both Sequatchie and Hawk marveled at the man’s knowledge of the wilderness.

  ****

  “Men, let me make you known to William Bean,” Boone said. The three men had ridden into a settlement, consisting of half a dozen cabins, and had been met by a tall, lanky individual who had come out with a musket in his hands. He put it down at once and greeted Boone cheerfully, then turned to look at the visitors.

  “This here’s William Bean. William, this fella here, he’s got a fancy name—Jehoshaphat Spencer. But he prefers to be called Hawk. And this here is Sequatchie. I reckon as how you may have heard of him.”

  William Bean studied the two visitors. He was a typical frontiersman, lanky and strong, with a pair of alert brown eyes, and a patch of brown hair. He nodded, stepped forward, and put his hand out. When it closed down on Hawk’s, it was like a vise. “Glad to know you, Hawk,” he said. He shook hands with Sequatchie and spoke to him in Cherokee, and the two grinned.

  “Looks like you’uns nabbed every deer in the forest,” Bean said, looking at the heavily laden pack animals.

  “We had a good hunt,” Hawk nodded. “We’re lookin’ to trade some now.”

  “I’d suspect so,” Bean said. “And I reckon you’re in luck. There’s a trader come in just two days ago. He had his pack animals loaded down with everything a fella could want. Lookin’ to haul back deerskins.”

  “Where is he?” Hawk asked quickly.

  “Oh, not more’n a few miles down the trail there. He ain’t had much luck so far, so he’ll likely be right glad to see your pelts.”

  “That sounds good,” Boone said. “I’m takin’ a bunch out myself. Maybe we could make a quick hunt and do some tradin’ with him.”

  Bean was studying Hawk with a careful glance. “Likely you know your way around if you been able to get this many hides.”

  “Sequatchie does.” Hawk smiled. “He’s taught me a little bit.”

  “If it ain’t unmannerly, what you aim to do after you trade your hides for goods?”

  Hawk nodded toward Sequatchie. “We’ll take most of the goods to Sequatchie’s village.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Two—three days,” Sequatchie said.

  Bean pulled his hat off, turned it around in his hands, then he suddenly said, “Oh, I plumb forgot to introduce my family. This here’s my wife, Lydia.” Lydia Bean was a small woman with reddish hair and blue eyes. She was holding a newborn infant, and she smiled and nodded to the two hunters.

  “That’s my youngest son, Russell, my wife’s holdin’. My other kids are off runnin’ around.”

  “Looks like he’s fresh out of the shell,” Daniel said.

  “I reckon he is. Probably the first white child born in this territory. Maybe they’ll name it after him, Russellville or something like that.”

  Bean stood there, talking and drawing circles in the dirt with his moccasin. It was apparent that something was on his mind, and he said finally, “You say two days and you might be back to your village?”

  Sequatchie nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  “I got me kind of a problem,” Bean said. “The settlement here is small. We got more folks that want to come, but they’re on the other side of the mountains. I’d go get ’em myself, but I’d be afeered, what with a new baby and all.” He looked at the two men and said, “Might be you’d be willin’ to go and guide ’em over the mountains to the settlement here?”

  Boone said instantly, “I’d take it as a personal favor, Hawk, if you and Sequatchie could help out here. William needs all the help he can get to put in corn and make this settlement go.”

  Hawk had already decided not to go, but when Daniel Boone asked a personal favor, well, that made things different. At once he said, “Be glad to go bring your people in, Bean, if that’s all right with you, Sequatchie.”

  “I will go after we trade and take the supplies to my people.”

  “Well now, that’s right neighborly of you,” Bean said. A look of relief washed across his face, and he went to his wife and put his arm around her. “Now, you’re going to have company to show that new baby of yourn off to!”

  Lydia Bean smiled. “Dinner’s almost ready. Y’all tie your animals up and come on in.”

  The men went inside, and Lydia Bean quickly prepared a meal. It was simple food, but she had killed one of the pigs, and Bean had barbecued it. It was a treat for the men, for they had eaten nothing but wild game for weeks.

  “Where are your people located, Bean?” Hawk asked.

  “They are gathering at Williamsburg.”

  Hawk had started to lift a portion of rib to his lips. He halted abruptly, and Sequatchie, who knew his friend well, saw the dark look that clouded Hawk’s face.

  Bean noticed it also, as did Boone, and said, “You know Williamsburg, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes. I know Williamsburg,” Hawk said. He bit into the succulent meat and chewed it thoughtfully. A reluctance had risen in him suddenly. He had done all he could to put Williamsburg and all that had happened there out of his mind, and now it was back again. For years he had steadfastly refused to return—and the thoughts of his son and his parents had become dim.

  Sequatchie, however, said, “It will not take long. We will leave as soon as we take the goods to my people.”

  Bean was relieved, for he had seen Hawk’s face darken and noted the displeasure at the mention of Williamsburg. Something had disturbed the tall hunter, but Bean decided not to question Hawk further. He would ask Boone later.

  ****

  Three days had passed, and now that the two men had delivered the trade goods to Sequatchie’s village, Hawk felt even more reluctant about returning to Williamsburg. He squatted beside the fire inside Sequatchie’s hut and talked with Awenasa in Cherokee. She had become rather feeble in her old age, but her mind was clear. He liked to speak to her in the Cherokee tongue. Though there would always be more to learn, he had become quite fluent in the guttural language. He listened as she smiled and told him about the babies that had been born, the fights the young men had had, and the various disagreements that had taken place in their absence.

  Awenasa set a bowl of stew before him, and he ate it slowly, for it was very hot. “Good,” he said and patted his stomach. He remembered the first time he had eaten puppy dog stew, but he knew this was a fish stew. The Cherokee were expert fishermen with their white oak baskets, and Awenasa was the best of cooks.

  “You will leave again soon?”

  “Yes, we will, but I do not like it.”

  The old woman turned from the fire and looked at him. “Why will you go, then?”

  “I do it as a favor to a friend.”

  “That is good. Friends are hard to make.”

  “Yes, they are, and I reckon, apart from Sequatchie, Daniel Boone’s about the best friend I have.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Hawk moved his shoulders restlessly and sai
d, “I do not know. It depends on how many settlers are traveling west.”

  Awenasa nodded, and as soon as Hawk finished the stew, he rolled up in his blanket and fell into a restless sleep.

  The next morning Sequatchie found Hawk and said, “Let us go to Williamsburg.”

  Hawk was standing beside a tall alder that had been left in the clearing among the Cherokees’ cabins. He stripped the bark off of it, pulled out his knife, and began whittling at it, not answering. Finally Hawk said, “Sequatchie, I don’t want to go back to Williamsburg.”

  “You said to Boone that you’d go.”

  “I know what I said, but you know the way to Williamsburg. You can go bring those settlers back to Watauga.”

  Sequatchie shook his head. “They are white people who do not know this country. They’ve heard many stories, I think, of how evil the red man is, and how they butcher people and scalp. They would not trust themselves to me. You must go with me.”

  Hawk stopped whittling on the tree. He shoved the knife back in his belt and turned to face his friend, saying frankly, “I know I promised Daniel I’d go, but it grates on me, Sequatchie.”

  “Why do you hold back? What is there that frightens you?”

  Hawk was offended. “I’m not frightened! It’s just that—well, it was not a good time for me in Williamsburg.”

  Sequatchie knew that Hawk had grown up in Williamsburg, although the tall hunter had spoken very little of his life there. Now he said, “Is there a woman there that you left behind?” He saw the pain leap into Hawk’s eyes and knew that he had struck a nerve. He reached out and touched his friend’s arm. “I do not want to cause you grief, my friend.”

  “That’s all right, Sequatchie.” Hawk stood silently for a moment, then said finally, “There was a woman there. My wife. Her name was Faith. . . .” The words would not come, and suddenly a picture of Faith’s features came to him as they had before, but had not for a long time. Without his willing it, the loss and the grief that her death had brought struck a fresh blow. His lips tightened, and he turned his face away from Sequatchie, saying nothing for a while.

  Sequatchie studied his friend, and being a man of great intuition, he said, “She died, this wife of yours?”

  “Yes, she died.” The words were short and clipped.

  “There were no children in your lodge?”

  Hawk suddenly gave his friend a harsh look. He did not answer directly but said, “All right, I will go with you, and we will bring them back. After that, I never want to see Williamsburg again!”

  That morning, the two men left, and for several days they rode their animals steadily. As they headed eastward, they began to see more and more cabins and settlements. Hawk rode side by side with Sequatchie, saying almost nothing. Finally, one night, after they had made camp and sat around the small fire staring at the fiery sparks that floated up toward the heavens, Sequatchie said quietly, “You left a child in Williamsburg.”

  Hawk looked up, startled. His mind had been on Faith and his son ever since they’d ridden out of Bean’s settlement. He knew, however, he could not deceive his friend. “Yes, I did. My wife had a baby, and she died having him. That is why I left. I couldn’t face living without her.”

  “Who has the boy?”

  “My parents.”

  Neither of them was a man of many words. Finally, out of the silence, Sequatchie said, “A boy needs a father to teach him what is right.”

  “My parents can do that. My father’s a better man than I am.”

  “But you are his father.” He hesitated, then said, “I think God is leading you back to that place.”

  “Don’t talk to me about God!” Hawk snapped.

  Sequatchie had already learned how hardened Hawk was against any mention of God. Nevertheless, now he said, “You are foolish to deny God! Look up there!” He waved his hands to the stars that spangled the dark heavens. “Do you think they made themselves?” He held up his hand and made it into a fist. “Look at these fingers that know how to trap and hunt and live off the land. Look at all a man can do. Do you think he made himself? No, God has made all things. You have read over and over how God made man, and He saw that it was good. And He made woman, and He saw that was good. And when they came together and had a child, that was good.”

  “It wasn’t good that God killed my wife!”

  “I cannot answer all of these things. Men live and die, but God is always the same. Jehovah, God in the Bible, and the Lord Jesus. You have read, He changes not.”

  “You’re the one who believes the Bible! Not me! I just read it to you!”

  Sequatchie knew that arguing was useless. He stared into the fire, praying for his friend for a long time. He had listened along with his people as Hawk had read the Bible through. It had been wonderful. He looked across the fire to where Hawk was staring out into the darkness. Sequatchie admired the strength of the man. Hawk had already surpassed most of the Cherokees in many of their native skills. He could run faster, was stronger, and was absolutely unerring with a rifle. He was fearless, too, Sequatchie knew, which all the Indians of the village admired. But for some reason Hawk was destroying himself, and it grieved Sequatchie. He prayed, Oh, God, my friend needs to know you! You must speak to him. He has read your words out of your book, but it has not touched his heart. Oh, God, I pray that his heart might be broken so that he might hear the voice of his God . . . !

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hawk’s Son

  A cold snap had gripped Williamsburg in August of 1770, making everyone expect a cold winter was on the way. Mr. and Mrs. Spencer were sitting inside the parlor, sharing the warmth of a crackling fire. The pleasant smell of burning wood came faintly into the room, and the yellow and red flames danced in the hearth, sending sparks flying up the huge chimney.

  Esther Spencer was knitting, and from time to time she looked outside the mullioned windows and watched the white clouds as they scudded across a dark blue sky. The brisk wind stripped the leaves from the oak trees in the front yard, then sent them tumbling madly through the air until they hit the streets, where they piled themselves into small mountains, only to be scattered again when another gust of wind came.

  “Going to be cold. Never saw August so cool,” Mr. Spencer said. He was sitting across from his wife in a Regency style beechwood fauteuil, which had an arched, padded back and carvings of foliage and shells and was covered in a chocolate brown woolen moreen. Looking up from reading his Bible, he shook his head. “It seems like the times are changing. The next thing you know we’ll be having snow in the middle of August.”

  Jacob Spencer, sitting across the room on a cushion, looked up at his grandfather. He was fourteen years old and had thick dark hair and the darkest blue eyes James had ever seen. He was a sturdy boy, tall and lean, but he would fill out one day to be a strong man. “Snow in August? That’s not possible, Grandfather!”

  James Spencer laughed. “Anything’s possible, I guess, Jake. Not very likely, though, I will admit.” He looked over fondly at his grandson and said, “What are you reading now?”

  “The Odyssey.”

  “You’re getting to be quite a scholar.”

  “Not really. I’m reading the English translation. I’d like to learn Greek, though.”

  “Would you?” James Spencer cocked one eyebrow and looked at the boy thoughtfully. “I suppose we can arrange for a tutor if that’s what you really want.”

  “I think it would be fun.”

  “Well, you did like Latin . . . and you did well in it, too,” he said rather proudly. He winked at his wife and said, “What would you think if we had a lawyer on our hands, Esther?”

  Esther looked across at the boy, her knitting needles clicking faintly in the room. “Would you like to be a lawyer, Jacob?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What would you like to be? We’ve talked about this before. Pretty soon you’re going to have to make up your mind. You’re growing up fast.”


  Jacob Spencer did not answer for a time. He was not a young man who spoke a great deal. There was a quietness about him, although sometimes with young people he would throw his reticence aside and join in with the frivolity of his peers. Now, however, in the quietness of the room, he thought of the question and shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’ll think about it, and as soon as I decide I’ll let you know.”

  Again James winked at his wife and said, “Well, that will be good—” He broke off, interrupted by a knock on the front door.

  The door opened, and Ellen, the maid, entered and said, in her quiet voice, “There’s a gentleman to see you, sir.”

  “Who is it?” asked James.

  “He doesn’t say. Shall I show him in?”

  “Is he a tradesman?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so, Mr. Spencer,” Ellen said.

  Spencer studied the puzzled look in the maid’s eyes and said, “Well, have him come in, then. Bring him into the parlor where it’s warm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wonder who that can be? Ellen knows everybody in town, I think,” Esther said calmly.

  “I can’t imagine.” He looked over at Jake, who had lost interest and was buried again in the book that he held on his knees. It would take a blast of black powder to jolt that boy out of a book when he gets into it, James thought. He had no time to think more, for he glanced up and his heart seemed to skip a beat. He stood up at once and found that his knees were not quite steady. Glancing over, he saw that Esther had risen also, then both of them moved forward at the same time.

  “Josh!” James Spencer cried, and he heard his wife’s sobs coming quickly as they moved across the room. It had been almost fifteen years since they had seen their son, and this tall tanned man wearing buckskins could have passed them on the street unnoticed, but in this house, even though the years had thickened the wide body of their son and brought some creases into his brown face, they recognized him immediately.