A Place Called Freedom (1995)

40

TEN DAYS AFTER PEG RAN OFF, MACK AND LIZZIE RODE across a wide, flat plain and reached the mighty Holston River.

Mack was elated. They had crossed numerous streams and creeks but there was no doubt in his mind that this was the one they were looking for. It was much wider than the others, with a long midstream island. “This is it,” he said to Lizzie. “This is the edge of civilization.”

For several days they had felt almost alone in the world. Yesterday they had seen one white man—a trapper—and three Indians on a distant hill; today, no white men and several groups of Indians. The Indians were neither friendly nor hostile: they kept a distance.

Mack and Lizzie had not passed a cultivated field for a long time. As the farms became fewer, the game had increased: bison, deer, rabbits and millions of edible birds—turkeys, duck, woodcocks and quail. Lizzie shot more than the two of them could eat.

The weather had been kind. Once it had rained, and they had trudged through mud all day and shivered, soaking wet, all night; but the next day the sun had dried them out. They were saddle-sore and bone-tired, but the horses were holding up, fortified by the lush grass that was everywhere and the oats Mack had bought in Charlottesville.

They had seen no sign of Jay, but that did not mean much: Mack had to assume he was still following them.

They watered the horses in the Holston and sat down to rest on the rocky shore. The trail had petered out as they crossed the plain, and beyond the river there was not the faintest sign of a track. To the north the ground rose steadily and in the far distance, perhaps ten miles away, a high ridge rose forbiddingly into the sky. That was where they were headed.

Mack said: “There must be a pass.”

“I don’t see it,” said Lizzie.

“Nor do I.”

“If it isn’t there …”

“We’ll look for another one,” he said resolutely.

He spoke confidently but at heart he was fearful. They were going into unmapped country. They might be attacked by mountain lions or wild bears. The Indians could turn hostile. At present there was plenty of food for anyone with a rifle, but what would happen in the winter?

He took out his map, though it was proving increasingly inaccurate.

“I wish we’d met someone who knew the way,” Lizzie fretted.

“We’ve met several,” he said.

“And each told a different story.”

“They all painted the same picture, though,” Mack said. “The river valleys slant from northeast to southwest, just as the map shows, and we have to go northwest, at right angles to the rivers, across a series of high ridges.”

“The problem will be to find the passes that cut through the mountain ranges.”

“We’ll just have to zigzag. Wherever we see a pass that could take us north, we go that way. When we come up against a ridge that looks impassable, we turn west and follow the valley, all the time looking out for our next chance to turn north. The passes may not be where this map shows them to be, but they’re in there somewhere.”

“Well, there’s nothing to do now but try,” she said.

“If we get into trouble we’ll have to retrace our steps and try a different route, that’s all.”

She smiled. “I’d rather do this than pay calls in Berkeley Square.”

He grinned back. She was ready for anything: he loved that about her. “It beats digging for coal, too.”

Lizzie’s face became solemn again. “I just wish Peg was here.”

Mack felt the same way. They had seen no trace of Peg after she had run off. They had hoped they would catch up with her that first day, but it had not happened.

Lizzie had cried all that night: she felt she had lost two children, first her baby and then Peg. They had no idea where she might be or whether she was even alive. They had done all they could to look for her, but that thought was small consolation. After all he and Peg had been through together, he had lost her in the end. Tears came to his eyes whenever he thought about her.

But now he and Lizzie could make love every night, under the stars. It was spring, and the weather was mild. Soon they would build their house and make love indoors. After that they had to store up salt meat and smoked fish for the winter. Meanwhile he would clear a field and plant their seeds.…

He got to his feet.

“That was a short rest,” Lizzie said as she stood up.

“I’ll be happier when we’re out of sight of this river,” Mack said. “Jay might guess our route thus far—but this is where we shake him off.”

Reflexively they both looked back the way they had come. There was no one in sight. But Jay was on that road somewhere, Mack felt sure.

Then he realized they were being watched.

He had seen a movement out of the corner of his eye and now he saw it again. Tensing, he slowly turned his head.

Two Indians were standing just a few yards away.

This was the northern edge of Cherokee country, and they had been seeing the natives at a distance for three days, but none had approached them.

These two were boys about seventeen years old. They had the straight black hair and reddish tan skin characteristic of the original Americans, and wore the deerskin tunic and trousers the new immigrants had copied.

The taller of the two held out a large fish like a salmon. “I want a knife,” he said.

Mack guessed the two of them had been fishing in this river. “You want to trade?” Mack said.

The boy smiled. “I want a knife.”

Lizzie said: “We don’t need a fish, but we could use a guide. I’ll bet he knows where the pass is.”

That was a good idea. It would be a tremendous relief to know where they were going. Mack said eagerly: “Will you guide us?”

The boy smiled, but it was obvious he did not understand. His companion remained silent and still.

Mack tried again. “Will you be our guide?”

He began to look troubled. “No trade today,” he said doubtfully.

Mack sighed in frustration. He said to Lizzie: “He’s an enterprising kid who’s learned a few English phrases but can’t really speak the language.” It would be maddening to get lost here just because they could not communicate with the local people.

Lizzie said: “Let me try.”

She went to one of the pack horses, opened a leather satchel, and took out a long-bladed knife. It had been made at the forge on the plantation, and the letter “J,” for Jamisson, was burned into the wood of the handle. It was crude by comparison with what you could buy in London, but no doubt it was superior to anything the Cherokee could make themselves. She showed it to the boy.

He smiled broadly. “I’ll buy that,” he said, and reached for it.

Lizzie withdrew it.

The boy offered the fish and she pushed it away. He looked troubled again.

“Look,” Lizzie said. She bent over a large stone with a flat surface. Using the point of the knife she began to scratch a picture. First she drew a jagged line. She pointed at the distant mountains, then at the line. “This is the ridge,” she said.

Mack could not tell whether the boy understood or not.

Below the ridge she drew two stick figures, then pointed at herself and Mack. “This is us,” she said. “Now—watch carefully.” She drew a second ridge, then a deep V-shape joining the two. “This is the pass,” she said. Finally she put a stick figure in the V. “We need to find the pass,” she said, and she looked expectantly at the boy.

Mack held his breath.

“I’ll buy that,” the boy said, and he offered Lizzie the fish.

Mack groaned.

“Don’t lose hope,” Lizzie snapped at him. She addressed the Indian again. “This is the ridge. This is us. Here’s the pass. We need to find the pass.” Then she pointed at him. “You take us to the pass—and you get the knife.”

He looked at the mountains, then at the drawing, then at Lizzie. “Pass,” he said.

Lizzie pointed at the mountains.

He drew a V-shape in the air, then pointed through it. “Pass,” he said again.

“I’ll buy that,” Lizzie said.

The boy grinned broadly and nodded vigorously.

Mack said: “Do you think he got the message?”

“I don’t know.” She hesitated, then took her horse’s bridle and began to walk on. “Shall we go?” she said to the boy with a gesture of invitation.

He started to walk beside her.

“Hallelujah!” said Mack.

The other Indian came too.

They struck out along the bank of a stream. The horses settled into the steady gait that had brought them five hundred miles in twenty-two days. Gradually the distant ridge loomed larger, but Mack saw no sign of a pass.

The terrain rose remorselessly, but the ground seemed less rough, and the horses went a little faster. Mack realized the boys were following a trail only they could see. Letting the Indians take the lead, they continued to head straight for the ridge.

They went all the way to the foot of the mountain and suddenly turned east then, to Mack’s enormous relief, they saw the pass. “Well done, Fish Boy!” he said joyfully.

They forded a river and curved around the mountain to emerge on the far side of the ridge. As the sun went down they found themselves in a narrow valley with a fast-flowing stream about twenty-five feet wide, running northeast. Ahead of them was another ridge. “Let’s make camp,” Mack said. “In the morning we’ll go up the valley and look for another pass.”

Mack felt good. They had followed no obvious route, and the pass had been invisible from the riverbank: Jay could not possibly follow them here. He began to believe he had escaped at last.

Lizzie gave the taller boy the knife. “Thank you, Fish Boy,” she said.

Mack hoped the Indians would stay with them. They could have all the knives they wanted if they would guide Mack and Lizzie through the mountains. But they turned and went back the way they had come, the taller of the two still carrying his fish.

A few moments later they had disappeared into the twilight.