Over the Misty Mountains (15 page)

“Do not laugh. God will have His way with you.”

Somehow Hawk could not joke about this. He knew that his life had hung by a thread, and if the lieutenant had not fired at the exact moment he did, Cartier’s knife would have been buried in his heart. “I’m not making fun,” he said.

The two of them wandered over the interior of the fort, helping get the prisoners safely locked away. It was Sequatchie who said, “The Frenchman. He is gone.”

Startled, Hawk looked over to where the body of Cartier had lain and saw that his friend was right. “He was probably carried over to that shed where they’re seeing to the wounded.”

“We will see.”

Sequatchie led the way. When they entered the shed, they looked carefully at every wounded man but found only Indians.

“Doctor, did you treat a Frenchman?”

The doctor looked up. His arms were covered with blood up to his elbows, and he said with some surprise, “A Frenchman? No. Only the savages. I haven’t seen a Frenchman.”

Sequatchie stepped outside, followed closely by Hawk. The two searched the fort but found no trace of Jacques Cartier.

“I thought he was dead for sure.”

“He may have been carried off by some of his friends in the battle, but I think not,” Sequatchie said. “He bears a charmed life, almost like your own.”

“Do you think God is watching out for him like He is for me?” Hawk demanded.

Sequatchie shook his head. “There are other forces in the world besides the Jesus God. Cartier is under a dark shadow. You will see him again.”

The next day, Lieutenant Hurst once again asked Hawk to join the army. “Come along as a scout. You’ll be well paid,” he urged.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, but it’s not for me.” He stuck his hand out and said, “I’m proud to have served with you. I wish all the English officers were like you.”

The lieutenant’s pale face flushed, and he said only, “I trust that we will learn as we gain more experience in this land. It’s so unlike anything I’ve ever known. You would be a great help to me and, I think, to the Indians if you would stay.”

Sequatchie and Hawk left the fort the next day, and as they made their way back to Sequatchie’s village, the Indian said, “The French are practically defeated.”

“Yes.”

The two walked quietly, their eyes constantly searching ahead, and finally Hawk said, “Yes, the war will be over officially, I think.”

“It will be different for our people then. The settlers will come pouring over the land into these misty mountains. They will not fear the French any longer. And the Chickasaws and the Creeks will not fight for the French unless they are paid.”

“What will you do, Sequatchie?”

“I will go to my people, and I will continue to tell them that the Jesus way is our only hope.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will you come with me?”

Hawk hesitated a moment. “For a while, yes.” He put his hand on the shoulder of the tall Cherokee and said, “We’re brothers.”

Sequatchie’s eyes lit up, and he put his hand over the white one that gripped his shoulder. “No matter what happens, God will be in it, my friend.”

Part II

Elizabeth

April 1770-August 1770

And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee,
or to return from following after thee:
for whither thou goest, I will go;
and where thou lodgest, I will lodge:
thy people shall be my people,
and thy God my God.

Ruth 1:16

Chapter Nine

The Martins of Beacon Street

The library had become the favorite room of Elizabeth Martin MacNeal, and as she sat under the beams of bright April sunshine that flooded in from the windows that filled the north end of the room, she felt a sense of comfort and belonging that always came to her there. The light illuminated her wavy blond hair with its darker tones, which, instead of being worn up as was fashionable, fell just below her shoulders. She had pale green eyes, framed by long eyelashes, and her heart-shaped face and clear complexion were the envy of women ten years younger. At the age of thirty-three, she was one of those women who managed to retain the beauty she’d had at eighteen. Her figure was only slightly fuller than it had been when she was that age, and the dress she wore augmented it.

The dress was made of a taupe-and-salmon-striped silk and had a low square neckline trimmed with a satin edging. Cinnamon-colored bows ran down the front of the bodice to the skirt, which was full and divided in front to show off an elaborate underskirt of the same color. A decoration of taupe brocade flowed from the bodice into the skirt edges. The sleeves were tight fitting and came to the elbows, which ended with salmon-colored bows and white lace frills that fell over the lower arm. It was very stylish for any woman to wear in 1770.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the massive grandfather clock at the far end of the library and the scratching of Elizabeth’s pen on the pages of the ledger that lay before her. From time to time she would stop, study the numbers, and a tiny line would appear between her slightly arched eyebrows. Once, outside the window, a pair of mockingbirds engaged in some kind of an altercation. Elizabeth lifted her head and watched as they advanced and retreated from each other, raising their tails in the swift, jerky motion typical of these birds. A smile turned the corners of her lips upward, and she put the pen down and flexed her fingers to relieve the strain. As she did, she looked around the library and thought suddenly,
I never thought I’d be living in this house after I got married. I thought I’d have a little tiny house of my own. Just Patrick and me
.

The library was a small room with a window seat beneath each of the four windows. The wallpaper was flecked with green, gold, and red, and the floor matched with a green-and-gold Persian rug. A mahogany desk with an astral oil lamp was placed by one of the four windows and was flanked by two library chairs. Near the fireplace, at the end of the room, was a small table and a walnut sofa, which was adorned in a green-and-red-striped silk damask. It was a comfortable room, lived in and enjoyed, and this aura always pleased Elizabeth.

The frown between her eyes disappeared, and she put the thought away. She had talked about this for some time with Patrick before they had married, and finally they had decided that staying with her parents might be the best thing “for a while.” In the end, they stayed much longer than either of them thought, for now that Andrew was thirteen and Sarah would soon be ten, they had known no other home but the Martin mansion.

It had been a good arrangement, or so Elizabeth had always thought. The stately two-story colonial mansion had been the only home she had ever known, and Patrick had liked it well enough. It was nice to have servants, which she would not have had if she and Patrick had set up housekeeping for themselves alone. True enough, Patrick, from time to time, mentioned getting a place of their own, but so far he had not been insistent about it.

A sudden knock at the door brought Elizabeth’s head around, but before she had time to answer, the door burst open and two children were shoved into the room unceremoniously.

“Andrew—Sarah! What in the world—!”

The boy with a stocky build and a head of wavy blond hair advanced slowly, propelled insistently by a young woman. His clothes were covered with sticky red mud, and his shoes left reddish streaks on the Persian carpet. Even his hair seemed to be plastered down with the mess, and he hung his head, as if too ashamed to face his mother.

“Andrew! What happened to you?”

“I . . . I fell in the ditch, Mother.”

“Fell in the ditch?” Elizabeth rose and tossed the pen down on the desk. Advancing to the pair, she stopped in front of Andrew and said, “I never saw such a mess in all my life! Didn’t I tell you to be careful and not get close to that muddy ditch?”

“Yes, Mother.”

The answer came in a mutter, and when the boy raised his eyes, Elizabeth saw that they were filled with misery. His blue eyes usually sparkled, and now she could see that he was on the verge of tears.

“He didn’t fall into the ditch. Sarah pushed him in, Mrs. MacNeal,” said Rebekah, who was standing behind the children. A young woman of twenty-one, she wore the standard uniform approved by the Martins, Elizabeth’s parents. It was a plain black dress made of wool, and the neckline was cut high with a large white muslin collar that came to a point in the front and covered her shoulders. The sleeves were fitted to below the elbow and ended with stiff white cuffs. Over the dress she wore a plain apron that fell to the bottom of her long skirt. She had thick, long black hair and unusual eyes, almost the color of emeralds, wide-spaced and shaded with dark lashes. She had a very pretty face, and there was a sweetness about her that, at the moment, was covered with embarrassment and confusion. She obviously was disturbed about the unkempt condition of the young boy.

“Pushed him in! Did you do that, Sarah?”

Sarah MacNeal had some of the looks of her father, but those hints of her mother’s beauty were becoming more prevalent as she grew older. She had lustrous dark red hair like her father’s and the same heart-shaped face and green eyes as her mother. Even now, however, those green eyes flashed with anger as she turned to the maid. “You didn’t have to tell her, Rebekah!”

“Never mind that,” Elizabeth said. “Rebekah is responsible for you! Now answer the question. Did you push Andrew into the mud?”

“Yes, I did!”

Elizabeth was faintly shocked at the audacity of this daughter of hers. She had long observed that it was Andrew who had the obedient spirit that one admired in children, and Sarah had a streak of obstinacy that surfaced from time to time. She was not mean or wicked, by any means, but a strong willfulness appeared in her unexpectedly that sometimes exceeded mere playfulness.

“Well, you should be ashamed of yourself! Now look what you’ve done to your brother’s clothes! I want you to go to your room right this moment and stay there until I come up and have a talk with you! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Rebekah, you go with her and make certain that she stays there until I come up.”

“Yes, Mrs. MacNeal.”

The two left, and as soon as the door closed, Elizabeth looked at her son with compassion. She walked over now and reached out and touched the muddy, streaked hair. “What a mess you are,” she said with a smile.

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“It wasn’t your fault, and it’ll all wash off. I’ll tell you what. You go take a good bath and put on some clean clothes. When you get all cleaned up, you come back, and you and I will read some more in that book you like so much.”

The dejection seemed to fade from the boy, and the eyes regained some of their sparkle.

“Can we, Mother?”

“Of course we can. Now, you run along and let me finish my work.”

“All right, Mother.”

“And, Andrew . . .”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You mustn’t be upset with Sarah. She’s just . . . well, a little lively.”

“I know, Mother. It’s all right.”

Andrew turned and left the room, and Elizabeth looked down at the red muddy marks on the carpet, sighed deeply, then shook her head. “I don’t know what that girl’s coming to,” she said almost in despair. “I’ll have to ask Patrick to have a talk with her. She always listens to him more than she does to me.”

Going back to the desk, Elizabeth applied herself to the leather-bound journals that were open before her. Shortly a soft knock came at the door, and Elizabeth said, “Come in.”

Mrs. Martha Edwards, the housekeeper, opened the door and came in. The grandmother of Rebekah, she had been with the Martin household for many years and had been very happy when she had been able to secure a position for her granddaughter. Now approaching the desk, she asked quietly, “What shall we do about Sarah, Mrs. MacNeal?”

“Oh, we don’t want to punish her too much. Take her something in on a tray and let her stay in her room for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Edwards hesitated and said, “Rebekah felt very bad about it.”

“It wasn’t her fault. She does a good job with the children.” A smile came to Elizabeth’s lips. “I’m so glad she’s come to be with us, and I know she’s a lot of comfort and company for you, Martha.”

“Yes, ma’am, she is. She reminds me of George—like having him back, in a way, it is.” Martha Edwards’ only son and his son’s wife had died at sea when Rebekah was only two. Rebekah had stayed with her grandmother all these years and had grown up in the Martin household.

“Will there be any special instructions for dinner?”

“Just follow the menu I gave you, Martha. That will be fine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When the housekeeper left, once again Elizabeth went back to her bookkeeping. The long lines of figures somehow gave her pleasure. She had always been a great reader of novels and poetry but had discovered late in life that she was gifted in bookkeeping. Since then she had been giving some of her time to help manage the accounts of the family business.

She was soon so absorbed in her work that she lost track of the hour. Looking up with surprise, the door opened and her husband entered. “Patrick!” she said. She got up at once and ran over and put her arms around him. He kissed her on the cheek, then on the lips, and she reached up and arranged a lock of thick, curly dark red hair that was, as usual, unruly. He had bright blue eyes, and though he was lean, she felt the thick muscles from the hard work that he had known for most of his life. He had a rather thin face, with patches of freckles on both cheeks, and a broken nose that gave him a disreputable look. She said suddenly without thinking of it, “You know. I think you’re getting better looking as you get older.”

Patrick MacNeal, a cheerful man of thirty-three, laughed and kissed her again. “Good you should think so!” he said. “I’d hate for you to be married to an ugly old man.”

She traced the clean line of his jaw and said quietly, “I never told you this, but the first time I saw you unloading goods onto Father’s ship, I thought you were the handsomest young man I’d ever seen.”