Over the Misty Mountains (11 page)

The October sun was waning as Esther moved about the kitchen unconsciously, taking in every item and every inch with a pair of sharp brown eyes. Her grandson, Jake, was napping, and Esther was enjoying the quiet moments to herself. “I declare,” she said aloud. “I think I’ll make a pudding.”

Esther went into the storage closet and began pulling the items she needed off the shelves—a small bottle of rosewater, flour, a tin of sugar, and an assortment of spices as well as some cream, ten eggs, and a crock of butter from the springhouse. Returning to the kitchen, Esther looked around the large whitewashed room and decided to use one of the pine workstands placed between two windows that were curtained with a pale yellow muslin. She reached up to one of the many pine shelves lining the walls of the kitchen and pulled down a large copper kettle and two bowls. Carrying the kettle to where the water was stored, she filled it and hung it on the crane in the fireplace, which had a cheery fire burning since morning in order to prepare for the evening meal.

Turning around, Esther looked about the large room, smiling as she did so, then returned to the workstand to begin the preparations of the pudding. Picking up the cream, she measured out a pint and poured it into a bowl with the eggs she had already cracked over the edge of the bowl. The recipe called for three egg whites to be kept separate. So she took these and put them into the smaller bowl next to her. Reaching up, she plucked a wire whisk from the shelf and began to beat the egg whites until they looked foamy. She poured the contents of this bowl into the other bowl containing the cream and eggs, and to this she added three spoonfuls of fine flour. Once again she beat this mixture well so that there would be no lumps, and then added some cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger for seasoning. Esther then took a cloth, buttered it, and spooned the thick mixture into the cloth. She tied the bundle and placed it into the kettle of boiling water. The mixture needed to boil for about a half an hour, so Esther took a few minutes to relax and wait.

Sitting down on the high-backed elm settee next to the brick fireplace, Esther took in her surroundings. She loved this bright, cheery room. Her eyes went to the last rays of pale yellow sunshine slanting in through the four small windows that lined the walls. The soft light made small circles on the yellow oilcloth that covered the wood floor of the kitchen. Her eyes drifted to the plain Dutch table made of rosewood, where she kept the English tea setting that her mother had given to her long ago, and then she gazed at the four Windsor chairs that were painted green and had cushions of yellow woolen moreen. Looking at these brought a smile to her face, for there were many fond memories of the times spent with her family in those chairs. Esther lifted her eyes to the ceiling where strips of apples, peppers, and squash were hanging and now filled the room with their fragrant aroma.

Realizing it was almost time for the pudding to come out, Esther moved back across the room to the workstand, took up a small bowl, and began mixing the sauce for the pudding. She cut off a small portion of the butter, put it in the bowl, poured a little rosewater and sugar in, then began to beat the mixture with the wire whisk. As she was beating it, she glanced to the far end of the room where an oak dresser stood. Her eyes moved over the engraved pewter plates and cups and then to the top shelf. Esther stopped mixing for a moment. She seemed to relish the time as she looked at her most treasured dishes, a set of fine Chelsea plates, painted in soft shades in the center with a floral bouquet. Quickly she looked back down at the workstand and finished what she was doing. Then she walked over to the fireplace, removed the bundle from the boiling water, carried it over to the workstand, and opened it. Placing the hot pudding in a bowl, she poured the freshly made sauce over it and added a few blanched almonds.

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.