Scattered Seeds (19 page)

Chapter 32

A storm hammered rain against John Harris’s tobacco shed. Wind swayed the pungent leaves hanging from the rafters. Rivulets trickled past the shed’s open end, branching out and probing the landscape in a downhill search for the Susquehanna.

“I thought I knew what rain was,” Edward shouted into William Robinson’s cocked ear. “A man canny see his own hands in this.”

“Imagine when all that’s snow.” Robinson sucked on his pipe and blew sweet smoke from his nostrils. “I am nae ready for it, I tell ye. A body ne’er is.”

Edward tried to visualize the rain as snow. Would it fall knee-high? Waist-high? Ireland’s vilest winter storm dropped no more than ankle-deep snow, and it never lasted more than a few days on the ground. He understood now why cutting firewood must be a priority. A door would not open against deep snow. Would it open in? Regardless, they must stack their winter fuel close to the cabin.

He glanced at the ox, now enjoying a roll in the mud. How would they feed it if the snow fell deep? They could construct a fence of firewood around the cabin and build an overhang for the ox to stand under. But no, the ox would press the snow into a dangerous slab of ice. They would have to build a byre and lay up nuts, grass, and leaves, if they could find naught else—emergency fodder for when the browse was gone or impossible to reach.

Robinson’s pipe bowl glowed, and Edward’s thoughts turned to the wisdom in smoking in a tobacco shed.

“So, ye say this man’s name is Gibson?” Robinson was apparently still mulling over their earlier conversation. “Canny say I e’er met a trader named Gibson, though there’s a place called Gibson’s Rock in Sherman’s Valley, a landmark along an auld Injun path. It’s a shame Harris is in Philadelphia. He knows a lot of folk.”

“Will he be back anytime soon?” They could afford to wait a day or two. The benefit of the sustenance received at Harris’s proved miraculous. Henry’s heels scabbed over, and his face lost some of its pallor. Even the ox’s legs looked fleshier.

Robinson spat a tiny piece of tobacco. “Harris? Back here soon? I’m afraid not. When they left, he said it was because his wife could nae stomach the hammering on the stockade day in and day oot, but we all heard her kick up a fuss when he started cutting loopholes in the blockhoose. Who could blame her? He might settle her and the wains in the city and come back, but I have my doubts. They’re close, those two. He has a man, Rogers, who manages things here for him. He’s sound, Rogers.”

Robinson turned his pipe upside down and knocked it against one of the shed’s uprights, spilling ash into a puddle. “Did ye ask about Gibson and the lassie in the taverns along your way?” He slipped his pipe into an interior pocket of his hunting frock.

“Aye, we did, and we checked the registrar’s book in Lancaster. She was nae listed. We thought mayhap Gibson took her to New York or New Jersey.”

“Nay, sir.” Robinson shook his head. “Servants canny be sold ootside the province. Ye may thank the Penns for that small mercy.”

Edward felt relieved that a spring advertisement would only be necessary in the larger papers of the province.

“This Gibson’s Rock. Will we pass by it on our way northwest?”

“Depends. Let me see your map again.”

Edward unfolded William’s map.

“Mmm.” Robinson pointed at the paper. “See here? He has ye at Carlisle and then o’er Croghan’s Gap into Sherman’s Valley. A few years ago, that was the best way, and it would indeed put ye past Gibson’s Rock, but I canny recommend it now. When was this map drawn?” He turned it over, evidently looking for a date.

“Two springs ago.”

“I thought as much. Things have changed. Half of Carlisle is starving, and the other half is dressed in crimson wool. The latter would turn ye back or press ye into the militia. I would shy away from Sherman’s Valley altogether. Good folk there, wi’ a fort built by their own sweat and blood, but most of them are second-generation Americans who were once friends wi’ the red men. Duplicity has made them trigger-happy, closed off to strangers, and who could blame them? They’ve suffered severely for their trust in others. Nay, sir, I would stay oot of Sherman’s Valley. Ye’d be made to camp ootside the fort. Upon my word, ye’d have no hair on your heads by morning.”

Edward puffed out his cheeks and scrubbed his hands through his hair, which was not yet long enough to tie back. “William was explicit in his instructions to follow his map, no matter what advice I was gi’en.”

“Aye, but the letter was written afore some wine-soaked Frenchman opened the door to hell. I have no reason to deceive ye.”

“I am glad of your advice. Forgive me if it seems otherwise.” Edward stared at the map, as if new information might appear and help him make a decision. “What way would ye go, if ye were me?”

Robinson held a hand outside the shed. “Rain’s eased. Come oot here wi’ me.”

Edward followed him, tightening his cloak in an effort to stave off the dampness. How long had it been since Henry had spread this very cloak upon the floor of their hut and filled it with their meager belongings?

Robinson pointed north. “That’s Blue Mountain. Here it is on your map. William calls it the Kittatinny. And see here.” He pointed at squiggly lines William had drawn. “Those are the falls on the Susquehanna. At the time your brother drew this map, they had no significance, but now, there’s a fort under construction there. It has yet to be garrisoned, but there are likely a few redcoats there, and certainly some loyal subjects wi’ their eyes open. Unfortunately, the easiest path upriver takes ye right by that fort, where they’d confiscate your ox and either turn ye back or make ye fight the French. I’m afraid ye’re gonny have to go oot of your way, and that means up o’er Blue Mountain. It will be a brave climb and hard for the ox. Fishing Creek lies at the bottom of the hollow, and that leads to the fort, so cross well upstream. Climb the next ridge, which is called Second Mountain, by the by—”

“Thought hard about naming that one, did they?” Edward laughed.

“Aye,” Robinson chuckled. “And the next one, too. Can ye guess what it’s called?”

“Third Mountain.”

“Aye, ye believe that? Anyhow, when ye come doon off Second Mountain, ye’ll find another stream, Stony Creek. Cross that and stay at the base of Third Mountain until ye see the river. Another hour’s easy walk upriver will put ye near the mouth of the Juniata. See it here? Right here.” He poked the map. “There's a man named Duncan here who operates a ferry. If he is nae there, then he’s dead, ’cause naught else would shift auld Duncan. If ye find him gone, then ye’ll have to come back and wade across the Susquehanna just north of the falls, and ye’ll have to do it at night so nobody can see ye from the fort at Fishing Creek.”

Edward glanced at the river, where Harris’s ferry bobbed on the steaming water. It stretched at least a mile wide.

“It’s only about knee deep unless it’s flooded. The biggest problem will be in getting your ox across. If he cuts his foot on a rock, he’ll be lame in a day or two. Fussy beasts in spite of their size.”

“Where do we go once we get to the Juniata River?”

“Stay west, away from the island at its mouth. It’s sacred to the Injuns, and it’s nearly always got savages camped on it. You’ll cross a fair stream. Take great care there. It’s a hive at times. If ye stay close to the river, ye’ll come to a cabin at the foot of Mahanoy Ridge. Elias White was still there last time I passed by. He’ll put ye up and be glad of your company. If he’s gone, then at least ye’ll have his roof.

“The river snakes after White’s. Stay wi’in sight of it, but go carefully. That’s deadly territory. Aim for the mountain wi’ a level top. That’s the Tuscarora. Just afore ye reach it, a pointed ridge juts up on the west side of river. Cross there and ye’ll find the mouth of the Cocolamus. See here, William has it on the map, just before Raccoon Ridge.”

“I see it.”

“A man called Gallagher used to operate a ferry there, but there was some talk of him moving west. If he’s gone, do nae let it trouble ye. The river’s shallow enough to ford, though I would do it on a dark night. After that, it’s just a matter of following the creek inland. I’ve ne’er been to William’s so I canny tell ye what to look for, but ye might find a few squatters holding oot along your way.”

“How many days’ walking can we expect altogether?”

“Depends on whether Duncan’s ferry is running. If it is, it’ll probably take ye a good five days. If it’s not, ye can add another day, two if the weather is bad.”

“Anything else we should know?”

“If ye make fire, do it in a tree butt, and keep the flame low. When ye’re crawling o’er the boulders and rubble on ridges, ye’ll be sorely tempted to drop low and use the beaten paths along the waterways, especially the one that follows the Juniata River west. But if ye value your hair at all, ye’ll stay off the trails.

“Remember, sound carries far, especially in fog, and prepare yoursel’ to witness unspeakable cruelties. Get your seed in the ground and your firewood cut as soon as ye can.”

Edward pointed to the X’s on William’s map. “What of these settlers and traders?”

It started to rain again, and they stepped back inside the tobacco shed.

“Let me see.” Robinson took the map from Edward. “Jackson? Nay, he’s gone. Working as an interpreter. Campbell? Och, nay, God rest him, Mingos got him.” He looked from the paper to stare vacantly at the river. “They found Campbell’s wife wi’ her arms around two of her wains, and none of them wi’ a scrap of hair left on their heads. E’en scalped a wee lad still at her breast, the bastards.”

Robinson snapped his gaze back to the map. “Now Grey here, he was burned oot. Same wi’ Buchanan. Nay, McConnell, many of the good folk your William listed here have suffered the worst.”

A heavy weight pressed upon Edward. What hope did he and Henry have when experienced settlers failed? Perhaps they should return to Philadelphia, even if it meant indenturing themselves in the spring.

Nay. We will be slaves to no one.

Robinson returned the map to him. “I’m away to throw some wood on yon fire.”

When he left, Edward said his first prayer in five years.

Chapter 33

A break in the trees on Second Mountain offered a bird’s-eye view of the new fort, ringed by a stockade on the eastern bank of the Susquehanna. Twenty canoes and rafts clung to a dock like a litter of suckling pups.

Henry gnawed on a piece of pemmican and shaded his eyes from the sun. Figures moved within the stockade, but he could make out none of their features. He doubted Mary resided among them. There was no call for spinning in a place like this. Besides, hadn’t he left all hope behind the mill in Lancaster?

The ox crunched chestnuts beside his father, who rested against a tree, his chest rising and falling from the climb. “Suppose it’s here we’ll run to . . . if things . . . get bad for us,” he gasped. His stockings and sleeves bore red stains from crossing an earlier field of pokeberries.

Henry gestured to the blemishes. “They’ll shoot ye for a murderer.”

His father picked at one of his sleeves. “My good shirt, too.” He pushed himself away from the tree. “Come, this place looks hard used. We’d best be moving on.”

Henry glanced down at the disturbed moss and shuddered to think of who, or
what
, might find the overlook useful.

His father led the ox downhill into a thicket of pine saplings.

Henry watched until the boughs ceased swaying and then looked again at the fort. Fort Hunter represented more than a military outpost; it was Henry’s last tie to a familiar world, a predictable world, if nothing else. King George dished out safety in the stronghold below. Unfortunately, he served it with a generous spoonful of oppression.

He stared at the stockade’s side gate. If he walked down the mountain, that gate would swing open. Men would give him a musket, camaraderie, and a coat. They would fill his belly and provide him with a fire to warm his bones.

And what would that cost me?

He recalled a day long ago, when three soldiers taunted his father in Derry. Henry, small then, could no longer remember the soldiers’ insults, but he would never forget the rage in his father’s eyes, and later, the shame. Such was an Ulsterman’s life under British rule.

He narrowed his eyes on what he hoped would be his last glimpse of tyranny. Then he spat and ducked through the pines into the concealment of the forest. There was peril amongst the trees, isolation and backbreaking work, yet the forest offered something no monarch ever would: freedom.

He jogged down the ridge’s northern slope, sliding and turning his ankles on moss and fallen leaves. The sound of clanging tools led him to his father.

“Wait,” he said, reaching Father’s side. “Let me fix the tools. I heard the clanks from the top of yon ridge.”

“I was starting to think ye went for a cup of tea.”

“Had to pish,” Henry lied. He slid the ox’s lead out of his father’s grasp. “I’ll take him.”

Father relinquished the rope without argument and rubbed his hip for the second time since slipping on mud at Stony Creek.

“I think we should rest. Your hip is banged up.”

“Nay.” His father quickened his pace.

They followed a hollow west, and by late afternoon, they had their reward, a riverside trail that led them straight to Duncan.

The ferryman’s house was not much bigger than a cabinet, with a kinked chimney puffing smoke into the late afternoon sky. The hovel’s door opened. An old man tottered out with a musket.

“Duncan?” Father asked as they approached.

“Depends who’s asking.” The old man twisted his gnarled fingers over the musket’s lock.

Father held up his palms. “I’m Edward McConnell.”

Henry winced.
Twice. Twice, he’s used his real name.

“This is my son, Henry. We want to cross the river, that’s all. William Robinson at Harris’s said ye’re the man to see.”

“Did he?” The old man’s mouth stretched into a toothless grin. “That all he said?”

“He said if ye were nae here, ye were dead.” He shifted his weight, no doubt trying to ease the bother in his hip.

Duncan chuckled. “Teats-up in the river is the only way I’m leaving here. Aye, come on, then.”

With pokes and tugs, they managed to get the ox onto the raft. The ferry rocked under the sudden weight, and the beast braced its legs and lowered its horns menacingly.

“Ye reckon we’ll need to hobble him?” Duncan asked.

“It’s all for show. He’s a willing lad.” Father gestured to the ferry’s wobbly stall. “If we can get him into the box, he’ll gi’ us no bother.”

“Reckon he’s too weak to put up much of a fight.”

“He could do wi’ a good rest and a green pasture.” Father grimaced and pulled on one of the animal’s horns. He made a kissing noise just as Henry tapped the ox’s haunches with a stick.

The ox lunged into the stall.

“Right,” Duncan said as Father tethered the ox to the rail. “Take a seat. I’ll have ye o’er in no time.” He shoved off with a long pole, his musket resting on a box behind him.

Father reached for his hip and dropped onto a sack of seed. The heels of his shoes were loose and worn to slivers. Henry guessed another day would see them without soles.

Edward McConnell was stronger than men half his age, but the weeks at sea, the hard labor in Philadelphia, and the long walk to the cabin all took their toll.

A set of rapids under the raft renewed the ox’s terror. It wrenched at its tether, but the rope held and it could do nothing but snort and roll its eyes to their whites.

Henry jumped to his feet before his father could rise. “Rest your legs.” He was at the stall and gentling the ox before his father could object. “Easy, there.”

Henry hoped there would be no more rapids. The beast’s tugs were releasing the rail from its supports. A loose ox meant a tipped raft, and a tipped raft meant wet seed. Wet seed meant they were right back where they started: destitute, with no hope for the future.

He stayed next to the stall, which afforded him a clear view of the river bottom where fish darted among the boulders and submerged trees. A stick poked out of the water, only it wasn’t a stick at all; it was a turtle’s head that disappeared just before the raft glided over it. Flocks of waterfowl paddled around rocks and islets dotting the waterway, and as the raft neared the western riverbank, clouds of pigeons burst from the trees and darkened the sky.

“Hold on to your ox,” Duncan said, “there’s gonna be a bump.”

The ferry thudded against the silt.

“Welcome to Cumberland County.”

“My thanks, sir.” Pain twisted Father’s features as he rose to pay the ferryman.

Duncan eyed the coin before pocketing it. “Don’t get many coins out this way.”

Henry untied the ox. Sensing its freedom, it bolted onto the riverbank and sank up to its shanks.

Duncan threw an old board across the mud. Henry used it as a causeway, padding across to cajole the animal until it lifted its hooves and stumbled onto solid ground.

With the ox safely tethered to a flood-deposited tree, Henry strapped a feedbag under its muzzle, then returned to help unload their supplies.

“We’re kin, ye know.” Duncan sat on a box and watched them unload their goods. He offered no help, and Henry expected none from him. Idleness could be overlooked in old men with crooked backs.

“Kin? How’s that?” Father limped off the raft carrying a crate.

The old man lit a pipe. “Duncan’s my given name. I’m a MacDonald. My name and yours are said the same way in the old country.”

“In Ireland?” Henry hoisted a bag of seed onto his shoulder.

“Nay, lad, before that. In Scotland. All of us—McConnells, MacDonalds, MacDougals, MacSorleys—all of us come from one man, a king called—”

“Somerled.” Henry heaved the sack from his shoulder to the pile of supplies on the riverbank.

“Ye know of him, then?”

“Only his legend, not much else.”

Disappointment towed Duncan’s features downward. “I spend a fair amount of time thinking on him. Leftovers from a veritable banquet of stories given me in my youth, I’m afraid. My grandsire had more stories about Somerled than he had about Christ, though most of them escape me now. I recall him saying Somerled had a fleet of the finest boats of his time, though.” He tapped the logs of the raft under him. “The irony of my current state is not lost to me. I’ve oft wondered what happened to winnow out my line as chaff. I suppose yours is no different, or else ye wouldn’t be seeking your fortune here.”

Henry imagined the old man’s shock at seeing the torc, an item that once ringed the neck of the man he idolized.

“I think King Somerled would find your state admirable enough,” Father said. “Here ye are, at an age when a man should be warming his knees beside his daughter’s fire. And what are ye doing instead? Ye’re on the water, in the middle of nowhere, sailing in your own way. Mayhap ye do so because it’s in your blood.”

Duncan withdrew his pipe from his mouth and grinned. “I had not thought of that.”

Father winked at Henry, then glanced at the darkening sky. “Would it be safe to camp here for the night?”

“God in heaven, no.” Duncan shook his head. “Too dangerous. There’s a nest of heathens swarming on the island at the mouth of the Juniata, and the Governor called a council at Carlisle, so there are a lot of Injuns traveling through.” He gestured upriver, where a plume of smoke feathered against the low clouds. “This is a favorite spot, sacred to the Iroquois and heavily used by the Delaware at times. Ye’ll want to get as far away from here as ye can. I’d pack up quick and make the most of the light ye have left. Do your best to keep the ox quiet, and light no fire tonight. Stay off the footpaths. Pray that dawn breaks early, and be ready to move when it does. Sooner, if ye can.”

So much for the broth Henry had been daydreaming about all day. The mushrooms gathered near Stony Creek would have to wait.

They had barely removed their last crate when Duncan shoved off. “Good luck, lads. Hope to see ye in the summer wi’ more wheat than I can carry.”

By the time their packs were again strapped to the ox, the old man was a bent shadow on the far side of the river.

They headed northwest over a rise of land that dropped into a hollow formed by a sizeable stream. Henry slipped off his moccasins and stockings and led the ox across the water. He was redressed by the time his father caught up to him.

“We need to rest soon,” Henry said. “Your hip canny take anymore.”

Father shook his head. “Got a tack poking my heel. Otherwise, I’m grand. What about ye, son? Your feet gi’ing ye bother?”

Henry wiggled his toes inside his soft moccasins. “Nay. These new shoes are a miracle.”

William Robinson gave him a pair of deerskin moccasins before they left Harris’s. Repayment, he claimed, for a favor Uncle William once did for him. Henry doubted that. He thought William Robinson probably gave him the shoes out of pity more than anything. They would see him repaid for the shoes, if not with this year’s harvest, then with the next.

“They do nae look like much,” Henry said of his strange footwear. “But I confess I have ne’er worn anything so easy on my feet.”

Father threw his wrecked shoes onto the ground and crammed his swollen feet into them. “When we get to the cabin, I’ll gi’ them a look and see if I can make a pair for mysel’.”

Guilt clenched Henry’s heart. He kicked off one of the moccasins. “Here, try one. Mayhap ye should wear them for a while.”

Father shook his head. “Too small. Ye wear ’em, son. Ye deserve it. Ye walked all the way from Philadelphia to Harris’s in those bad old shoes of yours.”

Henry slipped his moccasin back on and thought his father the most stubborn man ever born.

They pressed on until the ridges at the skyline turned plum and then charcoal. They were running out of daylight, and fast. Henry thought they went several miles, but it was hard to say for sure because they followed no observable trail. They ate pemmican as they climbed, abandoning all hope of hot broth. Halfway up a ridge, they found a level area sheltered between boulders.

The ox limped. So did Father.

“Father, this is far enough for the day. Both ye and this ox need rest.”

“Aye, this will do.”

Henry gripped his father’s shoulders. “I mean this now. Go and sit doon. I can unload the ox.”

“Ye unload the ox. I’ll clear the leaves. If something comes at us tonight, I want to be able to move wi’oot rustling anything.”

Henry bit his tongue and turned away, knowing better than to argue. His father would crawl on his belly before admitting any pain.

While Henry unloaded their supplies for the second time that day, Father kicked away the leaves, then dragged fallen limbs for a makeshift corral. Just as Henry lifted the last pack from the ox’s back, the animal dropped beside their belongings.

“Looks like we did nae need a corral after all,” Father said. “We canny leave at dawn. The poor beast is done for a while.”

So are ye
.

His sight stolen by the night, Henry felt the packs until he found an old feedbag. He slipped the rag out of the pack, then walked toward the sound of the ox’s switching tail. Careful to avoid its horns, he rubbed down the ox’s back, then returned to their goods to unbind and throw a sheaf of grass to the exhausted animal.

He pulled two blankets and the axe from their supplies. “Where are ye?”

“Here.”

A hand tapped his arm. He blindly pressed a cover and the axe handle into it. They spread their blankets next to each other.