Ghost Legion, page 4
“Never been to the Shoals,” she heard herself saying. “You’d have to draw me a map.”
He eyed her curiously, but walked to his horse, tucking the long rifle underneath his arm, and opened a bag behind the saddle. O’Keeffe worked, his back to her, and Marty wet her lips, wondering what this Irishman was doing. After a few minutes, he turned, placed the rifle on the ground, and approached the cabin. He held a piece of paper in his hand. A map.
Marty stepped back, feeling tricked. Now he had reason to be close to her. She thought about raising the rifle, but couldn’t. Her throat turned dry as he stopped a few feet from her and held out his hand. She jerked the map from his fingers and shoved it inside her hunting frock.
“I thank you,” she said.
O’Keeffe didn’t move. His hand remained outstretched.
“I am Flint O’Keeffe,” he said again. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Marty McKidrict.”
The hand still didn’t waver, even as O’Keeffe let out a riotous laugh.
“You are the most singular individual I have met since leaving Williamsburg.” He shook his head, but the hand still remained, waiting.
Marty clasped it, and felt his strong grip. The handshake was curt, but friendly.
“I hope to see you at Sycamore Shoals,” he said. “The cause of liberty could use one whose aim is as true as yours.”
She thought about inviting him to supper, but elected not to. Maybe he was a gentleman, but she didn’t trust him, didn’t know him, and, well, it wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone if Seb came home and caught them alone.
After he left and she made sure he had indeed gone, Marty stared at the map he had drawn. With a snort, she crumpled it in her fist, tossed it on the floor, and went to gather the squirrels. As if she’d ever go to Sycamore Shoals.
* * * * *
Two nights later, she gathered kindling and dry leaves to start the fire, and looked at the wadded piece of paper beside the door. It would burn as well as straw, twigs, or leaves, but Marty couldn’t bring herself to jam it in the cabin’s stone fireplace.
After placing the cast-iron pot over the coals to heat up leftover stew, she picked up the map Flint O’Keeffe had drawn for her, smoothed it out on the table, and sat down, studying it.
She couldn’t read—maybe had her mother lived. The Sinclairs, with the exception of Margaret and her nightly Bible readings that Marty vaguely recalled, never saw a need in reading or writing, and, if Seb McKidrict had any education, he kept it well hidden. Yet the map seemed plain enough: northwest through the gap, over the knob to the Piney Flats pike, and to the convergence of the Doe and Watauga. On foot, with good weather, she could make it there in two days.
“‘Dreaming does nobody no good,’” she said out loud, quoting her father, and snatched the map. She planned on wadding it up one final time and tossing it into the fire, yet again something stopped her.
Months ago, after Seb’s most vicious beating, she had dreamed of escaping her husband’s clutches. What had stopped her? She had nowhere to run, only here was a map, a way out of a bad marriage. Stay here? And do what? Wait for Seb McKidrict to kill her? It wouldn’t hurt, she thought, just to walk to Sycamore Shoals and listen to what this John Sevier had to say. Meet other wives. In all likelihood, she would return to the Tiger before Seb came back from one of his raids or drunken forays. If she did return. Maybe even find someone who would take her . . . where? Back to Sinclair Hollow? Her brothers and father might not beat her, but living with those outlaws, who considered her more chattel than sister, had no appeal. Charles Town, perhaps, or back to Ninety-Six. John Sevier’s army might need a laundress.
She laughed at that idea. When was the last time she had bathed? Her clothes reeked of animals, sweat, and dirt. Dirt covered her face. Even Flint O’Keeffe had failed to recognize her as a woman.
Go as a man.
“Bah,” she said of that fleeting idea, and went to the fireplace to fetch her supper.
* * * * *
Sleep came hard, and, when exhaustion finally overtook her, it proved a fitful sleep. She woke, still tired, before dawn, pulled on her buckskins, got the coffee boiling, and began prying up loose floorboards, working at a furious pace to keep from thinking about what she was doing. For Seb McKidrict, wooden floors were not really a luxury, but a hiding place. Despite his claim, he hadn’t floored the cabin to woo Martha Anne Sinclair. She found the escape tunnel, in case Regulators arrived, and his stash of plunder: jewelry, a few gold teeth, a watch, silver cross, buttons, and three Cherokee scalps, but no hard money. She did see a powder horn—five, in fact—lead bars, cartridge boxes, leather pouches, molds, one broad sword, and three pistols. She chose the lightest pistol, long-barreled, probably French-made, maybe weighing a pound and a half, and found a pouch containing two dozen lead balls that matched the pistol’s caliber.
She hurriedly packed jerky and biscuits into a sack, along with a fairly clean extra shirt, awl, sinew, pewter cup, hairbrush, and one of Seb’s clay pipes. She tried to braid her hair into a queue in the fashion of these backcountry colonists, pulled on a wide-brimmed hat, and took her own hunting equipment, canteen, and the Deckard rifle.
After opening the gate to the pen and letting the pigs free, Marty went back inside the cabin and caught her breath. She picked up Flint O’Keeffe’s map, slid it into a pocket, and walked outside. Last chance to let your cowardice show, she thought, and stay here.
Marty spit on the cabin’s floor before slamming the door.
Chapter Five
Wading across the shallows of the Watauga River, Marty McKidrict stared in disbelief.
Even had Flint O’Keeffe not drawn her a map, she would have found the gathering spot, for Marty had smelled smoke from all the bonfires and cook fires since yesterday, and heard the rambunctious noise the past couple of hours. Only now, the smoke didn’t smell so pungent, but carried the aroma of fry bread, bacon, and beef, and the noise, while louder, sounded of frivolity—music, laughter, and long rifles fired not in anger, but to win bets. The scene reminded Marty of the shooting contests back on the Yadkin, only those affairs, although closer to the larger settlements, had never attracted this many people. It seemed as if thousands of backcountry pioneers had swarmed to Sycamore Shoals.
Tents, lean-tos, and cabins dotted the ground. Hastily built corrals held hundreds of horses, and cattle grazed in the distance. People were everywhere. Marty doubted if the streets of Charles Town were this busy, at least not since that continental general surrendered his army to the British this past spring.
A beaming backwoodsman helped her onto the bank, pumping her hand vigorously with a grip that almost crushed Marty’s bones. “John Crockett,” the man introduced himself. “Are you a Sullivan County man or a Washington County man?”
Marty told him her name, but had to think before answering Crockett’s question. “Washington County,” she said after a minute, although it was as much a guess as anything.
“Then you’ll need to see Chucky Jack, or do you know Colonel Sevier?”
Her head shook meekly.
“Well, he sha’n’t be hard to find,” Crockett said. “He’ll be the one cussing the mostest, spitting the farthest, and riding the hardest. That’s a right handsome rifle, McKidrict.”
She glanced at the Deckard.
“No offense, but you don’t look big enough to tote it.”
“I’ve toted it from the Tiger,” she said. “And I hit what I aim at.”
Crockett grinned. “You’ll get a chance to prove that, McKidrict. Chucky Jack says too many folks have answered the call of duty. We can’t take everyone with us to kill the Tories. Need to leave some militia to protect our womenfolk in case the English try to sic the Cherokees on us again.” Crockett’s eyes hardened. “Savages done kilt my father, backed by British swine.”
They turned at the sound of splashing behind them to see another buckskinned figure crossing the Sycamore, and John Crockett waded into the water to shake the man’s hand. Marty walked from the Sycamore into the crowd, hearing Crockett ask: “Are you a Sullivan County man or a Washington County man?”
She wasn’t the only woman here, either, although, as far as she could tell, she was the only one passing herself off as a man. Underneath a clumsily constructed lean-to, two women sat spinning their looms, while Marty spotted a buxomly redhead saddle-stitching a pair of deer leggings. Others cooked, including a stout black woman who served her husband a plate full of cornbread and ham. The aroma sent pangs through Marty’s stomach. She had eaten the last of her biscuits and jerky late last night.
Two heavy-set men almost knocked Marty down as they rolled across the wet ground, and a handful of others shoved her out of the way, cheering on or cursing at the two dirty, smelly wrestlers.
An ear-splitting whistle stopped the tumult, and Marty looked at a woman in muslin, her dark hair streaked with gray, standing in the driver’s boot of a wagon.
“This ain’t no jollification!” the woman shouted. “You boys come over here. There’s work to be done.”
Most of the men took off running, the woman’s curses peppering the air as they fled, but the two wrestlers pulled themselves off the ground and, cowering, approached the woman, as did the black man, after handing his empty plate to his wife.
Marty turned to go, but the woman’s deafening roar caused her to tremble and spin around.
“I said come here! I got work for you to do.”
Marty just blinked.
“You aim to fight the Tories, don’t you? Shoot a mess with that long rifle in your arms?”
Another blink.
“Well, you won’t be killing nobody without me. Move. Get these barrels out of this wagon.” She glanced at the sky. “Rain, or something worser or wetter, will be commencing shortly. Move!”
After resting the Deckard against the lean-to, Marty hurried to the wagon, grunting at the weight of the barrels as she helped the black man carry one and stack it in another tent. The two wrestlers carried one barrel each, and neither snorted nor complained as they stacked containers on the ground.
“Put that pipe down!” the woman shouted. “What the blazes are you, a Tory spy? That’s four hundred pounds of powder I’ve brung, plus the makings for another hundred, and I didn’t make it meself and haul it to the Shoals to get blown back to Buffalo Creek. Get away from here, before I shove that pipe down your bloody throat!”
“Milling gunpowder is illegal, Mary McKeehan Patton!” a smooth voice called out. “Why, Major Patrick Ferguson will have you in stocks, if not drawn and quartered as an example to the rest of North Carolina.”
“Patrick Ferguson can kiss my rebel arse,” she replied. “As can you, Chucky Jack.”
Colonel John Sevier laughed, then cursed and ordered a half dozen others to help unload the barrels.
“I ain’t finished all of it, like I said,” the woman told the colonel. “But I’ll have the rest of it done before you and the boys take off. My powder burns fast, and hot as the fires of hell.”
“Just like your tongue,” Sevier said.
The last of the barrels unloaded and stacked, Marty walked to Sevier with trepidation. She matched his height, but couldn’t equal his stare, or tongue. His chest was built like one of those kegs of gunpowder, but he moved like a panther, and, although he smiled and laughed often, Marty detected a seriousness about him, and a savageness.
“Mister . . . Colonel Sevier?” Marty tried to lower her voice an octave, but didn’t think she succeeded, nervous as she was.
He studied her, but said nothing.
“John Crockett said I should make your acquaintance, er, report for . . . duty. I am Marty McKidrict from Tiger Creek.”
Sevier frowned. “I know of a Seb McKidrict.”
“My . . . brother.”
He just stared.
“Flint O’Keeffe brought word, Colonel. I am here.”
“Where’s your rifle, McKidrict?”
She nodded toward the lean-to.
“Good. We need men to guard the settlements when we leave to find Ferguson. We shall muster you in for the home militia. Keep an eye out for Cherokees whilst we are gone. Daniel Andersen will be your commander.” He spun on his heels and began marching away.
Marty’s mouth trembled at this . . . this . . . demotion. When she heard Mary McKeehan Patton’s laugh, and realized she was laughing at her, Marty grabbed her rifle and ran to catch up with Sevier.
“Sir!” She grabbed his shoulder, and Sevier whirled, unleashing a series of oaths, his face reddening, face masking in anger.
“I didn’t walk two days to be told I ain’t needed, Colonel Sevier!” Marty fired back.
“Damnation, I give the orders here!” Sevier thundered.
“Yes, you do. And I can shoot better than any man out here, I’m wagering.”
“You’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“And I don’t eat much.” It was the only thing she could think to say. “Means more grub for the rest of you.”
“Let me be blunt.” Sevier placed both hands on his hips and leaned forward. His breath stank of rum and tobacco. “McKidrict is not a name I care much for in North Carolina.”
“It sank like a stone with me, too, Colonel, but folks ain’t got much of a say in their names, do they, Chucky Jack?”
Sevier’s laugh surprised her, and he shook his head. “Washington County, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a good thing. If you hailed from Sullivan County, you would be under Colonel Shelby, and he is much more serious than I. One shot, McKidrict. We shall see if you speak the truth or brag. O’Keeffe!”
Her heart pounded as Flint O’Keeffe stepped into her line of vision and handed John Sevier a beautiful long rifle. “The knot on that elm,” Sevier said as he aimed the rifle.
Quickly Marty followed the barrel and found the tree less than thirty yards away. Only thirty yards? Sevier must be joking. Even Seb McKidrict could hit a target as big as a knotty trunk from that distance. Marty had killed deer at better than 300 yards. The rifle boomed, and Sevier tossed it back to O’Keeffe.
“All right, McKidrict,” Sevier said. “Cover my ball.”
“What?”
“Vance,” Sevier told another soldier. “Run to the tree, and point to where my ball struck. McKidrict, you will then cover my ball, hit that same mark. Do that, and I shall be happy to have you serve under me. Miss, and I shall buy you a noggin of rum after we whip Ferguson and his lot.”
The pockmarked man named Vance took off running to the elm, and Marty waited, holding her breath. Vance, panting, examined the knot underneath a fork in the trunk. He looked harder.
“Quit dawdling!” Sevier yelled.
Another minute passed, and finally Vance looked up, cupped his hands, and shouted. “No hole can I find!”
John Sevier cursed Vance for a fool, but Flint O’Keeffe laughed.
“What amuses you so, Flint?” Sevier demanded.
“That you missed, Colonel.”
Sevier cursed O’Keeffe, and stormed toward the elm.
O’Keeffe found the hole, not in the elm, but in an oak about ten rods beyond the target. Sevier’s shot had gone high, missing the knot and passing between the forked trunk before thudding into the center of the oak.
“I shall shoot again,” Sevier announced, but Marty was already walking away.
“No need,” she said.
“What?” someone asked.
“Cover the ball,” Marty said. “I believe that was the challenge. Have O’Keeffe stick a wad of cotton in the hole, give me something to see.”
Sevier started to say something, probably to object, but Marty kept talking. “Just for a second. That’s all I need.”
She had reached the original firing position, and turned, butting the Deckard at her feet while watching, trying to look relaxed. She made out Flint O’Keeffe between the elm’s knot, saw a bit of bright calico sticking out of the bark, and then O’Keeffe jerked it out and moved out of the way. Marty didn’t blink, kept her focus on where the calico had been, as she shouldered the rifle, aimed, and fired.
John Sevier repeated one of his curses after Flint O’Keeffe, using his knife, dug out two chunks of flattened lead from the hole in the elm and placed the mangled balls in Sevier’s opened palm. Then Sevier howled, flinging words and phrases Marty had never even heard her brothers use, at least not in the presence of a woman.
“You may out-shoot me, McKidrict,” he said, “but I remain top dog in Washington County for cussing and riding. Consider yourself mustered in, with O’Keeffe’s company. Now, go help Missus Patton mill her gunpowder.”
Beaming, Marty thanked O’Keeffe and Sevier and made her way through the crowd of admirers, feeling their slaps against her back, enjoying their huzzahs. She felt an excitement, almost a giddiness that she had not experienced since winning her first match on the Yadkin years ago. Scarcely could she believe what she had done, had out-shot John Sevier, had won a place in the militia that planned on marching over the Blue Ridge to fight the enemy. She wasn’t even sure she believed in the cause of the Whigs.
Suddenly she stopped, and found herself sweating despite the chill of autumn. Reality frightened her. She was doing it, leaving Seb McKidrict for good.
* * * * *
Sweat poured off Marty’s face as she stood over the cast-iron pot, stirring the concoction Mrs. Patton had placed over the blazing coals. The unkempt woman assured Marty she had nothing to fear milling the black powder, but Marty wasn’t sure. Maybe they wouldn’t be blown to bits, but the rotting smell of the sulphur twisted Marty’s stomach into knots. Mrs. Patton just stared at her, dipping snuff while filling kegs with the powder, unaffected by the stench. She hadn’t spoken for an hour. Marty wiped her forehead with a rag, offered Mrs. Patton a weak smile, and stirred some more.
