Under the Same Sky (33 page)

“Oh aye?” Janet said. “An’ what’s there?”

Iain cleared his throat. “Is that no’ where land permits are handled?”

“It is,” Andrew said, smiling. “Our own property. Think o’ that.”

“So it is, so it is,” Seamus said with a nod. He took a gulp of ale, then sat back. “And enough trees an’ rocks to keep a fellow workin’ for a lifetime. It’s not going to be pretty, lads. But,” he said, smothering a burp, “I’ve nothin’ else planned for me day.” He grinned. “Let’s have another ale,” he suggested. Seamus was just putting up his hand to attract the waitress’s attention when his fiddle was spotted.

“Oy!” shouted a burly, cheerfully inebriated fellow. “Let’s ’ave some music!”

Seamus, always happy to be the centre of attention, grinned and stood up. He opened his worn leather case and lifted out the fiddle then plucked at the strings and adjusted the tuning pins while he spoke to the man.

“Sure an’ I’m happy t’oblige. What’ll it be, sir? Let me see.”

The patrons howled with enthusiasm, and fists hammered on the tables in encouragement.

“That’ll do, lads,” Seamus said. “Now hush if you’ll care to hear it at all.”

The level of the din lowered, and all faces turned toward the Irishman. Seamus cleared his throat and began to play and sing.

What Cato advises

Most certainly wise is:

Not always to labour but sometimes to play.

He paused and grinned around at the men, who cheered and raised their glasses. Seamus sang on.

To mingle sweet pleasure

With search after treasure,

Indulging at night for the toils of the day.

And while the dull miser

Esteems himself wiser,

His bags to increase while his health does decay,

Our souls we enlighten,

Our fancies we brighten,

And pass the long evenings in pleasure away.

The waitresses were suddenly busier. The bartender, thrilled with this unexpected boon, filled drink orders and encouraged the revelers to throw a few pennies in a cup for the entertainment.

Andrew sat back and smiled, watching his friend. It had been a long voyage, and there was a long road ahead, but for now Andrew was fed, comfortable, and content. The flight from Scotland had been a desperate attempt to save his sanity and his life. Sitting here, with an ale in his hand, he was glad he had come all that way. Here was hope and anonymity. The exhaustion of the past year began to peel away, revealing a tentative core of excitement.

And Maggie was here. He was sure of it. From the moment he stepped onto the soil, he could feel her.

After a few songs Seamus placed the violin back in its case, apologising profusely to his protesting audience. If it had been up to the tavern’s patrons, he would have performed all night. But even Seamus was tired. He nodded when Andrew motioned with a quick wave toward the door. Their group rose and went with him, but before they reached the door, the bartender grabbed
Seamus’s shoulder, spun him around, and thrust a bag into the fiddler’s free hand.

“An’ what’s this then?” Seamus asked, peering into the bag. “Ah! Treasure for me hard work. I t’ank you all from the bottom of me Irish heart, I do.” He gestured his thanks over the noise, then joined his group as they left the building.

Evening was settling over the land, and with it came a darker populace. Earlier in the day Andrew had asked where a decent inn might be found and had been directed toward The Swan, where they now stood. Iain knocked, and a round woman in a stained apron pulled open the door and scowled at the visitors.

Andrew followed her substantial hips up the stairs and turned toward one of the two rooms she indicated. Both rooms were furnished with two small beds, a ewer, and a chamber pot. A closed window overlooked the street. Iain settled a sleeping Flora into one of the beds and was backing out of the room as Peter climbed in beside his sister. Janet would sleep in the other bed.

The men retired to their room across the hall. Seamus lay fully clothed on one of the beds, his hands clasped behind his neck as he stared up into the rafters.

“I was t’inking perhaps I’d take a bed if ye’d no’ mind, lads. Ye see, what happened was I sat down and now me legs won’t be bothered to get up again.”

He grinned at the other men, looking for opposition, but they only shrugged.

“It’s you who’s payin’ the bill tonight, is it no’?” Andrew said. “You take the other, MacKenzie. I’ll claim it at the next inn.”

“Ye’re a fine gentleman, MacDonnell,” Iain replied. “I’m happy to accept. ’Tis a joy to see a bed an’ not a wee hammock. Och, I barely slept a wink on that damn ship.”

Iain blew out the solitary candle in the room, and they were
plunged into darkness. Moments later the big man’s snores rumbled through the room. Andrew took off his boots, bundled his plaid under his head, and fell asleep on the floor.

For much of the sea voyage Andrew had suffered from nightmares. Before long it became apparent they had followed him to shore. They were always the same, or at least variations of the same dark theme. In the black and gray depths of sleep he was running, twisting through trees and rocks, his feet jamming into impossible crevasses as he climbed. His lungs felt tight, straining for air. Maggie was somewhere ahead of him on the rough path, but he couldn’t see her. She was in danger. He had to get to her, but every time he caught a glimpse, the distance between them seemed to double until he couldn’t sense her anymore.

In tonight’s dream, though, the threat of malevolence seemed less. For the first time, his torn feet had a destination. They carried him to a spring in the midst of a tall stand of birch, where he stood, chest heaving. The air was clear of threat. All was calm. He knelt at the water’s edge and leaned in, filling his hands with the cool water. The reflection of his face, clean shaven, peered up from the clearing ripples. Behind him stood Maggie. Her long brown hair tumbled toward him, almost close enough for him to twine within his fingers. Slowly, afraid to disturb the peace of the moment, he turned from the pool to face her, but she was gone.

The next morning Andrew was awakened by Seamus’s shoe as it bounced off his head. The Irishman had been awake for a while and was impatient to set off. Andrew sat up, frowning and rubbing the spot where he’d been hit. He yawned, then threw the errant footwear back at its owner, who caught it deftly in one hand. Iain rolled over with a groan, scratching his big hands over his face as if to wake it.

Andrew stood, stretching to his full height so his fingers
brushed along the rough slivers of the rafters. He stared into a small looking glass propped by the ewer but barely recognised his reflection.

The travelers moved quickly, finding a flat boat to take them to Cross Creek, then using some of Hector’s money to purchase what they thought they might need for the journey to Charleston, including a horse and a wagon. The horse was nothing special, an ordinary gelding of about eight years, strong enough and not fussy about who led him. Andrew liked to look at the horse because he was so different from what he was used to. He stroked the animal’s long russet neck, admiring the smooth texture. The hair on Highland ponies was coarser—as were their personalities, generally speaking. This horse was larger than the ponies in both height and breadth. As great a beast as he was, Andrew admitted, he would never have been able to keep up with his stout cousins among the crags of the Highlands.

When they arrived in the streets of Charleston, the atmosphere was brisk but cheery. Voices called to each other and bounced down the road like pebbles. The group walked toward the Court House: a fine, stone building at the end of the road where optimistic travelers could petition for land. They had arrived on an opportune day: the magistrate was going over petitions and, being in a cheerful mood, was handing them out like candy. The royal officials granted the land free, subject only to a small surveying and transfer fee: four shillings proclamation money per hundred acres.

When they swung out onto the crowded dirt road a few hours later, all six of them were smiling from ear to ear. Even the children tried to look as if they knew what was going on.

They wandered to the side of the road and sat on a patch of grass. Iain cleared his throat and read the land grant document aloud.

CERTIFICATE OF LAND GRANT:

George the Second by the Grace of God of Great Britain
France and Ireland King Defender of the Faith & c

To all to whom these presents shall come—Greeting

Know ye that we for and in consideration of the rents and return therein reserved have given and granted and by these presents for us our Heirs and successors do give and grant unto Iain MacKenzie, Andrew MacDonnell, Seamus Murphy a Tract of land containing 100 Acres of land… in our Province of North Carolina… as by the plot hereunto annexed doth appear together with all woods waters Mines minerals Hereditaments and appurtenances to the said Lands belong or pertaining (one half of all Gold and Silver mines excepted) to hold to him.… In testimony whereof we have caused the Great Seal of our said province to be hereunto affixed Witness our trusty and well beloved Gabriel Johnston Esq Our Captain General and Governour in Chief at Bladen County this third day of April in the twentieth year of Our reign, Anno Domini 1747.

All the way up the Cape Fear River, Andrew and his friends met with migrant families who provided food and lodging whenever possible. The new buildings they passed were completely different in construction from the dark peat cottages of Scotland. Homes and barns were built from the towering pines dominating the land, and their floors were wooden planks instead of dirt. They had occasional windows and chimneys. Here in North Carolina, sweet-smelling smoke from the hearth curled up through chimneys and over shingled roofs. The insides of homes were no longer blackened by smoke and soot.

Scots had established themselves along the route to the Keowee Valley, where Andrew’s group planned to eventually build their home. The terrain constantly changed as they travelled north. Beneath massive sandy hills stretched acres of freshly turned earth, planted with Indian corn and grains. Thickets and canebrakes surrounded the cleared land, and towering above it all were hills and
pine trees. There were so many trees the limbs crossed each other, over and under, forming a natural thatched ceiling, beneath which nothing grew. Scaly, reddish bark protected their inner gold mines, the source of turpentine, rosin, pitch, and tar.

There were a few similarities between this new land and the one they had left behind. The hills and ridges, and the rain, for example. But there were constant lessons to be learned. Unfamiliar threats presented themselves every day. Not the least of these were the Indians. Andrew hadn’t seen any yet, but had heard stories about the savages while he was onboard the
Boyd of Glasgow
. As Andrew’s group came into contact with other settlers, he discovered many of the stories had been fiction. The Cherokee, while unpredictable, were
not
cannibals, nor did they usually attack without provocation.

Even if they had been the barbarous creatures he had heard about, Andrew would have sought them out. Maggie had said:
“Find the Cherokee,”
so he would.

It took weeks for Andrew and his group to fight their way upriver to their land claim. The farther west they went, the less travelled the road. Settlements became fewer and farther apart as they moved deeper into the backcountry. When at last they stepped onto their own land, it was as indistinguishable as any other piece of rough, uncleared forest. But according to the map, it was theirs.

They lived for a while in a rough, temporary structure by the river, spending their energy clearing land enough for planting. Without crops, they would starve over the winter.

With the help of a few neighbours, they raised two houses and a small barn, infusing their lives with the soothing scent of pine. The first home was built for Janet and the children, but eventually Iain moved in with them, constructing a separate bedroom just for him. His imposing presence essentially guaranteed their safety. Theirs was the larger of the two houses. It had a spacious cooking area,
with room for a pine table and six chairs, as well as a spinning wheel, for which they had traded in the nearby town of New Windsor.

Seamus and Andrew shared a smaller house, but they, too, built a wall between their bedrooms, giving them privacy for the first time in their lives. It was a strange sensation, not hearing the soothing rhythm of the other’s breathing at night, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. Seamus was quick to make all the furniture for both houses. The only other person Andrew had ever known who could work so easily with wood had been his brother Dougal.

When they had cleared enough brush, they discovered their new home was at the top of a slope, uphill from the river. Winding green vines climbed the trees on either riverbank, then arched over the water, dangling clusters of succulent blue and white grapes. They built their houses away from the riverbank to avoid any possibility of flooding, but close enough they had easy access for filling the cauldron that hung over their hearth. When they stooped to fill their buckets in the stream, the water flashed with the silvery scales of perch, pike, and rockfish. Iain spent many days casting his line, and countless fish suppers were served at their table.