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December 1780
IN THE END, Silas saved just one or two of his drawings from each year of their journey and the ensuing years as well, although from the year 1746 there were four he could not bring himself to cull. He thought a bit longer and burned the ones from 1743. What a horrible year that one had been from the earliest calamity in January to the final disaster in December.
He did not know if anyone would ever see the few sketches he retained, but he hoped that some day perhaps his grandchildren might treasure them. Or at least look at them with a bit of wonder.
He laid his hand across the rendering of John Martin as a young boy next to Hubbard Brandt. John Gilman. He had never shown it to anyone other than his wife. By the time anyone else saw it, the similarity between the two faces would hardly be noticed—or if it was seen, without the names, there would be no one to make the connection. Perhaps he should give this to Mary Frances Martin? Now that Homer was dead these dozen years, surely she might like to have ... No. That would not do. He would leave the sketch here, hidden in his leather case, where it would not be seen for many years to come.
The next sketch, one of Miss Julia, was one of his favorites. She had laughed so that day at the village fete, picking up the edges of her divided skirts and dancing on the green amongst the young women twining about the maypole, her white hair breaking loose from her bonnet.
He had tried sketching the dance but had been unhappy with the results and so had consigned it to the fire. He knew not how to sketch music, and the swirling skirts had been something of a disaster. But this one, with her face in repose, with that glorious twinkle of good will—and a fair amount of bedevilment—in her eyes, this was Miss Julia indeed.
On the back of Miss Julia’s portrait, he’d not been able to resist sketching the harvest with—of course—his Louetta front and center. Although he had no true idea of how the women had been arranged in the field, for he had been busy with his scythe at the time, he surrounded his wife with her particular friends, Mistress Hastings, Mary Frances Martin, and of course Miss Julia. He knew them all well enough to draw them from memory.
The fourth drawing he kept from that year, also drawn from memory, was of Constance Garner Breeton and her sister Mary Frances grieving over the small coffin that held Constance’s baby girl. He had to save that one as well. Their anguish fairly flowed from his quill, but he had captured too the way in which the two women seemed to support each other. Their linked hands atop the pine box. Perhaps that was what gave such power to the drawing.
Silas did not always know from where his inspiration came, but he knew when he had accomplished that which any artist yearns to do. He had captured a moment of vibrant life.
~ ~ ~
“THAT’S MARY FRANCES and her sister Constance,” Maddy said, reading the title of the next drawing. “October 1746 CGB, MFM.”
“It’s a funeral,” Pat said, “but it doesn’t say who’s being buried.”
“A child,” Sadie said. “See how small the coffin is.” Easton reached out and took her hand.
“Do you think Mary Frances had another child that died?”
“Of course not, Pat.” Rebecca Jo sounded indignant. “There’s nothing about another child in the town annals.”
“Written by men, most likely,” Maddy said. “They wouldn’t have mentioned the death of a baby.”
“So many women lost infants back then,” Carol said. “Those initials after the title—they must mean Constance Garner Breeton and Mary Frances Martin.”
“I’d be willing to bet this was Constance’s child,” Glaze said. She pointed to the way Mary Frances held Constance’s hand on top of the wooden box. “Mary Frances is looking at Constance. See? But Constance is looking at the coffin.”
“I sure am glad they had each other.” Dee reached over to touch Rebecca Jo’s shoulder.
“Remember, though,” Melissa said, “in her diary where Mary Frances complained that Constance was too young to understand?”
“Looks like they grew up a lot in the next few years,” Glaze said. “Biscuit and I got a lot closer once we were both adults.” She didn’t say anything about how she had to get help for her bipolar situation before she could be much of a friend to anybody. I didn’t mention it either. But I knew from the look in her eye that she was thinking the same thing.
The sketches from the next five years, from 1747 to 1751, were fascinating, for they showed the growth of the town, almost like time lapse photos, from just a few cabins spread about the hillside to a more town-like cluster, at least around the area that we could even now identify as the town green.
“He forgot to put in the gazebo,” Pat said.
“No,” Glaze said, “we’re the ones who forgot to keep the central fire when we installed the gazebo.”
"A central fire," Rebecca Jo said. "Why don’t we look into building a fire pit near the gazebo? Some place where people can roast marshmallows or sit around and sing."
"We could have a circle of cut logs for people to sit on," Pat said.
"Nope." Maddy sounded authoritarian. "Logs would get covered with fungi, and bugs would invade them. What we’d need would be concrete pilings short enough to sit on."
Pat curled her lip. "Concrete’s a lot harder than wood."
"And colder, too." Sadie rubbed her backside.
"We have to get the ice to melt first," Rebecca Jo pointed out. "Let’s have a town competition to see who can design the best fire pit and seating area."
"Great idea," Glaze said. "The Martinsville Foundation can fund the prize money. And the cost of construction, too."
“I bet we’ll have lots of entries,” Maddy said. “And look at this." She held the drawing higher. "Henry’s going to want to see the church. It still looks almost the same as it did back then.”
“Well”—I raised a skeptical eyebrow—“the outline of it is different somehow, but it’s in the same place as far as I can tell.”
“Right next to the cemetery.” Sadie pointed to the few stones and crosses Silas had sketched in.
“Which one do you suppose is Hubbard’s grave?”
Pat dug an elbow—gently—into my mom’s side. “Don’t you remember? He’s buried under that stone wall in the center of the cemetery?"
Mom looked thoroughly confused. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, we must have found that out before you got here.” Maddy frowned. “Didn’t we tell you about it?”
Mom looked around the group. “What else have you been keeping secret?”
She had that fun glint in her eye, so I knew she wasn’t ticked off about it. Maddy retrieved the letter that wasn’t supposed to be opened until after Mary Frances had been dead a hundred years, and we brought Mom and the other latecomers up to date—at least I hope we covered everything they’d missed.
"One thing I don’t understand," Mom said. "Why is he buried underneath a wall?"
We didn’t have an answer for that one.
Maddy held up the next sketch at arm’s length, the one from October of 1751. “Where do you suppose he was sitting when he drew this?”
“Obviously on the other side of the Metoochie,” Glaze said. “The way he’s sketched the water just barely there at the bottom of the page, and then he shows practically the whole hillside.”
"Look at the rock," Ida said. "It’s still the same."
Sure enough, the enormous flat boulder that jutted out into the river looked like it could have been drawn yesterday instead of more than a hundred years ago.
"And the groves of the Old Forest," Sadie said, pointing to the three sections of trees that still stood to this day, behind my house, above the church, and where the Millicent Mansion would someday be built, the house that had become the town library.
“And the cliffs,” Charlie added.
I was surprised to see her face redden. Maybe she was a lot shyer than I had thought. She certainly hadn’t contributed much to our discussions up here. Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure when she’d returned from her bathroom break. The woman was practically invisible.
Glaze, who was quite an artist herself, leaned in closer to the drawing. “Look at the way the date wavers, as if it’s drifting in the current.” She puffed out her cheeks and blew a long breath. “He had an amazing talent. I hope the early settlers appreciated him.”
“I’d like to know who that is up there on top,” Easton said.
“What do you mean, dear?”
Easton directed Sadie’s gaze—and everybody’s for that matter—to the suggestion of a tiny head peeking through some overgrown grasses far at the top of the cliff.
Glaze looked sheepish. “I never noticed that, but you’re right. It’s somebody—what do you think?—spying on the town?”
“Maybe Silas was hinting that they were still at risk of being discovered?”
“It could have been Brand playing hide and seek with little Louise.”
“Maybe it ...”
“Could it ...”
“Perhaps ...”
The ideas came thick and fast, but of course, no matter how much we guessed, there was no way of knowing for sure.
~ ~ ~
WEDNESDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1751
SILAS SHIFTED HIS position on the broad rock and stared at the creek spread wide below him. This October day was still warm, which was just as well, since he had thoroughly soaked the lower edge of his breeches on the trip through the shallow brook. The sun, which lay behind him, would soon enough dry out his clothing, probably just in time for him to soak it again on his return trip to the other side. At least he had been smart enough to remove his shoes and stockings before entering the water.
They had lived here on the bank of the Mee-too-chee long enough to know how treacherous the current could be when winter snows melted in the mountains to the north and spring rains added to the volume and swiftness of the current. Today, though, he found it hard to imagine there could ever be any evil intent in so placid a stream.
He opened the leather pouch in which he kept a small supply of paper, several quills, and his ink in a well-stoppered bottle. The leather was sturdy enough not to collapse and crease the paper, and also stiff enough to serve as a makeshift table when he held it across his lap.
He took longer than usual over this drawing, making sure to delineate his own house—his and Louetta’s—and even to suggest her there, bending over her garden, although he knew full well she was helping to tend a suppurating wound in the arm of one of the Surratt brood.
He sketched in the three sections of tall trees they’d left standing. He was still surprised at the vehemence with which young MaryAnne and Willy Russell had defended the trees. Everyone who had been there that day on the trail and who had seen how the dead hickory fell across the attacking painter, and thereby saved the lives of the two children, could not deny the request of the young crusaders. He was glad he had added his own support of the children’s proposal. Perhaps some day he would sketch that falling tree. He wondered briefly why he hadn’t already.
As he added in the cliffs guarding the back of the town—he knew them so well by now that he hardly had to look at them—he looked anyway, for a slight movement caught his eye. It was not quite in tune with the brisk breeze that had sprung up.
He did not think it was his imagination. He had long since ceased to worry about the possible arrival of marauding Brandts, not since the death of the one-armed man. Or rather, not since his discovery of the true identity of John Gilman. There was a small crew of men felling trees well back from the cliff, but if one of them had wanted to overlook the town, he would not be skulking like that. There was definitely something furtive about whoever it was. This far away he could not possibly have seen the face. As he watched, the head disappeared, the grasses filled in the area where the man had been, and all was as it had been before.
But all was not as it had been. Silas had seen someone spying on the town. He was sure of that.
He sketched in a tiny face—just a mere hint of eyes and forehead. There. It would serve to remind him should he ever need the knowledge at a later date. To be sure, he added the full date before he signed the drawing, laughing a bit at himself as he drew in the letters, making them look as if the slight current was ready to wash them away at any moment. Nobody would ever notice, he felt sure, but this bit of whimsy satisfied him. He would show the drawing to Louetta this evening. Surely she would perceive his tiny caprice.
~ ~ ~
16 OCTOBER 1751
JONATHAN ENDICOTT WAS strong for his thirteen years. Just that morning his Uncle Daniel had said, “It will not be long before you will be able to challenge me to arm wrestling.”
“I can challenge you right now,” Jonathan had answered, flexing his arm to show the developing ropes of muscle.
Uncle Daniel only grinned, though, and cuffed him on the side of the head. Jonathan hated to be laughed at. He snatched up a handful of bread and ran from the cabin as the derisive laughter of his other uncles rang in his ears.
He went where he always went when he wanted to be alone—clambering up, as agile as a goat, over the tumbled rocks that littered the base of the towering cliff. Several months ago, he had found a secret path up to the very top of the cliff. He had wanted to explore farther, but always the specter of daily chores called him back. As the oldest of the Endicott boys, more was expected of him than of his brothers and sisters. This day, though, he did not care.
When he reached the top, he turned to look back across the lake. There was a noticeable current where the river spilled from the deep gorge. Autumn leaves floated in a streak across the surface of the lake, visible even from this height as a smear of red and yellow and brown on the deep blue of the water.
The small cluster of buildings below him seemed tiny from this great height, and he clenched his fists. What if he never went back? He had his knife, his most precious possession, and his flint for starting fires. He could kill squirrels to provide himself with food. But a wisp of smoke from the chimney below him reminded him that his mother made the best stew in Endicottville. He withdrew the small loaf of bread from where he had stuffed it into his shirt and nibbled on it.
His gaze lingered on the few remaining stones of the foundation that had once been his Uncle Sayrle’s house. The story had become something of a family legend, oft told around the fireplace at night—how Uncle Sayrle chose to build his cabin on the edge of the lake, how Pa had told him not to be a fool but to build farther up the incline of the valley where the rest of the Endicott men were building, how Sayrle had said he wanted to be able to stretch his arms in the morning air without running into one of his fool brothers.
Then the mood would shift when Pa would skewer Jonathan and Rufus and even little Herman—who had been born the day after the flood killed Uncle Sayrle. Pa would always give them a stern look. “Learn to listen to sense, boys,” he would always say. “Sayrle ignored what I said, and his house, with him in it, was washed away one night when the river flooded and poured out of the gorge and into the lake. That wall of water washed his house away, and him with it.”
Jonathan always shivered when he heard that part of the story. He tried not to, but he could not help himself. He could almost see the wall of water crashing through the sides of his uncle’s house six long years ago. He had vague memories of Uncle Sayrle—mostly of a tall man who occasionally carried Jonathan on his broad shoulders. And he remembered—or thought he did—the funeral they had after they finally found Uncle’s body, tangled in the reeds on the far side of the lake.
Today, though, the lake looked as calm as it ever was. He decided he did not have to return too soon. Isabelle and Rufus and Ellen and Herman could gather the eggs and rinse the chamber pots in the lake and fork hay for the cow. He knew he would get a heavy whupping for not doing his chores, but he would take it when it came.
He turned his back on the lake and on almost all the world he had known—his memories of the long trail were growing dimmer each year. Pa would not let anyone talk about where they had come from or how they had gotten here. Jonathan did not know the reason, but his pa had slapped him once—hard—across the mouth for mentioning the name of that town in the north. A name Jonathan could barely even recall now without feeling the taste of blood in his mouth.
The view to Jonathan’s left, to the south, seemed uninteresting to him, for he knew the cliff eventually sank to the level of the surrounding land. He had gone hunting in that direction with his pa and his uncles often enough to know that.
And had they not traveled that way so long ago, back in ’45? Jonathan could still remember how excited he had been when his entire family left the long train of wagons and had spent days and days—well, only three days—traveling to get here to their new home. He did not think of those days often, and the memory had begun to fade. Still, he did remember the lay of the land to the south and west of here.
But to the north it was unexplored territory. He might even meet up with a bear. He fingered his knife, knowing it would be an inadequate defense, and tensed his shoulders. He was really good at shinnying up a tree. He would make certain he was never far from a sapling large enough for him to climb, but not so sturdy that a bear would try to climb after him.
The sun was bright today, so he was sure he would always know which way was south, toward his home, even if he should get turned around in the heavy woods.
It was late morning, and his bread was long gone when he heard, ahead of him, the distinctive sound of axes thunking into tree trunks. He ducked behind a large oak and crouched, searching the woods ahead of him for any sign of the men he could hear calling friendly insults to each other.
He had not known there were other people here.
He knew better than to approach them, but his curiosity propelled him forward. They were making enough noise to cover any sound of his approach, but still he was careful, for he knew that if they spotted his movement, they might either fire at him, thinking him to be edible prey, or they might chase him.
He had to know from whence they came. Carefully, he faded back into the surrounding woods, skirted far around the men, and continued walking north, well aware that he was traveling close to a wide swath of cleared land those men must have carved out of the wilderness. At the end of that swath would be his answer.
He could not have travelled more than fifty or a hundred yards when he heard the sound of a hammer ringing against an anvil, and he almost stepped into a clearing. Off to the side he could see that the land fell away. He crept through the waving meadow grasses to the edge and found a cliff as tall as the one above his father’s cabin. Below, there were many cabins, animal pens, outhouses. Some of the houses were far larger than the one Jonathan lived in. He could hear voices and could see people going about their work.
There were other boys here!
He looked beyond the town and recognized the signs of a tree-bordered river. It disappeared between two imposing rock walls. It did not take him long to conclude that this was where the river—his river—the river that had killed his Uncle Sayrle—came from.
And to think there were people this close to home, and he had not known about them.
His pa had never mentioned any other people. Maybe he did not know. Of course, Pa would not have been able to see the strangers even if they had come to the top of the cliff and looked down on the Endicott spread.
Far across on the other side of the river, Jonathan spotted a man sitting on the rocks. He seemed to be reading something. There was a splotch of white on his lap, too far away to see any detail, but it had to be a book. He had never seen a book, but he knew what they were for his mother had talked about them and how she used to attend school when she was a child.
School did not sound very interesting to Jonathan. He was just as glad he did not have to endure that. His mother had taught him his letters, and he could write his name. What more did he need?
A movement down below caught his attention, and he raised his head, the better to see. As soon as he realized a woman in the meadow below him had her face turned up toward the cliff, Jonathan ducked down. It would not do to be seen. He edged back away from the cliff, careful not to move too quickly in case someone should be watching the tall grasses. He ducked into the concealing shelter of the underbrush and made his way back home, staying alert, careful to avoid the men felling the trees.
He did not think to look behind him once he passed beyond the sound of the men.
Even getting the strap from his Uncle Daniel when he made it home was worth it, just for the surprise on his father’s sightless face when Jonathan told what he had seen.
~ ~ ~
“THERE’S SUCH A HUGE gap,” Maddy said as she picked up the one from 1762. “Eleven years.”
“I think it’s criminal,” Ida complained. “Somebody ought to be strung up by their toes for getting rid of so many years’ worth of history.”
Carol wiggled her hands in that maybe/maybe not gesture. “There’s probably a good reason.”
Ida let out a derisive snort. “Not a chance."