Beyond the Quiet Hills

by Aaron McCarver

  With trembling hands, Andrew grabbed his powder horn and poured a fresh charge down the barrel. He put some of the powder in the pan after shoving a ball down covered with a patch. His heart was beating and he tried to think, but his mind was racing with the instinct of survival. He knew he had just killed a man, a fellow human being, and somehow even in the midst of the screams and explosions of the muskets up and down the line, a deep sadness settled on him like an ominous shadow.

  There was no time to grieve, however, for the battle raged furiously. At times the Indians would attack, and sometimes Lewis would direct the men to move forward.

  Hawk’s face was black with powder, but he paid no heed. He was worried about Andrew, and more than once warned him to stay behind in cover. “We’re going to be moving up,” he said, throwing himself down behind a log and peering out into the morning light. It was later now and the sun was hot as it beat down upon them. Licking his lips, he shook his head. “We’re gonna be thirsty if we get away from this water. Be sure your canteen’s full.”

  “All right, Pa.”

  Hawk hesitated, then said, “You’re doing a man’s job. Does it bother you?”

  “I reckon it does, Pa.”

  Hawk suddenly reached over and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder. “I’m glad it does. It bothers me, too. It bothers any man who thinks, but we don’t have any choice.”

  For three full hours the battle raged. From time to time parts of the line engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The screams of the wounded and the dying were ugly and scraped on Andrew’s nerves. He moved forward when told to do so by the leaders, fell behind cover, and at times retreated when the Indians threw their strength into another attack. It was a matter of wonder to him that he could fight like this. Somehow he knew it had something to do with Abigail. It seemed far away now, but once when the fighting slacked off and he sat panting, his back to a tree, taking a sip of the precious water, he knew the battle madness had something to do with his loss of Abigail. He felt he had lost her to Jacob, and it was this loss that sent him forward into the fierce fighting. He was not anxious to die, but somehow there was a calmness and a coolness in his spirit, and his great regret was losing the girl whom he now realized he loved more than life itself.

  The day moved on inexorably, and finally the settlers pushed the Indians back. As they did so, the lines became scattered and broken and fragmented. Before he realized it, Andrew found himself cut off from the rest. He could still hear the shouts from both sides, and as he tried to move back toward the main action, he crossed a narrow, sluggish creek half buried in mud. The gumbo tugged at his feet, and he lost a moccasin, then wasted precious time in pulling it out of the dripping mud.

  As he moved toward the sound of fighting, the smell of ferns rose in wild fragrance as he trampled them under his feet. Frantically, he hurdled dead logs matted with berry vines, and once a covey of quails, flushed from cover, drummed away in low flight from him.

  Andrew grew winded, and as he drew closer to the raging battle where the fighting was hardest, bullets whipped by, and a chunk of bark flaked from a tree struck him on the cheek. He pulled himself back and fired at an Indian half hidden in the brush not fifteen feet away. The Indian swayed as the bullet struck him. The warrior turned and looked with wild eyes as the round spot on his chest bubbled and grew larger and the blood made a bright streak down his chest. Andrew watched as a dullness clouded the eyes of the Indian, then he fell back and lay without movement.

  Andrew tried to reload his musket, but even as he pounded the ball down the barrel, a musket ball stung his side. He was not hit hard, but he looked up to see a Mingo coming for him at a dead run. He had a musket in his hand, but apparently it was not loaded. He was not twenty feet away, and with a wild, savage cry, he dropped the musket, snatched a tomahawk from his belt, and threw himself forward toward Andrew.

  The sight of that glittering tomahawk, caught by the afternoon sun, sent a chill of fear through Andrew. There was no chance of reloading. He knew he could not outrun the Mingo, so he did the only thing he could. Grasping his musket close to the end of the barrel, he waited, his feet firmly planted. His heart seemed to be slogging with a slow, regular beat, and he found himself distinctly shocked that he was not filled with panic.

  The Indian was not large but sinewy, and as he threw himself forward, Andrew forced himself to ignore the glittering tomahawk. One of them would die; he recognized that.

  Swinging the musket in a wild arch, he saw the tomahawk descending. The musket caught the Indian on the shoulder and destroyed his aim. He was driven to one side, and the tomahawk went sailing through the air, but before Andrew could move, the Mingo had pulled out a wicked-looking knife, and with a wild cry, he leaped at Andrew.

  Andrew dropped his musket and caught the Indian’s wrist with both hands. He was not as strong as the Indian, he knew, and the blows from the Indian’s free fist caught him in the face. Suddenly the Indian moved quickly and was behind him, and Andrew felt a hard form pressed against his throat, squeezing his windpipe.

  Frantically Andrew threw himself to one side. He smelled the Indian and heard the guttural cries in his ear. Reaching over his head, he grabbed the Indian by the first thing he could touch, his scalp lock. With a mighty pull he heaved and heard a cry of pain break from the Indian’s lips. The pressure on his throat eased for just one moment, just in time, for he had begun to see the world through a red haze.

  He swung around and the Indian lost his grip, but he retained his knife. As he rolled over and came up again, Andrew snatched at the musket. The glittering eyes of the Indian seemed to be frozen, and then Andrew swung the musket. It caught the Indian on the side of the head. It made the sound of a hammer striking a watermelon, and the Indian’s eyes glazed over as he was driven to one side.

  Seeing that the Indian still clutched the knife, Andrew raised the musket and brought down the butt with all his force on the Indian’s face.

  Andrew’s breath was coming in great gasps as he stood over the dead Indian. He stood still for a moment, then swayed, his vision blurred, and his hands shook as he drew them across his face.

  “Are you hit, Andrew?”

  Andrew turned to see his father come running up, his face contorted with anxiety.

  “No, I’m all right.”

  “I was . . . I was afraid for you,” Hawk said, breathing hard.

  “I’m all right, Pa.” Andrew forced himself to look at the gun butt, which was bloody, and a shudder went through him. “I ruined my gun.”

  Hawk barely glanced at the broken musket. “Guns can be fixed,” he said.

  “Are we winning?”

  “It’s pretty much over,” Hawk said. “We beat ’em off. They’re on the run.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right, Pa.”

  Hawk squeezed the boy’s shoulders hard and was unable to speak. He had not been afraid for himself, but he had vivid fears of finding Andrew with a bullet in his chest. Now he led Andrew back to where the forces were regathering.

  Andrew stopped to see the body of Tom Feller lying still. His throat had been cut and his scalp taken.

  “Edna will have a hard time living without him, won’t she, Pa?”

  “I guess she will,” Hawk said grimly. “But we all have to go on. God will be with her if she’ll turn to Him. I know that better than most.”

  “What will happen now, Pa?”

  “I think this about finishes Cornstalk’s rebellion. Colonel Lewis said if we could whip ’em here that they’d disappear. It’ll open Can-tuc-kee, that’s one thing for sure. Daniel Boone will be glad.”

  The two moved along helping the wounded, and finally when they had done what they could, they fell exhausted into their blankets, and the last thing Hawk said was, “This will make the Watauga settlement safe. Now you’ll see settlers come pouring in from over the Misty Mountains like they never have before. . . .”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Heroes Return

  El
izabeth moved around the kitchen preparing the evening meal, preoccupied with thoughts of Hawk and Andrew. Since they had left to go to the war, she had been concerned for their safety every waking hour, praying for them. Now as she bent over the heavy iron pot that contained beans that bubbled up and sent a savor through the room, a stab of fear came to her. What would I do without Hawk or Andrew? I’ve already lost so much. Be with them, Father, and help me to be strong in you, no matter what.

  Adding a little salt and some peppers to the beans, she resolutely put the matter out of her mind and moved outside the cabin, where she made her way to the smokehouse. The November sky was gray, and as the breeze bit at her face she knew winter was coming on. The pale sun overhead seemed to give no warmth but simply hung in the sky, its feeble light washing across the clearing and the garden that was now dead and brown.

  Reaching the smokehouse, Elizabeth stepped inside and critically examined the supplies. Hawk had done a good job of providing, as he always did, and now she lifted a haunch of venison and hefted its weight. The smokehouse was dark and filled with the smells of meat, smoked, cured, and salted. It gave her a good feeling to know that the provision was there for many meals.

  As she stepped outside she heard a voice. Thinking it was Iris or Amanda coming, she turned to face the path that led to the settlement. When she saw two men, she dropped the smoked venison to the ground heedlessly and cried out, “Hawk—Andrew!” and flew across the cold ground toward them. When she reached them she took one glance at their faces wreathed in smiles and flung herself at Hawk, who swung her around, laughing. Then when he put her down, Andrew did the same with the same ease of strength.

  “You’re back!” she exclaimed and was embarrassed to find tears gathered in her eyes. She blinked them away quickly, and hearing Sarah call, she turned and said, “Look who’s come home!”

  “Let’s get in out of this cold and have something to eat,” Hawk grinned, holding Sarah as if she were a child.

  “Put me down, Pa! I’m not a baby!”

  “You are to me,” Hawk said. He laughed and ignored her protests and kissed her cheek, then finally set her on the ground, saying, “You’re growing up on me, Sarah. Getting plump, too.”

  “I am not!” she protested.

  “Yes, you are,” Andrew said. He reached down and scooped Sarah up, laughing at her screams, and squeezed her until she began to squirm too much.

  The four stepped inside, and as they did, Jacob entered from the dog trot. He had seen them outside and now came forward quickly and put out his hand.

  Hawk ignored the hand, reached out and squeezed Jacob’s shoulders, and said, “Good to see you, Jacob.”

  “Good to see you, Pa—and you, Andrew.”

  “Tell us about the war,” Sarah chirped, almost dancing around.

  “I will,” Hawk promised. “But I want to see Hannah and Joshua first.”

  They all watched with a smile as Hawk bent down and put his arms out to Hannah. She had hung back shyly at first, hiding behind her mother’s skirt, but now she ran into his waiting arms and looked up at him with owlish eyes. She giggled loudly as he tickled her stomach and put her arms around his neck. He carried her over to the crib near the fireplace, where Joshua was taking a nap. Hawk set Hannah down on the floor and, despite the fact that Josh was asleep, picked him up and cuddled him in his arms. When he looked across at Jacob, he said, “I’m glad you were here to take care of things, son.”

  “Me too, Pa.”

  Elizabeth’s heart filled with gratitude as she stood beside Hawk. Her husband and her children were safe, the men were home from the wars, and she did not need to lie awake anymore worrying about them.

  “I know you’re both starved. I’ve got beans, and I’ll get some of this smoked venison. Oh—I dropped it when I saw you! Go get it for me, will you, Sarah?”

  ****

  The cabin was full of laughter and talk as Hawk and Andrew ate ravenously.

  “Tell us about the war. Did you kill any Indians?” Sarah demanded.

  “I’ll let Andrew tell you about it. He was a real soldier.”

  Andrew shifted nervously and shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t so much,” he muttered.

  “None of that,” Elizabeth said. “We want to hear all about it. Don’t leave out anything.”

  Andrew then began to tell the story of the hard journeys and the battles. He was embarrassed at first and stumbled, but as the tale spun itself out, he found himself thinking back, and some of the fire of battle that had come to him in the midst of the action was reflected in his eyes. He sat there loosely at the table, his bronze, strong hands toying with the pewter mug. As he spoke there was a new maturity in him that had come in the past few weeks.

  Finally he glanced up and saw everyone listening quietly, and it was as they would listen to a man, not a boy. A feeling of pride swelled in his chest, but suddenly he felt he had been bragging too much and he shook his head. “It wasn’t much, but we had some good leaders.”

  Jacob listened with envy as Andrew related the story of the battle. Even more he wished that he had gone with his father. He was taken by surprise when Hawk said abruptly, “I’m glad to get home for your birthday, Jacob.”

  Jacob blinked, thinking that his father would have forgotten it, but Hawk asked with a smile, “What are you planning on doing to celebrate?”

  “Oh, nothing much, I don’t think,” he mumbled.

  “I know what he’s going to do,” Sarah piped up. She grinned broadly and winked at her father. “He’s going to see Abigail. Why, he’s about worn a pathway over to that place since you’ve been gone, Pa.”

  Andrew glanced quickly at his stepbrother. He picked up his cup and drank some of the sassafras tea that Elizabeth had made, not responding visibly, but it had bothered him more than he showed.

  “Well, I think we ought to invite the Stevenses to dinner,” Hawk said. “We haven’t seen them for a while, and they’ll want to hear about the battle.” He winked over at Jacob and said, “And I guess it’ll be all right if they bring Abigail along.”

  He did not see the expression on Andrew’s face, but Elizabeth did and it troubled her. She said nothing, however, and when Hawk went back to get Joshua out of his crib and bounce him on his knee, she moved over and put her arm around Andrew, saying, “Your father would have been proud of you, son, as I am.”

  The words warmed Andrew, and he squeezed his mother’s waist. “I still miss him, Ma.”

  “So do I,” Elizabeth said, then she looked into the bright eyes so much like the ones she still remembered as her first love and whispered, “So do I, son.”

  ****

  The day passed quickly as Hawk walked around the homestead with a sense of wonder. He had not fully realized how deeply he had put down roots here. After the wanderings of his life he felt pleased and profoundly content to know that this piece of bountiful land was his in a particular way. A sense of pride filled his heart as he looked out across the land, marked with his sweat and toil and occupied by his wife and his children. This land is mine, he thought. He and Elizabeth had walked a great deal, then finally he had gone back and spent the evening playing with Hannah and Joshua with a deep satisfaction until bedtime.

  When he was in bed with Elizabeth, he reached for her, drew her close, and felt the fullness of her body against his. “I missed you,” he said lovingly.

  “Hawk,” Elizabeth said, then hesitated. She could not find the words to let him know how much she had missed him. So now she simply moved against him, pulled his head down, and kissed him with a fierceness that was at once possessive and loving and wonderful.

  ****

  “Tell me some more about the battle,” Jacob said as he and Andrew lay in their bunks in the upper room.

  “Well, it wasn’t like I thought it would be,” Andrew said. He was still thinking of what had been said at supper concerning Abigail, but he mentioned nothing to Jacob about this. “Somehow I always thought war would be men
lined up in neat lines, but it wasn’t like that at all. It was almost like every man fought his own battle.”

  “Did it bother you to kill that Indian?”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “It wouldn’t bother me,” Jacob said. “After what they’ve done to the settlers, I think I could kill every one of them!”

  “They’ve got their ways, and we’ve broken their ways up,” Andrew said. “Before we came here they had their wars with each other. Now they see us as taking what’s theirs. Wouldn’t you fight for what was yours if someone tried to take this place?”

  Jacob was somewhat surprised. He sensed a new maturity in Andrew that had not been there before, and after a while he said, “I reckon you’re right. It’s hard to see it that way sometimes.”

  The two lay there quietly for some time, and then finally Jacob said, “I’m glad you’re home, Andrew.”

  It was a simple statement, but somehow Andrew felt good about it. He had felt alienated from his stepbrother, and now he sensed that Jacob truly was glad he was back. Finally he said, “How are things going with Abigail?”

  For a moment Jacob hesitated. The room was so quiet that both boys could hear the sound of leaves scraping as they blew across the shake roof. Outside the single window the walnut tree they had left for shade clawed at the roof with bare branches like bony fingers. It was a lonely, haunting sound, and both boys listened to it for a time. Finally Jacob said, “Fine. I . . . well, I guess we’re going to be engaged soon.”

  The words struck at Andrew, but he covered them up by saying quickly, “Why, that’s fine. You’re getting a good girl, and she’s getting a good man.”

  “Thanks, Andrew. Good to hear you say that.”

  Both young men then lay on their bunks listening to the sounds of the night, but both were thinking of Abigail Stevens and neither of them slept soundly that night.