“I can’t ask you to do that, Hawk.”
Andrew’s eyes, however, were on the tall hunter, and they lit up at Hawk’s words.
“I don’t guess it would kill me to do a little firewood cutting and plowing. Think I’ll build a shack, a lean-to, in that little hollow about a quarter of a mile from here. That way I’ll be able to keep an eye on you to be sure you’re all right.”
Elizabeth’s heart leaped. She hugged Sarah and said, “I’d feel so much better if you were near—but it’s asking a lot.”
Hawk got up and tossed his stick into the fire. “That’s a good fireplace,” he said. “It draws well. There will be a lot of meals cooked over it, Elizabeth.” He looked around the cabin and said, “I had doubts, but now I see that this is what you want, so I’m glad you have it.”
Elizabeth rose, and soon they were on their way back to the main part of the settlement. “I’ll see you at the service next Sunday.”
“Guess so,” Hawk said reluctantly.
Elizabeth was glad and said with a smile, “We’ll hear some good preaching. Paul’s getting better all the time.”
****
The service conducted by Reverend Paul Anderson was attended by the closest thing to celebrities that the wilderness in the Holston area could boast of. Aside from William Bean and his wife, who had begun the settlement, Hawk met perhaps the most influential man in these parts. His name was James Robertson.
Hawk remembered that he had heard how Robertson, mounted on a good horse, had come to the Watauga alone and followed Boone’s trails along the mountains. The twenty-eight-year-old had been inspired by the vastness of the wilderness, and at Sycamore Shoals he had cleared land and planted crops. After he had lain by his corn crop early, he headed back home through the mountains, but his horse could not navigate the heavy thickets. Robertson had not been able to keep his gunpowder dry and had wandered for days, lost and desperate, surviving on berries and roots, and might have died except for the chance encounter with two hunters.
Hawk said to William Bean, “I think that Robertson’s quite a fella, isn’t he?”
“You’re right, he is. He’s gonna be a man of influence in this part of the world. And you see that fella over there? That’s Evan Shelby.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s a Marylander,” Bean said. “He was a scout with General Braddock. Afterward he became a fur trader among the Indians. I don’t know what he’s doin’ here, but he’s gonna settle somewhere, and you can count on a man like Shelby. If we get enough folks like that around here, this country will be tamed in a hurry.”
Sequatchie stood close to Little Carpenter, the most influential of the Cherokee leaders. He was, as his name suggested, a small man, wizened by many years of living. When Sequatchie introduced him to Hawk, the chief studied the tall hunter and nodded, saying in Cherokee, “A good man.”
Hawk replied, “Thanks, chief. I appreciate your kind words.”
“You speak our language?”
“Sequatchie taught me.”
The three men stood there, and finally the service started. It was a relatively brief service, with more singing than preaching, and Paul Anderson, after his sermon, called upon William Bean to introduce the strangers. Bean introduced Daniel Boone, John Sevier, Valentine Sevier, Little Carpenter, James and Charlotte Robertson, and Evan Shelby.
After the service was over, Hawk spoke for a while with Elizabeth. “It looks like this place is gettin’ to be important,” he said. “I wish they’d all stay and help us plant corn next spring.”
Elizabeth had enjoyed the preaching. It had given her comfort, for she had been very lonely these days. Now that the cabin was finished, she had more time to think about what the future held for her and the children.
Hawk looked at her, noting the strange expression, and asked at once, “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She smiled at Hawk and asked, “Can I help you cut firewood tomorrow?”
“You better start thinking about making some mattresses. I’ll make a bed for you first, and you can move into the cabin tomorrow.”
Elizabeth smiled. “That’ll be wonderful.”
Elizabeth had a peace and inner serenity about her that was a puzzle to the long hunter. He could not understand how she could accept the death of her husband so bravely. Hawk recalled a conversation he had had with Rhoda when he had visited her at her new cabin home. He asked Rhoda, “Do you think she didn’t love Patrick?”
“Oh, she loved him all right!” Rhoda said instantly.
Hawk looked at her strangely, then asked, “Then why doesn’t she show it?”
“Women don’t always show things, Hawk,” Rhoda said. “Inside she’s still hurting. There’ll always be a part of her that will belong to Patrick. She’s that kind of a woman.”
As Hawk thought about that conversation, he said simply, “It’s not a bad kind of woman to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Frontier Christmas
By mid-December, Elizabeth’s cabin was well furnished. Hawk had taken some pleasure in cutting and stacking a great pile of firewood up against the south side of the cabin. Then he had turned his hand to making chairs, baskets, pails and tubs for washing, and noggins, piggins, and keelers to hold drink. He had fashioned cups from wood and shaped baskets from hickory splits. The bed downstairs had one support that touched the floor. The two thick saplings joined there were fastened at right angles to the cabin. Hawk threaded rawhide thongs through it, and Elizabeth placed a mattress on it filled with dried shucks that Lydia Bean had saved for just such a purpose.
One day Hawk was too tired to work on the cabin, so he located Andrew and said, “Let’s you and me go hunting today, Andy.”
Nothing, of course, could have pleased the boy better. Whatever Hawk suggested was exactly what Andrew wanted, so the two left at dawn, and by ten o’clock they had a sack full of rabbits.
On the way back Andrew said idly, “I almost forgot. Christmas is just about here.”
Hawk looked down at Andrew, who was wearing warm woolen clothing purchased at the store back in Williamsburg. The boy was now, he guessed, about five-foot-seven, and though he was lean, there was a promise of future strength in his limbs. He had his father’s sparkling blue eyes and had gained much confidence over the past months.
“What was Christmas like back at your place?” Hawk asked.
Andrew thought for a moment and said, “Oh, we had a big Christmas tree with presents under it. Grandma always had a lot of special dinners with plenty of food. We sang carols and went for sleigh rides if there was any snow.”
Andrew continued to babble on, and Hawk listened with some amusement. It came to him, however, as they walked back, This will be a bad Christmas for them. Elizabeth and probably the kids, too, will be thinking about the finer things they had in Boston. They’re away from their family, and it’s the first Christmas since the death of Patrick.
“I’ve been proud of the way you’ve taken care of your mother and sister, Andy,” Hawk said aloud. “Your father would have been very proud of you, too.”
A pleased flush touched Andy’s face and he said, “I couldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for you.”
As they approached the cabin, Hawk admired the neatness of it, especially the tightly joined logs and the solid chimney, out of which curled a wreath of white smoke.
I’ll have to do something. They’ve got to have some kind of a Christmas. I owe it to Patrick.
****
A light snow had begun to fall on December twenty-fourth. At about three o’clock Sarah and Andrew were out in it, trying to make snowballs, but it was a fluffy snow and sent only puffballs into the wind. However, two hours later it began to pick up again and cover the ground. Elizabeth stood at the door and watched the children outside, thinking of Patrick and their last Christmas together. He had given her the gold chain that she wore every day of her life hidden beneath her dress, for it would
have seemed ostentatious to flaunt it. She had given him a new set of razors that she still kept carefully concealed in a trunk with other special mementos of their life together. Going back inside, she began to prepare the evening meal.
The children finally came in, banging open the door. “I’m hungry, Ma!” Andy said.
“Me, too!” Sarah said. “Can’t we eat early?”
“I don’t think we need to do that,” Elizabeth said. She would have said more, but as she went to the door to shut it, she glanced across the meadow and saw something that startled her. She said nothing, but the two children saw her looking and came to join her. The three stood there for a moment staring at the man coming across the meadow.
“It’s Hawk, and he’s got a tree! A Christmas tree!”
Hawk was riding his horse and pulling the sled he had used to haul the rocks from the creek. The snow was falling heavier now and frosted his coonskin cap. When he approached the cabin, he slid off the horse and said, “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” the children said.
“What in the world are you doing with that tree?” Elizabeth asked.
Hawk went back to the sled. “I haven’t had a Christmas tree in fifteen years. I thought it was about time.” He walked straight past her, brushing them all aside with the tree and placed it on a little stand he had made. Turning around, he looked at their astonished faces and said, “We’ll pop popcorn, and string it, and drape it around the tree. Maybe even put two or three candles on there. It’s Christmas, woman! Wait until you see what else I’ve got!”
He went outside and came back in carrying the carcass of a huge turkey. “Stir up the fire! It’ll take until tomorrow noon to cook this big fellow.” He looked at the bird fondly. “He just plumb asked to be shot.”
Tears came to Elizabeth’s eyes at Hawk’s kindness. Turning, she busied herself with finishing cooking a quick supper. After the meal was eaten and the table cleared, the children began popping corn, and Elizabeth helped them string it together with needle and thread. Hawk sat on one of the stools he had made, balancing backward and watching it all with an amused smile.
He stayed until long after dark, only returning to the lean-to that he had made after promising to return the next day for Christmas dinner.
****
On Christmas morning, Hawk returned with a sack over his shoulders. When Elizabeth opened the door and the children grabbed at him, he said, “I guess St. Nicholas missed this place, but he dropped this sack, so let’s see what’s in it.”
Elizabeth and the children watched as Hawk reached down into the sack and pulled out a package. “I reckon this is for you, Sarah.”
Sarah grabbed the package and tore it open. When she had the paper ripped off, she held up a beautifully designed fur coat. “One of the finest squaws in the Cherokee nation made that for you. I trapped those furs myself. They’re martins.”
Sarah slipped her arms inside the coat and preened, “Isn’t it beautiful, Mama?”
“Yes, it is. Why, that would cost a fortune in a shop in Boston.”
He reached down into the sack again and brought out another package. “This is for you, Elizabeth.”
“Well . . . we didn’t get you anything,” Elizabeth said.
“I guess I’m a man who doesn’t need anything. Hard to buy for, you might say.”
Elizabeth undid the package and discovered a pair of beautifully designed fur-lined deerskin boots.
“That ought to keep your feet warm,” Hawk said.
“Oh, let me put them on!” Elizabeth said. She kicked her shoes off and slipped on the supple deerskin. “They fit perfectly,” she said, “and they’re so warm.”
“They’ll shed water, too. Those squaws know how to fix ’em. I don’t know how they do it.”
He turned to Andrew and said, “Couldn’t get your present in this sack. It’s just right outside. You close your eyes and hold your hands out like this, palms up.” He pulled Andrew’s hands up, stepped through the door, and was back in a moment. He winked at Elizabeth and then moved forward, holding a shiny new rifle. He placed it in Andrew’s hands and said, “Merry Christmas.”
Andrew’s eyes flew open and he gasped. “It’s a musket!” he said. “A brand-new one!”
“I traded a few beaver skins for that some time back. It’s a bit undersized for a full-grown man, but just about right for you. Well-made weapon, too.”
While the three MacNeals admired their unexpected gifts, Hawk sat down at the table. It gave him a feeling of well-being to see the happiness that his small gifts had brought.
Later that afternoon they had the turkey and the fresh bread Elizabeth had baked. They all ate until they could hold no more. Elizabeth had used dried berries to make a cobbler, and Hawk spooned one final portion in his mouth and groaned, “I’ll die if I eat another bite!”
After the Christmas dinner, they went out and walked, making tracks in the blanket of snow that covered everything. It was three or four inches deep and glistened under the sun. There was a quietness on the land that a gentle snowfall always seemed to bring. Finally, they went back into the house, and Elizabeth said, “The one thing we always do at Christmas is read the Christmas story.”
The children sat down at once, and Hawk stirred rather uneasily. He listened as Elizabeth read the Christmas story from the book of Luke, how the Christ child was born. When she was finished, Andrew and Sarah asked if they could go out for one more time, and she agreed.
When the children were outside, Elizabeth turned to Hawk. “It seems,” she said, with a smile, “I spend my life thanking you. Someday I’ll do something for you, and you can thank me.”
“Why, it was nothing. I wanted you and the children to have a good Christmas.”
“It was a good Christmas. At first I thought it would be very bad, but you’ve made it very special.” Elizabeth sat down in front of the fire on a stool and clasped her knees. “Patrick always loved Christmas. It was the best day of the year for him. Because of that, he made it the best day for everyone around him, and so I hated to see Christmas come, Hawk.” She looked up at him, and there was a strange expression of contentment on her face. “But somehow this has been so good!”
Hawk sat there watching her, and they listened to the wood crack in the fire. “A man gets lonesome at Christmas,” he said finally. “Most of the time, all these years, I didn’t even notice. But every time Christmas came around, I’d think back to the days when I was a boy. It was kind of like the Christmases you had. Christmas is fine if you’ve got people around you, but when a man’s all alone, it can get pretty bad.”
Their eyes met, and they shared a smile, and somehow each understood the loneliness that was in the other. Elizabeth said, “It’s good to have a friend, and you’ve been a good friend to us, Hawk. To Andrew, especially, and to Sarah, too.”
Hawk said nothing. He sat there as the fire sputtered, and he felt a sense of contentment that was so alien to him that he could barely identify it. Suddenly he realized that he had not felt a peace like this for many years.
“I wish,” he said slowly, “that folks could take moments and days like this and bottle them up, and then every once in a while when they get lonesome and get to feeling down, they could open the bottle and take a sip of it.”
“That’s what memories are,” Elizabeth whispered. “We live our lives, and we have to build as many good things into them as we can so that as we grow older we can look back and draw on those memories.”
Soon the children came in, and after a time of storytelling, Elizabeth sent them to bed. Hawk said good-night and made his way back to his lean-to. The moon overhead looked down on him and seemed to smile, and Hawk looked up momentarily. “What are you smiling at?” Then he laughed at his own foolishness. “It was a good Christmas,” he said aloud, then he continued to his home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Spring Returns
The winter passed slowly from the litt
le settlement. The snow that covered the ground melted, and by late March, there was a hint of a warm spring that fell across the land. The newcomers to the Holston area had survived their first winter in the wilderness.
Smoke rose from the cabin that had become a new home to Elizabeth MacNeal. Hawk had come to eat an early breakfast and spend the day plowing a small area that would be her garden. She had just set a bowl of mush and fresh bread on the table, when Hawk suddenly looked up from where he was lolling in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “Someone’s coming,” he said.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Elizabeth said. But she went to the door and opened it, crying out at once, “It’s Sequatchie and Paul!”
Immediately Hawk got to his feet and went outside. The two men were stained with travel, and their horses were muddy almost to their bellies. They pulled up and stepped to the ground.
“Well, Preacher, you’re back. And you, Sequatchie,” Hawk greeted his friends.
Sequatchie grunted. It was difficult to read the face of the Cherokee, but pleasure showed in his dark eyes as he greeted Hawk. “It is good to see you, my brother.”
“Hawk, it seems like it’s been a long time.”
Elizabeth came up to greet both men, and taking Paul by the arm, she pulled him toward the cabin. “You two come in right now. You can sit and eat and tell us all about what you’ve been doing.”
The breakfast had to be stretched thin, for Elizabeth had not planned for two very hungry men to be added to their company. She kept their plates filled, however, as Paul told about traveling to many Cherokee villages.
“It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced,” Paul said around a mouthful of bacon and mush. His eyes were sparkling, and his face was withered from the hard winter. “We must’ve gone to—oh, I don’t know how many Cherokee villages, and everywhere we went, I preached the gospel.” He looked over at Sequatchie and grinned. “I don’t trust this fellow, though, as an interpreter.”
“What do you mean by that?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes alight with interest.
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