River Passage
by p.m. terrell
Winner, 2010 Best Fiction and Drama Award, Bengal Book Reviews
Honorable Mention in 2010 General Fiction, Nashville Book Festival
"p.m.terrell's writing is strong and her research impeccable" - Midwest Book Review
"p.m.terrell's excellence in historical fiction and descriptive style compels me to coin her the next Larry McMurtry" - Maury County, TN Public Libraries
"River Passage is well written and terrell has a sharp eye for detail. A rich and inspiring story!" - Nashville Metropolitan Government Archives
"One of the best historical fiction books ever written." - Georgia Richardson, reviewer
"You'll be turning the pages as fast as you can." - NABBW
"Terrell expertly led me on the journey of a lifetime." - Bengal Book Reviews
"One of the most absorbing historical fiction reads ever enjoyed... there is no end of danger, action, suspense and real adventure to this wonderfully crafted book. Terrell is truly a force to be reckoned with." - Reviewer Pamela June Kimmell
"A brilliant work!" - Syndicated reviewer Cynthia Butler
"Description is Terrell's forte... Both sides of the story are told in Terrell's patented energized fashion. You'll be glued to every page!" - Between the Lines Reviews
River Passage
by p.m. terrell
Published by Drake Valley Press
USA
Copyright © 2009, P.I.S.C.E.S. Books, LTD.
All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written concept of P.I.S.C.E.S. Books, LTD.
ISBN 978-0-9728186-7-4 (eBook)
ISBN 978-0-9728186-0-5; 0-9728186-0-X (Trade soft cover)
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This Ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This Ebook may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Cover art by Bonnie Watson
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Author’s web site: www.pmterrell.com
OTHER BOOKS BY
p.m.terrell
DYLAN’S SONG (2013)
SECRETS OF A DANGEROUS WOMAN (2012)
VICKI’S KEY (2012)
THE BANKER’S GREED (2011)
EXIT 22 (2008)
SONGBIRDS ARE FREE (2007)
RICOCHET (2006)
THE CHINA CONSPIRACY (2003)
KICKBACK (2002)
TAKE THE MYSTERY OUT OF PROMOTING YOUR BOOK (2006)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to the following people and organizations who provided research, assistance, or editorial support:
Barbara Kimberlin Broach
Barbara Condrey
Ken Fieth, Metro Nashville Archives, Metro Archivist
Kenneth R. Johnson, Ph.D., Professor Emeritus of History, Florence, Alabama
Charles E. Moore, Florence, Alabama City Archeologist
John W. Neelley, Jr.
John W. Neelley, Sr.
Thomas Robertson
Donald Terrell, Sr.
D.E.Ward, Jr., M.D.
JoAnn Weakley of Historic Collinsville, Tennessee
Milly Wright
Forward
This is a work of historical fiction. It is based on true events as recorded in Colonel John Donelson’s Journal and other journals and records kept by the settlers who accompanied Colonel Donelson on his harrowing voyage of 1779-1780. Though it was necessary to use imagination to fill in details and provide dialogue, I attempted at all times to remain historically accurate.
Prologue
Sycamore Shoals, The Watauga Settlement, 1775
They appeared at dawn, rising like apparitions through the mist. The morning dew clung to their bronzed bodies as their sinewy arms sliced paddles through the water in a rhythmic motion borne of hours of toil. They moved silently on the glistening current, their black eyes alert, ever searching for others along the shore and in the gathering canoes. When at last they rounded the final bend, they were greeted with the ghostly vision of braves pulling ashore, their lean, taut bodies gliding out of the vessels, their flat, bare feet touching the cold ground without leaving as much as a footprint on the pristine shore. The canoes were lined up wordlessly, their wooden bodies pressed side by side as dozens and then hundreds gathered.
The men greeted one another with a quiet nod, their eyes meeting for the briefest of moments before they began trotting through the thickening woods. Their figures seemed to morph from the very tree trunks that concealed them into a forest that came alive with their bodies, the branches swaying ever so slightly as they completed a journey across lands where their forefathers’ spirits still roamed.
Their feet found the paths as if they had minds of their own, as if their toes could see the brambles and pine straw stretched out before them, freeing their dark, brooding eyes to stare straight ahead at the scores of men before them. They knew without so much as a glance behind them that others followed in their steps, and that all would gather at the place the white men called Sycamore Shoals for what could become the greatest meeting in their lifetimes.
The dawn seared the sky with an intense red as the sun broke from the earth and began to rise, burning off the morning dew and leaving the bodies to bask in the warmth as they converged.
The white men awaited them, their bodies clad in buckskin from deer shot on land that had once belonged to the natives, land they had long ago been driven from but to which many vowed to return. As the Indians slowed toward the entrance to the white men’s village, a place they called Fort Watauga, their alert eyes noted the women were absent, sent to neighboring towns while the leaders gathered; or perhaps others remained inside their strange wood homes, occasionally venturing an inquisitive, fearful glance through partly drawn curtains.
The white men cautiously greeted them at the fort, gesturing toward the meeting house where red men and white gathered, telling those who understood the English language that the talks would begin as soon as they were assembled.
Noquali moved swiftly past these strange buildings that seemed to spring out of the ground overnight throughout their lands, steadily driving them from their own villages and further westward. The son of a Cherokee brave and a captured Shawnee squaw, he spent much of his time journeying between the villages now, listening to the growing debates concerning the encroaching white men and readying himself for the constant skirmishes that erupted between them. He was a young man who felt his destiny to become a great warrior, a man who had become increasingly impatient with the elders’ talk of treaties and peace.
Fires blazed throughout the fort with whole carcasses of deer and boar clinging to great spits above the flames; meat that would be devoured at sunset, once the talks were done and decisions had been made.
As he approached the meeting hall, he glanced about him at the others. They had come from all directions—the Shawnee, the Delaware, and the Wyandot—but the treaty would officially occur between the white men and the Cherokee, who lay claim to the lands the newcomers wanted. In other times and on other days, he would have painted his face and gathered his weapons against these lesser tribes, but today the elders sought to set aside their centuries-old warfare and join together to negotiate as one.
Noquali could not recall a time when the white man had not been part of his life although he had grown from a young boy to manhood listening to his elders speak of those days. There had been in this great, vast land hundreds of tribal nations, stretching from river to river and from one mountain range to the other, nations that for centuries had coexisted, sometimes in uneasy friendship and often in war.
The ground itself belonged not to the living but to the spirits. Those entities whispered through the valleys and created the winds, made their lands fertile with crops, and sent animals fleet of foot and tender of flesh into their domain. The rivers and streams were the tongues of the spirits, sometimes lashing out in anger but often rolling gently with cool, crisp water to quench their thirst.
The native villages were erected on carefully chosen sites with proper respect paid to the spirits. But now those spirits were cast aside or defiled by these newcomers with their strange customs and wood forts. Many times Noquali had sat erect on his black stallion, peering from the crest of the mountains as the white men gathered in the valley below, claiming the land as their own as if it had never belonged to anyone else before them.
They came with different tongues, and those that spoke the language called French did not like those who spoke English, and they frequently clashed and conspired against each other, as the Cherokee and the Shawnee had done in these same lands.
Each sought alliances, but their promises wavered like the wind through the valley. Their treaties were of no value, their commitments useless, as time and again they forced the natives further from their ancestral homes.
And yet they were converging again to sign yet another treaty. Noquali’s blood ran hot as he gathered with the others outside the meeting hall, his eyes brushing the surrounding terrain. The ones who called themselves the Watauga Settlers had agreed to remain east of the great mountain ranges, and yet here they were, squarely amidst them, encroaching once more on Cherokee lands. His nostrils flared as he watched the elders seated outside the meeting hall, befriending the white men as if all was well.
A tall man with thick black hair made his way to the center of the gathering and began to speak. He called himself James Robertson, but he spoke not with the tongue of the British but with a flatter tone, one the Cherokee had come to recognize as the settlers who fought against the British. As Noquali made his way closer to the tribal elders, he studied the angular shape of the white man’s jaw, his erect, almost regal bearing, and his confident words.
It wasn’t the first time Noquali had encountered this leader of white men. He had run across him time and again on the trails between the mountains and the fertile hills many moons west of this place. He had remembered him not for his willingness to trade and for his quest for peace but for his amazing eyes: they were blue, as vivid and fiery as the skies on a stormy summer evening. Noquali had to fight to keep from staring into those eyes, and he wondered what type of people grew eyes in blues and greens, the colors of the skies and the fertile, rolling valleys.
He lightly brushed the arm of another Cherokee. Their eyes met and they nodded in a silent greeting. He knew the pockmarked face well, as did all of the Indians who gathered here: it was Dragging Canoe.
He remained beside him, as they were kindred spirits: like Noquali, Dragging Canoe’s father had also been of mixed Cherokee and Shawnee blood but his mother had been of the Natchez tribe. His face was pockmarked due to a curse the white men had brought with them, a curse that had killed many natives in their prime as well as children who had never known a full life. The curse had created fevers among them and painful pustules that left lifelong scars on those who survived. The warriors had been powerless against this curse that swept into their villages on a breath of wind, and so, too, had been the medicine men.
While the elders had sought peace with the newcomers, often abandoning land that rightly belonged to them, Dragging Canoe had become an increasingly vocal opponent to the white men’s encroachment upon their territories. He was a fierce warrior, known in battle to be both fearless and merciless. He was well traveled and knew the English language as Noquali did; they also traded with the French, who used the lands for hunting and as furriers, often setting up stores in Indian villages, selling or trading trinkets the likes of which he’d never before laid eyes upon. They did not take away their land or drive them from their villages, and if Dragging Canoe and Noquali’s urgings were followed, they would ally with the French.
But on this day, they both listened with growing trepidation that gave way to silent anger as their own elders sold land that had been in their families since the rise of the Great Spirit. They listened as this man with the blue eyes spoke of peace with the Cherokee and even of friendship. He held a paper high above his head for all to see, a paper he called a treaty that would give all of the Cherokee lands to the white man from the mountain ranges to the mighty river they called the Mississippi. Another man they called Henderson frequently interjected, smiling as he pointed and spoke of the paper they would call the Treaty of Sycamore Shoals.
And in return for the transfer of land, the white men agreed not to fight the Cherokee but to live in peace.
Noquali could feel his cheeks growing hot. His eyes burned as he glared at the white men, standing tall and proud as the Cherokee elders sat hunched and quiet as mice. It enraged him that their people had been led down this path of submission; that the lands their families had fought for and died for had come down to a piece of paper that amounted to surrender.
He ground his teeth and turned to leave in disgust when a strong voice stopped him. He watched as Dragging Canoe moved toward the center of the meeting, the Indians of all tribes silently parting as this great warrior passed by them.
Robertson and Henderson stopped speaking. Their eyes darted around the throngs of Indians, and several white men reached toward their guns. Instinctively, Noquali placed his hand on the handle of the long knife suspended from his waistband.
Robertson held up his hand and the white men appeared to relax, but Noquali remained at the ready as Dragging Canoe began to speak.
“The Great Spirit frowns upon this day,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “and this lack of leadership of the Cherokee people.” The elders refused to look Dragging Canoe in the eyes; a sign of disrespect, Noquali thought, further fueling his ire. “It was said when we lived east of the great mountains if we agreed to give up those lands to the white man, we could live in peace on the western side. And yet these men defy not only the treaty with the Cherokee but also the laws of their own men, which forbid them from settling here.”
Richard Henderson answered in a calm voice, “Those laws are the King’s laws, and we do not recognize the King of England as our leader. That they forbid us to live here is of no significance to us. We are free men.”
“I have not met this king of which you speak. But I have seen the white men come to the shores of the great waters and promise not to advance. Then they push us further to the west until the mountains are against our backs, and they tell us everything from the mountains to the waters is now theirs. We have agreed time and again, placing our mark upon these papers you hold forth, to live in peace, to divide our lands between the red men and the white. And yet time and time again, the white man breaks their promises. Time and again, they push us further and further from our homes, the homes of our fathers.”
Robertson stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Dragging Canoe ignored him. He turned to the tribes gathered around them, inquiring, “What makes each of you believe—each of our elders believe—that this time will be any different? Now this paper tells us we must move further to the west, further than many of us have ever traveled, so these men can take our crops, can hunt the animals that are rightly ours, to live in the villages that we have lived and died to call our own.”
He turned back to the elders. When he continued, his words came so viciously that he spat upon them. “I will not abide by this new treaty. Whole Indian Nations have melted away like snowballs in the sun before the white man’s advance. They leave scarcely a name of our people except those wrongly recorded by their destroyers.”
He paced in front of them. “Where are the Delaware?” he demanded, waving his hand at the handful of Delaware Indians interspersed throughout the crowd. “They have been reduced to a mere shadow of their former greatness. We had hoped the white men would not be willing to travel beyond the mountains. Now that hope is gone. They have passed the mountains, and have settled here, upon Cherokee land. Now they wish to have that usurpation sanctioned by this treaty.”
He paused to glare at Henderson and Robertson before continuing, “When that is gained, the same encroaching spirit will lead them upon other Cherokee lands. New cessions will be asked until everything the Cherokees and their fathers have so long occupied will be demanded, and the remnant of the Ani Yvwiya, The Real People, once so great and formidable, will be compelled to seek refuge in some distant wilderness.”
The crowds were beginning to mumble among themselves. Noquali was relieved that at least one Cherokee chief had the courage to say what many of them had felt for so long. Dragging Canoe continued, his vehemence growing, “There they will be permitted to stay only a short while, until they again behold the advancing banners of the same greedy host. And without any further retreat for the miserable Cherokee nation, the extinction of our race will be proclaimed.”
A collective gasp ran through the crowd. Dragging Canoe glared at the white men before turning back to the Indians. “Should we not therefore run all risks, and incur all consequences, rather than to submit to further loss of our country?” Without waiting for a response, he turned and faced the elders again. “Such treaties may be alright for men who are too old to hunt or fight. As for me,” he said, his eyes locking with Noquali’s, “I have my young warriors about me. We will hold our land.”
He strode to the edge of the circle. “I will not honor this treaty,” he announced. “I swear to all those here and to all those we represent: the white man will never live in peace here. Let the rivers run red with their blood!”
Chapter 1
Virginia, 1779
Mary Neely sat on the floor at the top of the stairs, her swan-like neck arched forward as she strained to hear the men below.
The shadows grew long in the upstairs hallway as the sound of her younger brothers and sisters began to breathe in the rhythm of sleep; but Mary and her friend Hannah Stuart remained awake and alert. The two girls, both eighteen years old, looked more like sisters than friends: both were slight in stature with firm jaw lines and high cheekbones. Mary’s hair was settling into a soft brunette after a summer of sun-streaked highlights, while Hannah’s had more of a copper tone. They both had the mischievous light green eyes of the Scots-Irish, a becoming trait that was not lost on many.
They sat enraptured at the railing, huddled on the floor in their thin cotton gowns, their knees gathered beneath their chins and their arms wrapped around their ankles, watching and listening to the men below.
It was a meeting they had long anticipated, a culmination that had really begun a year earlier with a surprise visit from Colonel James Robertson, an old friend of Mary’s father, Will, who delighted them with tales of his adventures in the west, of pristine wilderness and rolling hills there for the taking, of game so plentiful one only had to open the door and shoot without ever leaving the threshold. He spoke of a moon so large, he felt as if he could reach up and touch it; of waters so crisp and clear that livestock and men alike thrived upon it.
And in the weeks and months that followed, visits became more frequent; some from men Mary knew and others who were strangers. And along with the tales of adventure were new enticements for Pa to travel west to this new Eden.
He eventually acquiesced, leaving Mary’s oldest brother Ike in charge of the joint operations of the family’s cattle ranch and tobacco farm while he journeyed westward to see this new frontier with his own eyes. And upon his return, there were muffled conversations with Ma, discussions that went deep into the night when the children were presumed to be sleeping.
Mary lay awake those nights, listening to them and staring at the ceiling in their two-story home, catching bits of their conversation in between the breathing of her siblings, Jean and Beth, who shared her room. There were ten Neely children, ranging in age from Jean, the oldest at twenty-four to Jane, the youngest, who wasn’t quite three; six girls and four boys living in a two-story home that was large by anyone’s standards, living lives destined for success and wealth.
Now James Robertson was back, this time accompanied by several men, including Colonel John Donelson and a family friend, Tom Stuart. Neighbors from as far away as the Clinch River converged at the Neely house, mixing an autumn picnic with talk of more serious matters, matters concerning a migration westward.
“The cattle will be taken overland,” Captain Robertson was saying as they gathered around a map. “I will be your guide, though Will Neely has been there often enough to assist me in the route. We’ll leave in early December and arrive at Fort Nashborough before Christmas.”
“Why not wait until spring?” Tom asked. At the sound of her father’s voice, Hannah leaned forward and listened more intently.
“Indians,” Pa said. His thick black hair caught the candlelight as he leaned toward the others. He was in his 40’s but as fit as one half his age. He was an educated landowner who wasn’t afraid of a hard day’s work and had easily gained the respect of his fellowmen. “There are fewer attacks in the winter months,” he was saying. “And with the leaves gone from the trees and the underbrush dead, we’ll be able to see more of our route ahead.”
“But the Indians,” Tom pressed, “they have joined us in peace. Haven’t the Cherokee sold their claim to the Cumberlands?”
“Yes,” a tall man said, moving into the group.
“Captain John Blackmore,” Hannah whispered to Mary. Her voice had a touch of awe in it.
Mary watched in fascination as the others parted to make room for him. He stood a full head taller than most of them. His shoulders were broad and he appeared fit enough to fell trees by himself. His hair was long and had a slight wave to it, and though it was black like her father’s, it was coarser and wilder. His complexion was almost olive, and as he moved into the light cast by the candles, Mary was surprised to see that he was much younger than her father and most of the others.
“Richard Henderson convinced the Cherokee four years ago to sell their land,” he was saying. “They use it as hunting grounds, and through our agreement they continue to frequent the area. We will live in peace among them.”
“Then why should we fear Indian attacks?”
“One tribe refused to sign the agreement. Their leader, Dragging Canoe, still attacks the settlers moving westward. But there’s no need to fear them; if we encounter them at all, it would only be in passing, as we will not be settling in their parts.”
“Gentlemen,” Captain Robertson interjected, “Captain Blackmore will not be accompanying us on the overland trip. Rather, he will lead the families from Fort Blackmore and the Clinch River region by water.” He pointed at the map and waited for the others to follow the route he drew with his finger. “He will move along the Clinch River on flatboats, and will join up with John Donelson here, on the Tennessee River.”
At the mention of his name, all eyes turned to Colonel Donelson. In contrast with Blackmore, he was shorter, his spine rounded and his physique slight; his hair had long ago turned gray and his face had a weathered, permanently woebegone expression. He was well respected, however, as a former member of the Virginia House of Burgesses and was treated as a senior statesman.
“We have flatboats being built as we speak,” Donelson said in a rapid-fire voice. “Many of you here tonight will accompany me from Fort Patrick Henry…Captain Robertson’s family will accompany my own on my boat, The Adventure, as well as Robert Cartwright and his family.
“Will, your family will also travel by boat; you will need to appoint someone to take charge of them.”
“I will take charge.”
Mary’s eyes searched the floor below for the source of the voice. From the shadows in a corner of the room emerged her mother. She was the only female but as she marched into the center of the gathering, Mary knew she was a force to be reckoned with. She was as tall as Pa, and unlike Mary, she was big-boned and buxom. She had copper hair that could make her visible from a quarter mile away, and she had a habit of fixing her eyes upon a person as if daring them to disagree—and they usually didn’t.
Colonel Donelson looked to Pa to interject but when he didn’t, he cleared his throat. “Now, Maggie, you know we need a man’s name.”
“Why?” she demanded, crossing her arms in front of her. “You don’t think I’m capable of managing my own family?”
Several men backed away while the others became acutely interested in their shoes or the flooring. Mary and Hannah leaned forward with growing excitement.
“That’s not it,” the Colonel said, forcing his most agreeable voice, “that’s just the way it’s done. You know that.”
“Demanding a man’s name is a silly custom concocted by a man.”
“Just for now,” Pa said, stepping forward and placing his hand on the small of her back, “let’s use Ike’s name. Just to keep things moving along here.”
With the mention of his name, twenty-one year old Ike stepped forward. He was taller than Pa and more slightly built but he was solid. His black hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven. He walked with the air of a man accustomed to conquering hard work with ease, but his true love lay with law books. He stopped when he reached the Colonel. “I am up to the challenge,” he said with confidence and pride.
“Good,” Donelson said, pulling up a chair. A quill pen and inkwell were quickly brought to the table. Isaac Neely, he wrote on a piece of paper adjacent to the map.
Even from this distance, Mary knew Ma’s lips were pursed and they had yet to hear the end of this matter.
“We will have to determine who else will begin the journey with me,” Colonel Donelson was saying, “and who will accompany Captain Blackmore.”
Hannah’s father stepped forward. “My family and I will begin at the Clinch River with the Captain,” he said.
Mary’s and Hannah’s eyes met. “You’ll be with the Captain,” Mary said conspiratorially. “He’s young and handsome.”
Hannah slapped at her. “Stop it, Mary Neely,” she said with a wide grin. But when she returned to hugging her legs, she sighed deeply. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Moving? I don’t know. I’m going to miss it here.” Mary’s eyes followed the stairs to the room below, where the men were lined up to place their names on one list or the other. “George says his family won’t be moving.”
“George Spears?” Hannah asked. Her mouth turned downward. “He hasn’t asked you for your hand yet?”
Mary shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, “but I am sure it’s only a matter of time.” She eyed Captain Blackmore; his shoulders and broad back reminded her of George, though the latter had sandy hair and gray-green eyes, a testament to his German ancestry. His father, Old Man Spears, owned a tobacco farm nearby; Mary would miss hearing his thick accent.
“We’re going to love it at Fort Nashborough,” Hannah was saying. “It’s going to be so exciting, traveling so far. And a riverboat journey, at that! Think of the adventures we’ll be able to tell our grandchildren! The mountains we’ll see, the people we’ll meet… It’s going to be Heaven on Earth, Mary Neely, I can feel it. I can feel it in my bones.”
Mary watched her friend’s face glowing with excitement. Despite her own reservations, she forced herself to smile. She wouldn’t dare extinguish Hannah’s enthusiasm, even if something was nagging at her soul, threatening to extinguish her own.
Chapter 2
Pa left on a crisp fall day in early November when the trees were barren and the sky had turned a wintry gray-blue. It had been a bittersweet parting; there was an excitement in the air as their herd of three hundred cattle was readied to head toward Fort Patrick Henry, but Mary’s heart was heavy with the months they would be apart.
“Let me go with you, Pa,” she’d begged that morning. “I can help drive the cattle and cook for you, too.”
He brushed a lock of hair from her brow and smoothed her hair. “You know you’ll always be my favorite,” he whispered.
“Please, Pa, let me go with you.”
He smiled at her with that ready grin that brightened his entire face, but his eyes were somber. “River travel is easier,” he said, “and safer. You’ll cover much more ground in a boat than we will on land.”
“But—”
“We’ll be together on Christmas Day, Mary. I promise.”
She waited until he said his good-byes to the rest of the family and to neighbors and friends who had come out on this chilly morn to see him off. Then she walked with him to his horse, a beautiful buckskin with a coat the color of a gold coin and a mane and tail as jet black as Pa’s hair. She tightened his packs, though they were already tight, as he mounted.
“Be good,” he said, gathering the reins in his hands. “Keep your head down.”
“What does that mean?” she asked quizzically.
He didn’t answer but looked at her briefly before turning the horse and clicking his heels. She watched in silence as he rode away with three able-bodied farm hands, their voices calling to the cattle dogs as they rode out of sight.
“Mary,” a gentle voice interrupted her thoughts.
She turned to face George Spears. “George.”
He took off his hat, though the wind had a sharp chill to it, and kneaded the brim in his beefy hands. “I know you’ll miss your pa,” he said at last.
“I wish I could have gone with him,” she said wistfully. “I don’t understand it; about three hundred people are to be in Captain Robertson’s expedition. They’ll need meals prepared and clothes washed…”
“He loves you, Mary,” he said. “They’ll have other cattle to herd, as well as sheep and other livestock. It won’t be an easy trip.”
“Hard work never put a scare in me,” she said.
“Still,” he said, his voice growing quieter, “it gives us more time together. I—I’m not relishing the thought of you being away from me, Mary.”
“Oh?” she said, tilting her head coquettishly. “And what will you miss the most?”
He looked into her eyes for a long time. “Your voice,” he said finally. “Your voice in the Sunday meetin’, singin’. I’ve always loved the sound of your voice.”
The noise of the men and the cattle faded to nothing more than a whisper on the wind. She pulled her shawl closer about her neck. “Will you join me there, George? At Fort Nashborough?”
A slow blush crept over his broad face. “I’ll be joining you, Mary. You can count on it. Just as soon as I’m able, I aim to join the Virginia militia and head west to be near you.”
“Pa says Fort Nashborough will be claimed as Virginia Territory, and somebody’s already there to protect it.”
“George Rogers Clark,” George said. “He’s been gathering up men in these parts, and I aim to join him. Might be next spring, after the tobacco is planted.”
A sharp wind sent a chill up her spine and she shivered. She realized the others had already gone inside. “I best get with the others,” she said. “Will you be joining us for supper?”
He walked with her toward the house. “I’ll be back, Mary Neely, tonight and every night until you’re gone. And I hope—” his voice came fast and low “—I hope the time creeps by for us so every minute feels like forever.”
In the days after Pa left, the time flew faster than the birds heading south. Folks said the number of flocks heralded the approach of a lengthy, hard winter ahead. But Mary barely noticed them as the Neely house was abuzz with activity; they were up before dawn and climbed into bed exhausted at the end of long days. Ma acted like a general commanding the Neely clan, and her efficiency had a dramatic effect.
A flatboat, a boat the likes of which Mary had never seen before, was being built for them. It would become their home for the travel westward. She would lay eyes on it for the first time when they reached Fort Patrick Henry; to Ma’s chagrin, it would not be until December, weeks beyond their original plans. It would contain a cabin half the size of their current home, so their days were filled with cleaning and clearing the house and paring down their belongings, taking only those things necessary to start their new life.
As November came to a close and December began, a sharp wind blew in from the north, bringing ice and snow. Mary lay awake at night, listening to the wind howling outside her window and watching the frost accumulate upon the panes. She huddled deeper under the down covers as the embers in the fireplace died away, shivering until morning when she arose and helped her sisters ignite it once again.
As Christmas approached, the snowdrifts rose as high as her knees, the bitter cold biting into her face as she made her way to the barn each morning to feed the chickens.
Folks began to remark that they had never seen a winter become this cold so early in the season. And try though she might, she couldn’t help but wonder if she ought to listen to an urge rising up inside her, an urge to remain where she was. It didn’t bode well, this unusually cold and bitter winter. It didn’t bode well at all.
Chapter 3
December 22, 1779
Mary awakened in the semi-gloom before dawn. She’d been dreaming of her mattress stuffed with soft down, of sitting up and leisurely stretching before stepping onto the hardwood floor in a real house.
But as she awakened, she realized her nose was so numb that she feared it might have become frost-bitten. And when she burrowed her head beneath the cover, she found herself staring at her sister Jean’s stocking feet. She rolled onto her back, knowing if she turned to her other side she would be staring at Beth’s feet instead.
Her dreams were replaced with the reality of the crowded mattress on their first night aboard their flatboat. They had two mattresses in the confined area, upon which eleven people slept. In Mary’s bed, seven females slumbered; Mary, two sisters and Ma with their heads at one end while three sisters slept with their heads at the opposite end. To afford them each more room, they were alternated with feet in between each head.
The boys fared slightly better; since there were only four of them, there were two headed one way and two headed the other. But though the youngest, Johnny, was only six years old, he had a tendency to turn sideways during the night, kicking his brothers in his sleep until they awakened and turned him right-side again.
But as cramped as they were, Mary did not relish the thought of climbing out from under the warm covers and facing the December frost.
Christmas was only three days away and they had yet to leave sight of Fort Patrick Henry.
They had arrived at the fort weeks ago, fully expecting their flatboat to be there awaiting them. Instead, they found dozens of families in disarray and the flatboats not yet built. They relied on the kind hearts and open doors of the people living at the fort that took them in and shared their meals, their beds, and the warmth of their fires. But as the days crept past, their living accommodations seemed to grow smaller and their hosts’ patience shorter. Tempers flared as days turned into weeks. And as the weather turned ever more frigid, one couldn’t go anywhere without hearing coughs that seemed to rattle inside weary chests and sniffles that turned into raging colds that passed from one to another like wildfire.
Mary joined the church choir and tried to settle into somewhat of a routine, as each of her brothers and sisters found meaningful activities to keep them occupied as time crawled by.
Letters were sent back and forth between Colonel Donelson and Captain Blackmore, and Mary took the opportunity to write to Hannah. She’d received her response only two days before; they were also without boats, and the treacherous cold had moved into Fort Blackmore as well. But in Hannah’s perpetually positive manner, she was certain the delay would be to their advantage. She was still counting the days, though, that their glorious adventure would begin and as Mary had read her words, she could envision the gleam in her friend’s eyes. It had been like a ray of sunshine amidst the growing squalor of their encampment.
The boats were readied only yesterday, and all their pent-up energy seemed to be spent at once as the fort became a flurry of activity. They excitedly packed their belongings and carried them to what would become their floating home.
Mary didn’t think she would ever forget the look on Ma’s face when she saw the boat for the first time. It wasn’t half the size of their former home, as they’d been told; it wasn’t even a fourth as large.
“It’s barely larger than a raft,” Ma had said, her voice quivering with apprehension.
“A raft is a dang sight bigger,” Mary’s brother Sam had declared.
Ma’s lips were pursed and her brow furrowed as she inspected their temporary home. She was uncharacteristically quiet, something that wasn’t lost on Mary.
Mary understood how the flatboat got its name; it was perfectly flat but for one room built in the middle of it. Under Ma’s direction, they’d spent the day trying to pack and repack the single room with all their possessions, but in the end, they gave away or sold half of all they’d brought. It was many of the larger pieces that they were forced to unload: the couch overstuffed with duck down, the leather hand-sewn in Great Britain; the dining table that seated twelve; and all but two of the dining chairs. Then each Neely child from the oldest to the youngest had to select two of their personal items to give up. Mary selected her writing table, as it took up the most room, and the dainty chair that went with it. And as she watched it being carted away by its new owner, she reminded herself as her heart sank there would be other writing tables in her future, once they reached their own version of the Promised Land.
In the end, most of the room was packed tight with the food and belongings they would need for the trip. Only the area large enough for the two mattresses was set aside as living space for the entire Neely family on their river journey.
They’d spent the night within sight of the fort, their first night with eleven of them piled together upon two mattresses. And now, with the first light peeking around the edge of the small cabin door they called a hatch, they began to stir.
A man’s voice called out in anger, followed by the shrill voice of a woman. Mary glanced across the room at her brothers just as Ike reached for his pistol.
They scrambled out of bed already fully clothed, converging on the hatch at the same time. Ma opened it, holding her gun close to her skirts. She stood for a brief moment, her head cocked and listening.
“It’s the Jennings,” she whispered. Her voice sounded as if she were in wonderment at the husband and wife arguing so loudly that their voices carried from one flatboat to the next.
Sam brushed past. “I’ll be in the outhouse, makin’ my own noises,” he grumbled as he climbed down from the boat. Unlike his older brother Ike, his hair was long and had a tendency to look unkempt, the brown locks curling slightly as they went this way and that. He enjoyed hard work, driving cattle and breaking horses, and he’d been as disappointed as Mary that Pa had not taken him on the overland journey. Now he buttoned his suspenders and pulled them up as he headed toward the woods.
Mary stepped onto the slick deck, trying to steady herself even as she assisted the smallest Neely children. The voices from the next boat were growing louder and more insistent and despite herself, she found herself listening intently to their words.
“I’m not going,” Mr. Jennings was saying. “That’s that.”
“Oh, yes, you are going,” Mrs. Jennings screeched. “You’re not throwing away our lives based on a silly little dream!”
“It wasn’t a ‘silly little dream’! It was a premonition, I tell you, an omen! We didn’t reach Fort Nashborough—we were attacked, some of us were killed and others captured!”
Mrs. Jennings snorted loudly, and the Neely’s mottled hound, Patches, began to bark. Ma immediately quieted him, and as Mary’s eyes met hers, she realized Ma had been listening as intently as she.
“I’ve given up everything we had,” Mrs. Jennings’ voice was shrill. “My beautiful home, my servants, all of my fine clothes and furniture—my flower gardens, my carriage—everything! And now that it’s all gone, you want me to turn back? And what, pray tell, would I go back to? Some other woman is in my house now! Someone else is riding my mare, someone else is wearing my clothes! You promised me more than I ever had here, if only I trusted you and went to Nashborough—”
“Mr. Jennings is in hell,” Mary’s brother Billy whispered hoarsely, “he’s lost everything he owned but he still has his wife.”
Mary rolled her eyes.
“Hush,” Ma hissed.
“I’m asking you to trust me now,” Mr. Jennings was saying. “Don’t go! We don’t have to—!”
“But, Daddy,” Mary recognized the voice of Mr. Jennings’ oldest daughter, Elizabeth, “I will have to go. My husband is arriving at Fort Nashborough any day now, along with Mr. Neely and Mr. Robertson—”
Mary glanced at Ma. At the sound of her husband’s name, her face grew crimson. Mary wondered if she was sick with worry over Pa’s fate and his overland journey.
“And I’m with child, Daddy,” Elizabeth continued, “you know that! I have to go—I can’t stay here without my husband, my dear Ephraim—and I want Momma to be with me when my time comes. I’ll need her!”
The arguing continued unabated, but now others were beginning to emerge from their boats. And all were beginning to look not toward the Jennings boat, but toward the rear of the fleet.
A man bundled in layers of clothing and thick black boots was striding briskly along the shoreline, calling out to each boat and rapping on the side of the hulls. Ike rushed to the stern and listened as the man approached.
“We’re taking off for the Cumberlands!” he called back to them.
Within the hour, the entire Neely clan was pushing away from shore. As far as Mary could see, there were flatboats filled with families, servants, dogs, and a few livestock, all moving out of sight of Fort Patrick Henry. Patches yipped gleefully as they pushed away; his barking was picked up by dogs in other boats as if they were speaking to one another. It made for a noisy but exciting start to their journey.
Each family had been compelled to appoint two members for flatboat training, and Ma and Ike had represented the Neely clan. Upon their return from class each day, they had instructed the others how to steer, push away from shore, and navigate the waters even while their boat stood perfectly still. On top of the cabin were two long poles called tillers—one that reached over the bow and the other extending over the stern. The one in the rear actually steered the boat but in the event they got turned around in the river, they could switch to the other side so the bow and the stern became interchangeable. Ike and Sam were at the top, which they called the bridge, and from their high vantage point, they could see down into the water.
Mary and Billy stood along one side with long poles, which they used to push the boat from shore and help guide it toward the center of the river where the current was strongest. Jean and Beth were on the opposite side, hopefully working in tandem with the others, while Ma remained at the bow.
This was Mary’s first chance to actually churn the water with her pole, and she felt the excitement welling up in her throat as the vessel complied and began moving steadily westward.
She turned back toward the fort and watched as the Jennings boat cast off from shore, Mr. Jennings valiantly steering the boat toward the current. It had been a losing battle, Mary thought, fighting against two women. But as they moved further from the fort and from civilization itself, she hoped Mr. Jennings was wrong and his dream really hadn’t been an omen of things to come.
Chapter 4
February 27, 1780
Mary couldn’t remember when she’d ever been this cold as she made her way along a meandering path from makeshift outhouses to the boats, which were hopelessly locked by ice at the mouth of Cloud’s Creek. They had managed to get far enough from Fort Patrick Henry to prevent the logical decision to turn back, but were now more than two months behind in their journey. Fort Nashborough felt like a million miles—and just as many years—away.
The trees were bent low with naked branches encapsulated in thick sheets of ice. As she slipped along the icy path, she found herself jumping each time a great branch cracked with the added weight. A moment later, it would hurtle to the forest floor with a great thud. What was more frightening was when the crack was followed by sheer silence; at such times, she would peer upward only to find the orphaned branch had become lodged within the limbs of other trees, perhaps to fall at a later time.
As she tried to hurry along the path, she felt irritated at how far they had placed the outhouses from the boats, although she knew in her heart it had made logical sense. But she felt isolated and vulnerable in this great, strange forest and she longed to be back among her family.
She heard another crack but she halted immediately, her heart thudding inside her chest with a growing viciousness. This one had come not from overhead but from the ground, as though someone had stepped on a piece of timber and broken it.
“Who goes there?” she called out.
A lone bird flew upward from the trees, its feathers pitiful in the biting cold and for a brief moment, she wondered how it would survive the winter. But in the next instant, she heard another crack and then another.
She turned, narrowing her eyes as if she could focus more easily past the gray trunks and inhospitable forest floor. “Who goes there?” she called again.
She spotted a head disappearing behind a tree and a flash of a long feather extending beyond it.
She turned back to the path and hurried along, her shoe soles too slick for the icy terrain, and she gasped as she almost tumbled into a tree. She heard more cracking sounds behind her and she turned to look even as she continued moving toward the shore. It was unmistakable now; the person was wearing a band of some sort with feathers protruding from it. She was unable to see the body, as it remained hidden behind the trees, but the headdress seemed to tilt this way and that as if it was mocking her.
Her feet moved faster now and she grabbed at the branches as she hastened along. In her growing urgency to reach her boat, the trees helped more than once to keep her from falling flat on her face. Her heart was thumping wildly and the terrain below began to swim before her.
She burst into a small clearing that overlooked the river. She could see the boats below, the people milling about and the shoreline dotted with fires in preparation for the evening meal. Gulping a great breath of frigid air, she filled her lungs and prepared to scream.
A figure jumped in front of her and for a moment, she could only see a flash of long, white feathers and a black robe covering the man from his shoulders to his ankles. But when her scream reached her lips, it was replaced with a shout: “Billy!”
Her younger brother doubled up with laughter.
Mary wanted to slap him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I found this here set of feathers in the woods,” he said, still roaring with laughter. “Scared you, huh?”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What if I’d had a gun? I’d ‘ve shot you, that’s what.” She pushed past him and continued down the path.
“I got you good,” he chortled as he followed.
She stopped and stared at him. He’d turned thirteen years old at Fort Patrick Henry. He’d shot up at least a foot in the previous year and was almost as tall as Ike, but there the resemblance faded. His hair was sandy, turning blond in the summer months, and freckles scattered across his nose. He was gangly; either the clothes of a man hung on him as if his frame was barely larger than a skeleton, or the pants from the previous year stopped six inches before reaching his ankles. He didn’t seem to care, though, and Mary began to wonder what he’d ever amount to.
She caught herself before she began a tongue lashing. It would do no good, she thought as she turned back. It would be better for her to simply save her breath.
When she broke through the trees, the wind felt as though it would slice her raw cheeks as it whipped across her skin. She pulled her shawl across her face in an effort to stave off the cold, but the material scraped across her dry, cracked lips, almost causing her to cry out with the pain.
She knew from the way the layers of clothes hung on her own petite frame, that she had lost weight—weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Her mind turned quickly toward the evening’s meal as she neared the boats.
Before their departure, Ma had carefully calculated plenty of food for their journey, and then they’d packed almost a third more—fruits and vegetables they’d canned themselves, sack cloths filled with grain, salt pork and cured meats. But with the incessant delays, they had been forced to ration or run the risk of running completely out of food. They had even stopped feeding Patches hush puppies—small bits of fried cornbread so called because they hushed the puppies so they could eat their own meals in peace—and began eating them themselves.
Without an extra layer of fat to keep her warm, she felt like a skeletal figure made entirely of ice. Her outer garments, like those of everyone around her, were constantly covered in hoarfrost, thawing only when they converged inside their tiny rooms to sleep. She knew once she saw her body again, she would be appalled at how emaciated she had become. But for now, her figure was hidden beneath layers of clothing that she’d rarely changed in the two months they’d been on the river; that would have required removing the clothes she had on, and she didn’t dare bare her skin for fear of frostbite. The stench of dozens of bodies in the same circumstance as her own filled the air, along with the coughs and wheezes of so many unaccustomed to such hardship.
She reached the Neely boat and tried to warm her hands in front of the fire as her tired eyes roamed the shoreline, watching some of the servants tend to the livestock. A few of the servants were hired hands and freed black men but many others were slaves. Already, it was rumored that some of them were suffering from frostbite, as their hands were uncovered and their fingers exposed. One of Captain Hutchings’ men was limping grotesquely, and Mary wondered if his foot had been injured.
She crossed the camp, her encounter with Billy all but forgotten. She kept the man in sight as she wandered past fires, children playing and women cooking. She caught a glimpse of 20-year-old Elizabeth Jennings Peyton as she made her way along the shore in the opposite direction. She was now heavy with child and waddled as she walked. Though she had been pregnant when they boarded her father’s flatboat, everyone expected she would reach the Cumberlands before giving birth. But since the winter had set in with the hardest freeze and heaviest snows anyone could remember, it was now inevitable that she would give birth along the river. Mr. Jennings’ dream had faded from most folks’ minds as they mustered the strength they would need just to get through each day.
Mary said a quick prayer for Elizabeth. This was her first child, and according to the midwives on the journey, the first always took its time because the first had to blaze the trail. Elizabeth shared her small flatboat with six others—her parents, her brother Jonathan, Jr., two slaves—a man and a woman—and Obediah, a teenage friend of Jonathan’s.
She reached Captain Hutchings’ servant as he was leaving the flatboat. She held up her hand to stop him.
He halted immediately and dropped his eyes to the ground. It was impossible to tell how old he was; Mary suspected he might have been in his thirties but an unkind life had left its toll on him. He was thin as a rail and his spine was beginning to round outward as if he were carrying loaded buckets. “Yes, ma’am?” he asked politely.
“Simon,” Mary said, “is there something the matter with your feet?”
“No, ma’am.”
Mary hesitated. He continued peering at the ground and from the way in which he avoided her eyes, she knew her presence there made him uncomfortable. His skin was the color and texture of burlap and his forehead was deeply lined. He was dressed in cotton pants and a thin cotton shirt under a torn and dusty jacket. His shoes were worn thin and one of his toes protruded through a ragged hole.
She bent down and pulled his pants leg away from his shoe, gasping as she saw his blackened ankle.
“Simon,” she said, “you have frostbite!”
“No, ma’am.”
“I didn’t ask you, I told you! Look at your ankle! Take that shoe off immediately. Let me see it.”
Simon hesitated and Mary repeated her demand. Trying to balance on his opposite foot, he attempted to remove his shoe but it was swollen to such proportions that he was unable to dislodge it. “Please don’t,” he whimpered as he set his foot back down.
“What’s going on here?”
Mary turned in the direction of the voice. “Captain Hutchings, this man has frostbite.”
“Is that so, Simon?”
“No, sir.”
“Look at his ankle,” Mary said, motioning. “It’s completely black.” She pulled the pants leg up again. “There are blisters all over it. His foot is swollen and I’d be surprised if he can even feel it. You must tend to this man at once.”
Captain Hutchings peered at her with small, sharp eyes; his expression was completely immobile. He was Colonel Donelson’s son-in-law, having married his daughter Catherine twelve years earlier. Mary assumed he was about forty years old and she supposed she should have felt insolent speaking to him as she was less than half his age, but she didn’t.
“You must get this man off his feet immediately.” Mary motioned for one of the children nearby. “You! Get me some old rags and soak them in hot water. Don’t dally about it.” She turned back to one of the other servants. “And you! Carry this man to that fire yonder. He must get warmed straight away!”
The man looked at Mary and then at Captain Hutchings. The captain nodded, and Simon was picked up as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and carried close to a nearby fire. Mary followed as the child returned with the rags.
After a great deal of effort, Mary and Captain Hutchings managed to pull the shoe off Simon’s foot and they bandaged it with the warm cloths. Then they removed his other shoe and found his other foot was almost as black and decayed. Despite his protests, Mary peeled back the pants leg to his knees to reveal blackened, blistered skin. The stench was almost unbearable. After bandaging both feet and legs, she ordered two children to remain with him to keep the fire going and the rags hot.