Beyond the Quiet Hills

by Aaron McCarver

  “Why, the Little Carpenter and Sequatchie will stop that, Pa!” Andrew protested.

  “I don’t think they’ll be able to this time, son. Dragging Canoe and Akando are swaying more and more of the Cherokee to their side. You’ve got to remember, too, that the Cherokee have come to rely on British goods. They may have to go along with them to keep up their good relations. Also, you know the British have promised to leave their lands alone.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” Jacob said. “I think this war’s foolish.”

  “The British wouldn’t keep their word,” Hawk said, shaking his head. “They’ll eventually want the land. They don’t understand the Indians nearly as well as most of us do. Sequatchie knows that and so does Attacullaculla, but they may not have a choice.”

  “Well, what will we do, Pa?” Andrew demanded.

  “Who knows?” Hawk said simply. “These are awful times we are living in.”

  At that moment Elizabeth and Sarah appeared with a pitcher of cider that Elizabeth had gotten from the root cellar.

  “It’s cool,” she said, smiling, as Sarah held out the pewter cups and poured them full.

  As the men drank, Elizabeth looked with pride at her husband and her two tall sons. She never thought of Jacob in any other way than as another son, and now as they drank thirstily, she thought, How much they’ve become like Hawk, and they’ve become men of the mountains. Even Jacob.

  Sarah handed Jacob his cup and grinned up at him. “You ought not to be wasting time building a room here, Jacob. You need to be building a house for you and Abigail.”

  “Guess I need to be doing something about that, Sarah.” Andrew frowned but said nothing, and Jacob added, “Just haven’t settled on a date yet.”

  “I don’t see what you’re waiting for.” Sarah, as usual, had no patience to spare. Her red hair caught the gleam of the sunlight, and as she cocked her head to one side, the light brought out the few freckles that speckled her nose. “What are you waiting for?”

  Jacob, aware that the others were watching him rather curiously, felt uncomfortable. “Why, there’s plenty of time,” he said.

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get married,” Sarah prodded.

  Elizabeth, seeing Jacob’s discomfort, said, “Sarah, stop your meddling!”

  Sarah’s eyes gleamed with fun. “When Brother Paul preached about spiritual gifts last Sunday, I decided what mine was.”

  Hawk knew the element of humor in this stepdaughter of his. “What is your gift, Sarah?”

  “My spiritual gift is meddling.”

  The others could not help laughing, but as they stood there enjoying one another’s company, for the moment Hawk thought, even as Sarah had, I wonder what he’s waiting for. He studied Jacob’s face a moment, and a surge of gratitude for all that God had done touched him. It’s been a miracle, he thought, that Jacob has learned to forgive me—at least partly—and I’m thankful for it, but something’s wrong with Jacob. He says he loves Abigail, but yet one or the other of them is hanging back. I hope it’s not trouble.

  ****

  Later that afternoon Jacob cleaned up after work and climbed on his horse.

  “Where you going, Jacob?” Sarah yelled after him.

  “None of your business.”

  “Tell Abigail I’d like to see her and be sure to give her a kiss!” the irrepressible girl yelled.

  Jacob merely tried to ignore her, but the peals of her laughter followed him.

  As he made his way along the familiar trail, his thoughts were troubled. He had been stirred by the prodding that Sarah had given him earlier, and he had seen the pointed curiosity in his parents’ expressions. By the time he reached the Stevenses’ place, he was determined to get an answer from Abigail.

  As he approached, he found her standing beside the small corral where the sheep were kept. Riding up and getting off the horse, he tied the animal, then walked right over to her.

  “Hello, Abigail,” he said and reached over and kissed her cheek.

  “I didn’t expect to see you today, Jacob. I thought you’d be working on the addition.”

  “We did. All day. It’s going to be finished pretty soon.”

  Abigail was wearing a dark red quilted skirt and a white blouse that laced up the front and was sprinkled with dainty flowers. As usual, Jacob admired the fresh glow of her cheeks and the sparkle of her eyes. Impulsively he said, “I think Christmas would be a good time to get married, don’t you?”

  “Why . . . I don’t know, Jacob. I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong? I’m beginning to think you don’t want to marry me, you’ve put it off so many times.”

  Absently Abigail patted his arm and shook her head, but she did pause. Finally she said, “I don’t know. I guess I just think I need to help my parents since I’m the only one at home.”

  “Why, you’ll have to leave as soon as we’re married.”

  “I know.” Abigail, indeed, was troubled, and it showed on her face. She had a sunny disposition, but now she was serious, and in an absentminded way, she bit her lower lip, a sure sign that she was agitated.

  She took a deep breath and reached up and touched his cheek gently. “I’ll decide soon. I promise.” She reached up, pulled his head down, kissed him, then took his arm and said, “Come on. You can take supper with us tonight.”

  Jacob felt that somehow he had been defeated again. He had come to get a specific date, but there was something in Abigail, a reluctance to be pinned down, that he could not understand. He did not know a great deal about young women, and as he enjoyed the fellowship of the Stevenses that evening, his happiness was not complete, and he could neither explain it nor speak of it to anyone else.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Decisions

  The low-ceilinged room used by the settlers of Watauga for meetings was crowded to the walls. A rank smell of tobacco smoke hung in the air, but more of the men were prone to chew than to smoke. Hawk, who did neither, found the stench distasteful and carefully avoided, as far as possible, the amber stains that had splashed on the puncheon floors. He had come to this meeting in September of 1775 with apprehension, for he well knew that the decisions made in this relatively small group would alter the destiny of all who lived in Watauga and even farther westward.

  John Carter, a tall, heavyset man, had been speaking for twenty minutes. He was a forceful man with a visionary gleam in his eye, and now he concluded his speech in ringing tones.

  “We’ve talked about which way we should go in this war that’s been forced upon us. I’ve listened as some of you have spoken of our loyalty to King George and the British Empire. No man has been more loyal than I have in this area, but times change. Nations take new pathways, and we must not destroy ourselves by hanging on to old ideals. You can’t put new wine in old wineskins as the Scripture says. Therefore, I see we have no choice.” He paused here and looked around the room. Every man’s eyes were fixed upon him, some with apprehension, some with anger, but most, he saw, were following his line of reasoning.

  “If we join with the king’s forces, where will that leave us? If the British win, they have already informed us that they will force us to give our lands back to the Indians, so we will be paupers.”

  “We don’t know that,” a tall, hulking settler said. He clawed at his reddish whiskers and shook his head. “I’ve always been a king’s man. I’ll not fire a shot against my sovereign’s forces.”

  “Then, Charles, that puts you in a precarious position,” Carter said quietly. “You and I have been friends and neighbors, but as the Scripture says, ‘Choose you this day whom ye will serve.’ This land is merely a colony to England, but to me and to others it is a new nation. If England had been fair and allowed us to have a voice in Parliament, sending our own representatives, I would fight to the death for her cause. But she has refused to heed our reasonable requests, and now we have no other choice.”

  Hawk sat back while Carter listen
ed patiently to those who were not ready for revolution. He handled it well, Hawk thought. I couldn’t do anything like that, but he’s not going to satisfy everybody. The meeting went on and on, and finally, after many hours of argument, Carter skillfully had persuaded most of the men who called themselves Tories to abandon their loyalty to the Crown and throw their lot in with the colonists.

  “We are agreed, then,” Carter nodded. “And I propose that this day we form a committee of safety, and I also propose that we name it the Washington District after the new commander in chief of the colonial forces.”

  “I second the motion,” William Bean said, “and I also propose that John Carter be appointed chairman—and colonel of the militia.”

  Excitement was high around the room now, and Carter was elected almost unanimously. The other members of the committee included William Bean, Charles and James Robertson, John Sevier, Jacob Brown, George Russell, John Jones, Robert Lucas, Jacob Womack, James Smith, and Zachariah Isbell.

  It was Isbell, a short, heavyset man with piercing black eyes, who asked, “What will we do with the Watauga Court, Carter?”

  “We will keep it in place. It will continue to function,” John Carter said instantly. “No British governing body will take over as has happened in the Colonies.”

  Hawk listened as the preparations were made, and he knew a feeling of gladness that the Wataugans had decided to go with the colonists. The idea of a new nation where a man could be free and have a say in his government excited him. He might have felt differently if he had been reared in England, but all he had ever known was America. As he thought about the future, however, a sense of despondency came over him, for he knew what brutality could come if the Cherokee decided to go on the warpath. The thought troubled him, and he rose and left the meeting, saying nothing to anyone. He knew he had to speak to Sequatchie.

  All the way back to his homestead he thought of the burden that would lie upon his friend. “It’ll be hard on him,” he murmured. “He has Cherokee brothers, and yet I’m his brother, too. I’d not want to be in his place and have to make this decision.”

  The sun was nearly down when he pulled up at the small hut that Sequatchie had constructed for himself. Slipping off the horse, he called out, and Sequatchie stepped around the corner and nodded his greeting. “Well,” Hawk said, “it’s over.” He spoke quickly, informing Sequatchie of the decision made at the meeting, and finally he stopped. The air was quiet, and already he could see a lamp glowing in his own house in the window, but no one was stirring in the yard. He looked over to the tall Cherokee and said, “I hope this won’t come between you and me.”

  Sequatchie’s face was grim, but he managed a smile. “We are brothers and always will be, but I will not raise my hand against the Cherokee. They are my own flesh and blood.”

  Hawk sensed the tension in Sequatchie, and impulsively he said, “We can only pray, my brother. Let us do so now.”

  Instantly Sequatchie nodded, and a warm light came into his eyes. “Yes, God is the only one,” he said, “who can see us through all the coming days.”

  The two men stood and prayed together in the growing darkness as the sun dropped behind the low-lying hills. They clasped hands, and each seemed to draw strength from the other. When Hawk looked up after they were finished, he saw tears in his friend’s eyes, and with an impulse he could not control, he embraced Sequatchie, held him tightly, and said, “God will watch over us, my brother.”

  ****

  Bright yellow pumpkins dotted the hills in the Watauga area as October came on. The other crops might fail, but it seemed as though pumpkins never did. And as Deborah Stevens moved around the kitchen preparing to use some of the succulent orange delight, Abigail stayed close beside her, watching every move she made.

  “What are you going to make out of this pumpkin, Mama?”

  “I think I’ll bake a pumpkin pudding.”

  “Teach me how to make that, please. I can’t seem to master some of your recipes yet,” Abigail stated. “I’ll never be as good a cook as you are, though.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s all a matter of practice.” The older woman moved toward the table, where she began mixing the ingredients.

  Abigail watched as her mother cracked four eggs into a bowl and beat them with a wooden spoon. Then she dumped some pumpkin in and mixed that also.

  “I never know how much of anything to use, and you don’t ever measure it out,” Abigail complained as she watched her mother add cinnamon, ginger, and several other spices, and then pour in some molasses and milk. “How do you know how much to put in there?”

  “I don’t know, Abby. I just do it.”

  “Well, that’s not much help.”

  “You grease the pot with butter,” Mrs. Stevens said, smiling at her daughter. “It will all come to you when you’ve done it as long as I have.”

  Abigail greased the cast-iron pot and poured the mixture in. Setting the lid on it, she hung it by one of the iron rods over the hot coals and then moved over to the window and gazed out pensively.

  “What’s wrong, Abigail?”

  “Wrong? Why, nothing’s wrong, Mama.”

  “Yes, I think there is.” Deborah came over to stand beside her, and taking her arm, she turned her around. She studied Abigail’s face, reached out and brushed a lock of her thick brown hair back from her forehead, then said gently, “You’re not very good at hiding your feelings. What is it, now?”

  Abigail dropped her eyes and was very quiet for a moment. She heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel across the room that punctuated the silence with its regular cadence. Finally she looked up and said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “I . . . I’m not quite sure, Mama . . . about getting married.”

  “Do you think it might be nerves? Young women sometimes get that way before the wedding.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  For a moment Deborah stood quietly, then she asked, “Have you prayed about it, Abby?”

  Abigail seemed surprised by the question. “Well, I think I have, but we’ve already decided.”

  “Every decision needs to be prayed about, I think.”

  “Why, I thought just spiritual things. Not everyday things, Mama.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s right. God is concerned about every aspect of the lives of His children. He longs for them to be happy, and He knows that the only way this can happen is for them to live for Him.” She thought hard for a while, and said, “And I think, really, the only way to do that is to go to Him for all of life’s decisions. Come over and sit down.”

  The two women went and sat down at the table. Deborah first glanced at the cooking utensils over the fire to be sure the meal was under control. Satisfied all was well, she turned to say, “Some things are just there that we must do—like eating and drinking and working and sleeping. We don’t need to pray about those. They just have to be done. And then there’s some things in the Word of God, such as warnings against lying or stealing. Like being kind to each other. We don’t have to pray about these things, do we?”

  “No, Mama. I don’t think so.”

  “But there are some things that are not spelled out specifically in the Bible, and these things have to be prayed about.”

  “You mean like who we’re to marry? God doesn’t say specifically that I’m to marry Jacob.”

  “Exactly. And I know you have prayed, and so have your father and I.”

  “Maybe,” Abigail said slowly, a pensive light touching her fine gray-green eyes, “I haven’t prayed enough.”

  “Often that’s the case. The Scripture says, ‘You will find me when you seek for me with all your heart.’ It’s not enough just to ask once. We need to go again and again and again.”

  The two women sat there talking quietly as the smell of the food cooking at the fireplace filled the room. Once Deborah got up and stirred the fire and added a log, then she picked up a Bible and came back, and the two read Scriptures together. It w
as something they had often done, and somehow the very act of her mother’s calm and quiet confidence came as a soothing bond to Abigail. Finally they prayed together, and her mother prayed more fervently than Abigail had ever heard her. She herself felt such an urgency for God’s guidance that her voice was breaking when she called upon Him.

  When she had finished, Abigail looked up with shock on her face. “You know, Mama, how you’re always telling me that God gave you a Scripture?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I think that God just gave me one.”

  “What is it? What did God say?”

  “The Scripture just came into my mind as we were praying—that believers are not to be yoked with unbelievers.”

  Somehow this did not surprise Deborah Stevens. It was a thought that she had shared with her husband, and the two of them were not happy with Jacob’s spiritual condition, although they never said so to Abigail. But now that Abigail herself had brought it up, Deborah quickly responded. “It’s the most important decision you’ll ever make, next to choosing Jesus as your Savior. If you’re not satisfied that Jacob is following after God, and that he would be a Christian father and a Christian husband, as your own father has been, then I think you need to be very cautious.”

  Abigail sat quietly for a moment, thoughts racing through her mind. She was a calm and rather thoughtful young woman, and now a sense of peace descended upon her. She had not realized how agitated she had been until suddenly that passed away, and she knew what she had to do.

  ****

  A brisk wind stirred the dead leaves at Abigail’s feet as she made her way along the path that led to the Spencer homestead. All the glaring reds and yellows and golds of the maples had come and gone now, so the bare trees seemed to be lifting their branches toward the sky in prayer. Lifting her face, Abigail relished the sharp gust of wind and the smell of the forest that pressed against the settlement from all sides. Somewhere over the peaks winter was lurking and would come down one day, touching the valley with a freezing hand, turning the earth to cold stone and the running brooks to ice, but now there was a refreshing quality in the air after the heat of summer.