The Foothill Spirits Series
The Foothill Spirits - Book One: Frontier Life & the Shawnees
by Betty Casbeer Carroll
with illustrations by Jackie Carroll
The Foothill Spirits – Book One: Frontier Life & the Shawnees
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Betty Casbeer Carroll
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Part Two: The Foothills in the Year 1803
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The Foothills–Summer 1997 - 5:00 p.m.
Every summer since she can remember, Heather Jean was sent to the rolling foothills in Southern Ohio to chase squirrels and jump over poisonous copperheads, listen to Nana talk about the olden days, and watch Uncle Mike zoom off every morning on his 1956 Harley-Davidson. Nana’s her great-grandmother and Uncle Mike is Nana’s grown son.
Heather Jean was bored way beyond despair the day she heard the Harley roaring up Careys Run Road. She ran down the driveway before Uncle Mike even turned the bend in the road. He idled his bike when he saw her waving both arms like a traffic cop, and waited.
When she climbed on his Harley, Uncle Mike reached back and tousled her hair, which is the one thing she hates the most in the whole world. And she sure doesn’t like people messing with it. First of all, her hair is so thick a chipmunk could hide in it. Next, it’s curly. And third, it sticks out all over.
“When you going to fix that mop?” he asked.
She pushed his hand away, and even managed to giggle, when his silky, blonde hair blew against her face, reminding her the men in her family got the good hair.
“Uncle Mike, I’m bored,” she said when she adjusted herself on the leather seat, and placed her arms around his waist. “All Nana does is nap and talk about the olden days. Let’s go to town.”
“Hey-y-y. Try that again. Without that whiney noise,” he replied.
He sounded just like her mom and grandma. Her mom said she was acting like a spoiled brat because she didn’t want to go to the foothills this summer. And her grandma said she was surly just because she wouldn’t talk on the drive down. They just didn‘t remember how it felt to be twelve years old and away from your friends all summer.
If they just wanted to ship her off for the summer, why didn’t they fly her to Tulsa where Aunt Marty has twin fawns playing in her front yard and armadilloes hiding in the woods? Or drive her to Fort Wayne where Aunt Jackie could give art lessons and take her to Artlink to see what local artists are doing. Or at least let her stay in downtown Portsmouth with Uncle Andy in his high-rise apartment overlooking the Ohio River near the Second Street stores where she could shop for antiques from the olden days and watch the artists work on the floodwall murals.
She began sliding sideways off the seat so she could jump off his Harley. She would have landed right in Careys Run, the creek that flows down the hill behind Nana’s house and under her barn. It’s dry in the summer and full of sharp rocks. It would serve them right if she broke her leg. Next year, Mom would think twice before shipping her off to the foothills.
“Heather-r-r,” Uncle Mike shrieked, jerking her back on with his left hand. He held his bike steady with the other. “What’re you doing?”
She jutted her chin out, gazed straight ahead, and didn’t say a word. She can be real quiet when she wants to. He squeezed the throttle with his right hand to rev up the motor. Its pan head engine rumbled like thunder on a stormy spring day. He says his bike has its own sound that tells the world a Harley is coming. Frankly, Heather Jean didn’t think anyone cared except people who own Harleys.
“Don’t you ever, ever pull a stunt like that again,” he shouted over the roaring of his bike. She still didn’t say anything, and just stared over his right shoulder toward Nana’s house at the end of the winding driveway. She clamped her teeth tight to keep from saying she wished she’d fallen and broken her leg.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, as they shot up the drive.
By the time they got to the house, Heather Jean was choking on her own silence. She leaped off before he turned the throttle off, and hollered over her shoulder, “You’re just like the rest.” Dashing up the path toward the barn, she didn’t even turn around. When she heard the front door slam, she knew Uncle Mike was more interested in his dinner than her. She should have known.
She passed the barn and followed a footpath into the woods, where Nana owns seventy-six acres of rolling hills right next to Shawnee State Forest. They call the foothills the Little Smokies. The real ones are named the Great Smokies. They’re in Tennessee, and Heather Jean had never once gone there.
Usually she couldn’t wait for school to let out. That was before she turned twelve, when it was fun to catch frogs and scare quail from their hiding places. But kids her age like to be with other kids. And there wasn’t another kid within a rolling foothill, which is a lot longer than a country mile.
If she got lost in the forest, the Governor of Ohio would have to send in the National Guard just to find her. She’d be crouched in the weeds, dirty and bruised, with stomach cramps from eating poison berries. They’d rush her to the hospital in one of those rescue helicopters with a red cross painted on both sides. She could actually hear the blades spinning overhead, just thinking about it.
But the trail winds around Nana’s foothill like a horseshoe. She couldn’t get lost as long as she stayed on course. She could go back the same way she came, or keep going. She would still end up behind Nana’s house regardless, just on different sides of the barn. At least that’s what Uncle Mike told her just a few days ago.“Be cool, and keep your head,” he lectured. “Just stay on the path and watch out for copperheads.” Uncle Mike loves to tell her what she can do and what she can’t do, like everybody else in the family. But he also tells her what to expect. But he forgot to warn her about the undergrowth that snagged her clothes and scratched her face and arms. It got thicker the farther she went.
He told her later he only went that far into the woods during fall and winter after the thickets had died, so he could make out where he was going, and the snakes are hibernating.
But she didn’t know that at the time. She just kept pushing through the brush and thistles, hoping the path would eventually clear. She wasn’t too worried at first. She knew it wouldn’t get dark until nine o’clock. Ohio has daylight saving time, and since it was only five when she left, she could easily be gone four hours.
Heather Jean could see it all in her mind’s eye. At six, Nana would ring the dinner bell. When she didn’t show up, Uncle Mike’d go peek in the barn. By seven, dinner would be cold, and they’d be worried sick. Then at eight, Nana would phone Mom and Grandma long distance, and tell them she was lost. They’d all be sorry. Her mom would be sorry she called her a brat, and Grandma ‘cause she called her surly. And she bet Uncle Mike would never call her a whiner again.
Well-l-l, she wasn’t absolutely sure about Uncle Mike.
She slowly wound her way around the hill, and kind of forgot why she was mad at Uncle Mike. But it didn’t really matter. She just kept on going deeper and deeper into the woods, where the trees were so tall, the tops weren’t visible even when she leaned way back.
Uncle Mike said the woods were mostly oak, maple and poplar, with a sprinkling here and there of beech and hickory. He could tell just by the bark. Last year he taught Heather Jean the different leaves, but she had already forgotten them. She spotted a few pine trees scattered about. Anyone can tell a pine, with its green needles, brown cones, and pungent aroma.
Her legs began to ache, and her stomach began to growl. She wished for a handful of her favorite food, fresh strawberries, or at least an apple. But what she needed most was to just sit down and rest, maybe even go home.
She spotted a large log a short way up the hill, and crawled toward it cautiously. She grabbed whatever saplings she could reach to pull herself upward. And when she got there, she kicked the log to scare off any snakes. Uncle Mike did that last year when they hiked together.
She sat down and stretched out her legs. A woodpecker was pecking on a nearby tree, and two gray squirrels were chasing in circles, crunching the dry leaves with their tiny feet. Even with the pecking and the crunching, the forest was so quiet she could hear her heart pumping blood and feel the aloneness inside her chest. It was time to go back.
When she got up to leave, she saw something moving through the underbrush. The shrubs were swaying, like the wind was blowing against them. But there wasn’t any wind.
She sat back down and squinted her eyes like cowboys do in Westerns, and stared ahead. A white vapor, slowly rolling down the hillside, was headed right toward her. She was hypnotized by its rolling mass, and continued to watch as it moved closer and closer. It kept coming until it covered her and everything else.
Goosebumps raced up her arms to her neck. The trees were no longer protective, but cold and mean. Tree barks moved in and out of view, changing their texture and color, while leaves on the saplings and the undergrowth blinked like small eyes. Snow White couldn’t have been more frightened when she got lost in the forest.
Heather Jean tried to cry out, but her throat tightened and she gurgled instead. Not that it mattered. There was no one to hear but wild turkey, quail, and whitetail deer. And they sure didn’t care. She felt like she was going to smother, and quickly got up from the log and proceeded blindly through the thick mist. She tripped once, and barely caught herself from plunging down the hillside. She had to forget all those warnings from Uncle Mike about copperhead snakes, and got down on her hands and knees, and wriggled up the hill, with rocks bruising her knees and thickets snagging her clothes and scraping her arms and face.
She should’ve stayed on the log. She could’ve shut her eyes and waited. Now the log was gone, lost in the thick whiteness that flowed around her. She inhaled deeply, and kept inching up the hill. If a copperhead bit her, she could die before anyone found her.
When she finally reached the top of the hill, she could see again. The whiteout was gone. She laughed out loud from sheer relief and clutched a large stone that jutted up from the ground. It was taller than her. Then she peered down at the valley below and shuddered. A thick fog was twisting around the bend toward Nana’s barn like a white snake slithering through the woods.
She held the tall rock with both hands and glanced around the hilltop. Across the skyline, dozens of other foothills, also covered in trees, rolled across the landscape. It was breathtaking. She was glad she came.
She loosened her grip on the rock, and looked down. A vine circling the bottom of the rock was covered with strawberries. She kneeled to pick the red berries when she noticed words carved on the stone’s surface. It was worn, but she could make out most of the words: Here lies Maggie Sue Douglas. Born in the Year of our Lord on January 2, 1791. Passed to her Heavenly Reward on October 31, 1803.
At first she was just curious, maybe because she visits cemeteries with Grandma and they make up stories about the people buried there. She subtracted the dates in her head. She was only twelve. Her age.
Heather Jean wondered how she died. Her eyes watered, like she was about to cry, when a gentle breeze caressed the back of her neck. She spun around, thinking the fog had returned. But a young girl, dressed in muslin, was rising in a mist from Maggie Sue’s grave. Long blonde hair flowed around her face.
Heather Jean gasped. She was standing on her grave, desecrating her spirit. She tried to leave, but it was too late. She was too scared to move.
The girl floated toward Heather Jean with outstretched hands. Startled, she tried to push her away, but all she felt was a puff of wind.
Heather Jean collapsed. The soft grass cushioned her fall. She laid there helpless. Her spirit sailed away, leaving her half-conscious body lying on Maggie Sue’s grave, and her unseeing eyes staring up blankly at the tombstone above her head.
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The Foothills–Summer 1997: 6:00 p.m.
Her spirit began to spiral, circling like a merry-go-round, moving faster and faster. She flailed in all directions, trying to grab on to something, anything, to stop the spinning. But, of course, it was just an illusion. Spirits don’t have bodies with arms and legs and heads like people, even though they do see without eyes and do hear without ears.
She could hear the faint sound of Nana’s dinner bell, calling her home to eat. It was exactly six o’clock. She would toll it like a clock chime five more times, waiting patiently as the echo from each clang disappeared into the rolling foothills.
When Heather Jean’s spirit spiraled through the four dimensions of space and time, visions from the olden days whizzed by:
huge steel mills belched black smoke,
flood waters spilled over the town of Portsmouth,
passenger trains whistled past the landscape,
freight boats slowly maneuvered canals, and
covered wagons rolled over rugged trails.
The images were like a video history of Ohio, only going backward instead of forward. Then the spinning stopped abruptly, like a car braking to avert a crash. Her spirit jerked, like it had flesh and blood, and entered the body of a young girl sleeping on a straw mattress. Her name was Maggie Sue and she was twelve years old.
The year was 1803. It was springtime.
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Part Two: The Foothills in the Year 1803
Chapter I - The Ohio Frontier
Maggie Sue opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor on a lumpy mattress, in the shadowy dawn of early morning. She moved her head slightly, then turned on her left side.
“Maggie Sue,” a voice asked, “Why are you so restless? Try to relax.” It was her ma’s soothing voice coaxing her back to sleep. Maggie Sue turned on her stomach, closed her eyes, and began dreaming. She was jolted awake by the crowing of a rooster and the smell of bacon frying. The shutters were open, the early morning sunlight brightened the room, and field sparrows whistled their sweet songs from the edge of the nearby forest that supported a wilderness of wild animals. Black bears roamed through the coves, panthers slinked in the underbrush, coyotes howled in the forest, bats swooped across the sky, and owls screeched during the darkness of night.
She got up from the mattress and studied her little sister, who was slumbering blissfully. Something kept tugging at her, like she was trying to recollect something important.
Myrtle Ann moved slightly and wailed, “Maggie-e-e,” stretching out the ‘e’. “I’m plumb tuckered out.” She turned over in a huff and was conked out before Maggie Sue could slip off her nightshirt. She took a muslin dress from a hook and put it on without thinking. It fell to her ankles. She kept gazing at it, wondering if it was really hers.
Her ma yelled from the kitchen. “C’mon, Maggie. Git the fixins on the table ‘fore they git cold.”
“I gotta go to the outhouse,” she answered, rushing right past her pa and out the door. Outside, she stopped and turned toward the log cabin, like she was seeing it for the first time. Two creeks brimming with bubbling water circled down each side of the hill, and merged in front of the cabin.
She glanced around. Where was the barn? What happened to their barn? She felt dizzy and reached for something to hold her steady. Then she remembered. They didn’t have a barn. Why did she think they had one?
She went back inside. Her ma was leaning over the fireplace, stirring the gravy. Maggie Sue picked a pan of biscuits off the hearth, and placed them on the table.
“Better git them young’uns up ‘fore them biscuits git cold,” her pa said as he took one.
Maggie Sue turned around and picked up a pan of bacon, placing it next to the biscuits. Her pa reached for the bacon, and began eating. Maggie Sue just stood and watched. Where am I? Who am I? she wondered.
“You a little peaked this morning, or jest ornery?” her pa asked, rubbing the bald spot on the top of his head.
“I dunno, Pa,” she answered. “I feel funny. Like I don’t belong here no way.” She started weeping.
Her ma wiped her hands on her apron, and put her arms around Maggie Sue’s shoulders. “What’s got into you, Maggie? You ain’t been yourself all night. Did you have nightmares?”
“Ma, I dunno. The room kept spinnin’,” she answered. “And things flashed in my head that don’t make no sense.” Something was wrong. She felt like she belonged somewhere else. She wanted to rush to the woods to be alone, to figure it out.
“Like what?” her pa asked, reaching for another biscuit. “You best stop yur carryin’ on and git them young’uns up.”
“What did you make out, Maggie?” her ma asked.
“Ma, there was things I ain’t never knowed before.”
“Like what, Maggie?”
“Like ridin’ in a wagon that ain’t pulled by horses,” she answered. “And callin’ folks on a talkin’ machine. Folks dancin’ and singin’ on a window right inside yur house.”
“You dreamt that?” her pa asked, pulling at his ear and cocking his head to one side.
“No. They jest pop into my head,” she answered, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Like the barn. Where’s the barn?”
Her ma studied her intently. “You best not think about it. Keep yur mind busy with yur chores.”
Her pa interrupted to have his say. “yur ma is right, Maggie. Jest push them things outta yur head. Someday, we’ll have a barn jest like other folks.” He paused a moment, then added, “Git the young’uns up ‘fore I eat up the biscuits.”
His wife scolded him for getting so bossy. “Sakes alive,” she replied. “Leave the child alone.”
“She ain’t no child. She’s goin’ on thirteen,” he replied, scratching his bald spot. “Maggie Sue, do what yur told. Keep this up and I’ll marry you off to one of them Merritt boys across the holler.”
She felt like her feet were turning to molasses. What’s he talkin’ about? She was only twelve.
She scanned the room like a stranger. The long table, two benches, and her pa’s chair were hewn from logs, and took up most of the space. Two black kettles with legs hung on each side of the fireplace. A tub and rubbing board were nearby in one corner, with a large cupboard in the other. A small window let in a tiny beam of sunlight, and a door on the other wall opened to the outside.
She reached up and touched her hair. It felt soft and silky. She pulled it forward and let it hang down in front. It fell to her waist. It was golden, the color of ripe corn. “Ma. Where’s the lookin’ glass?” she blurted out. She ran her fingers through the strands of hair.
Her pa nearly lunged out of his chair. “You ain’t got no time to be sittin’ in front of no lookin’ glass. Where did you git such a notion? It ain’t fittin’ to be primpin’ at yourself all day. There’s work to be done.”
She ignored his outburst. “Pa,” she asked. “Is my hair golden?”
He laughed out loud. “Why, Maggie Sue,” he chuckled. “You got the purtiest yeller hair in these here hills. All them young whippersnappers stop and take a gander when they spot you comin’.”
She blushed and pulled a strand of hair in front of her face. Its golden color was as yellow as the ears of corn her ma husked and stored in the cupboard.
Has it always been this color? she wondered.
“Pa, hush that kinda talk,” said her ma. “You gonna make Maggie Sue downright uppity.”
Maggie Sue left the room swinging her head back and forth just to feel it bobbing up and down her back. She tingled inside, like she had just learned something new. She had long, straight hair, and it was the color of gold.
She danced into the bedroom, squealing, “Myrtie. Joe. Johnny. Git up. The rooster’s crowin’.”
Myrtie stretched and moaned before she finally got up from the straw mattress. Maggie Sue dressed Joe and Johnny, then carried Joe to the outhouse with Johnny trotting at her heels to catch up. Her long hair blew against her cheeks in the early morning breeze, sending shivers up her spine.
Myrtie was already stuffing herself with biscuits and gravy when Maggie Sue returned, telling stupid jokes to their pa with her mouth full of food. He laughed and laughed, when nothing she said was the least bit funny, at least not to Maggie Sue.
Maggie Sue sat down next to Joe and fixed his plate, then took two biscuits for herself and poured gravy over them while her pa continued with his favorite subject.
“How’s about I git one of them Moore boys to marry you. Jest take yur pick from Levi, Phillip or John. And you kin live in their big stone house with all kinds of lookin’ glasses.”
Her ma interrupted before Maggie Sue could say anything herself. “Them Moore boys ain’t gonna marry our Maggie Sue,” she said. “Them folks is a strange bunch, if you ask me. Homesteadin’ by the Scioto River where them waters flood ever spring.“
“I’m plumb glad we moved,” Johnny piped in.
“Young’un, you was too small to recollect them floods,” his pa answered. “I swow they was awful. Them lowlands ain’t good fer nothin’ but floodin’.”
“That Scioto ain’t never goin’ to behave,” his wife added.
“I hear tell the Moores got an outlet on higher ground now, and they’re addin’ a lean-to. It’s gonna have a basement seven feet deep for their livestock,” he responded.
“I don’t know, Pa.” his wife answered. “I heard they had some right good farmland ‘fore they moved here back in 1795. Shoulda stayed put, if you ask me. Shoulda stayed in Pittsburgh.”
“You think we shoulda stayed put in Virginy?” her husband asked, scratching his neck and raising one eyebrow.
“I didn’t say nothin’ of the sort, Pa,” she replied, staring out the window, while her fingers slowly knotted the edge of her apron. “We ain’t never had no land to give up.”
“We’re jest squatters, right? Is that what yur sayin’?” he replied. The veins on his brow popped out like purple earthworms. “We ain’t nothin’ but poor squatters.”
“Whatsa squatter?” Johnny asked, at the same time he knocked over his jar of milk. Their ma grabbed it before it spilled on the table.
“Who-a boy. We cain’t afford to waste milk out here in this wilderness,” she said, setting the jar next to his plate.
“Squatters are folks who work land they ain’t got no papers on,” their pa explained, jutting his chin out like he was defying someone to throw him off right then.
“Pa, you worry too much. Ain’t nobody comin’out to no wilderness to take our land,” his wife replied, gazing toward the nearby forest. “Ain’t nobody in his right mind would want this place.”
“You ain’t sorry we came?” her husband asked, wrinkling his forehead like a rub board.
“I cain’t recollect having no say-so,” she answered, still staring out the window.
“You know we ain’t had no choice, what with them black slaves workin’ fer nothin’ back in Virginy on them big plantations.”
“Pa, do folks have slaves in Ohio?” Maggie Sue asked.
“No, Maggie Sue. This here is a free state. All we got in these parts is runaways.”
“Are the runaways free?” she asked.
“You might say so. Least ‘til their masters find them.”
“Ain’t they got no rights?”
“They got the right to stay ‘til they git caught,” he answered.
“They ain’t got no rights,” her ma said, like it really made her mad. “Jest like women.”
Her pa looked at his wife and wrinkled his forehead, like he didn’t get it. “You ain’t no slave, Ma,” he said. “Yur just as free as me.”
“I ain’t got no rights,” she answered. She turned her back on her husband and began stirring the kindling in the fireplace.
“Pa, did we squat in Virginy?” asked Maggie Sue.
He hit the table with his fist. “I’m tired of this here talk of Virginy. We ain’t never going back. This here’s our home now. The Ohio Valley. Right here in Scioto County.”
“Yes, Pa,” Maggie Sue replied softly.
Her pa was still fuming about her ma speaking her mind. He pointed an index finger at his wife. “You know well as me what happened to them other squatters that was here ‘fore us.” Then he tapped his finger against his forehead, telling his wife to think on it. He paused, but she didn’t reply. She’d had her say.
“They was chased off their land. 600 families in all,” he added.
His wife began taking the dirty dishes off the table, while he kept on fuming. “Fort Harmar was built on the Muskingum River jest to keep them squatters from comin’ back to the land they was workin’.”
His wife put down a plate and glared at her husband. “Rubbish,” she said. “Them squatters all took their land back. The very same land they farmed ‘fore they was run off.”
Her husband pulled at his ear and gazed at his wife. She turned abruptly and went back to washing her dishes.
Myrtle Ann took Johnny and Joe into the other room to play, while Maggie Sue finished clearing the table. “I’ll do the rest,” she told her ma. She was glad her sister left with her little brothers. She was useless in the kitchen, so far as Maggie Sue could tell. She was cooking biscuits at Myrtie’s age, and hoeing the garden with their ma. But not their pa’s precious little Myrtle Ann.
Her pa sat at the table, watching Maggie Sue do her chores and still talking about his land. “Them gov’ment men in Chillicothe say a man can buy this here land fer two dollars an acre. I’d gladly pay it, if’n I had the cash. Then no one kin chase us off. Not even the Shawnees,” he added, getting up from his chair. “Ma, git yur go-to-meetin’ clothes on. We’re gonna mosey over and set a spell with the Marshalls and some other folks down near Tygart Creek.”
“Kin I go?” Johnny called from the other room.
“Me go?” asked Joe.
“No. yur gonna stay put with yur sister Myrtie,” their pa answered.
Maggie Sue glanced at her ma, who turned toward the window. “Am I goin’, Ma?”
She didn’t answer, just nodded her head.
“Maggie Sue,” said her pa. “Go pretty yurself up. yur goin’ with me and yur ma.”
“Whose gonna be there, Pa?”
“Bunch of young fellas fer you to meet up with. There’s gonna be Hezekiah Merritt’s two sons. Henry Sheeley’s three boys. William Russell’s boy. William has that iron works over by Brush Creek. And old Henry is a tailor. He could sew up some mighty purty dresses fer you.”
“Any girls, Pa?”
“Jest yourself, Maggie Sue.” He grinned at his wife, like he was real pleased with himself.
“I ain’t goin’.” Maggie Sue rushed outside and headed for the woods. “I ain’t goin’. He’s jest tryin’ to git me married off.” She stumbled up a small trail that led into the forest, passing the white rooster that woke her up with his crowing every morning.
She found a small clearing where her pa left a pile of firewood. She kicked one of the logs to scare off the snakes, then sat down. The trees were so tall she couldn’t see the tops, even when she leaned way back. They were mostly oak, poplar and maple with a scattering of beech and hickory. She could tell by the bark. Her pa taught her when she was knee high to a grasshopper, which he often said.
Maggie Sue stared at the nearby thickets. The Shawnees hunted in this very spot just a few years ago. Now they were gone. Some folks claim they weren’t gone at all, just hiding in the forest, waiting. And they’re so quiet, the leaves don’t even crunch when they sneak up.
She looked around cautiously. The Shawnees could be hiding right next to her, and she’d never know until they sprang out and grabbed her, like they did Mary Ingles and her two little boys back in 1775. Mary escaped after two months, but had to leave her kids behind. She never saw them again, not even the tiny baby she had right after her capture.
But her pa says the Shawnees won’t be coming back. He says it’s the wolves and bears and copperhead snakes she should watch for when she goes into the forest. She was glad it was still daylight.
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Chapter II - Journey to Tygart Creek
The ground was still damp from the morning dew when Maggie Sue saw her pa coming through the thickets. She was sitting on the stack of firewood, moping and swatting mosquitoes.
They left for Tygart Creek in the wagon her pa used to take their produce to market, pulled by the horse they used for plowing. Myrtle Ann stood in the door grinning like a raccoon and waving both hands as they drove away. Maggie Sue could have kicked her for sure. Someday their pa would get her married off and she wouldn’t find it so funny.
She wished her ma was coming so her pa didn’t make any promises. But her ma said she had too much work to do to sit all afternoon making small talk.
Her pa drove the wagon on the cow path next to the creek where jagged rocks poked up through the clear water like sharp arrows. She gritted her teeth, held the wagon seat with both hands, and closed her eyes when the wagon neared the edge.
She felt a tugging inside her head and mumbled, “Careys Run.”
“What did you say, Maggie?” her pa asked, pulling on the reins to slow the horse. He guided the wagon around a sharp bend, then glanced at Maggie Sue. “What did you say?” he repeated.
The tugging came back. “Careys Run,” she whispered. She wanted to leap off and go back to her ma for comfort. But she kept still and tried to think of other things, clinging to the clapboard seat all the way to the Scioto River.
Mr. Merritt and Mr. Sheeley were standing on the docks, waiting for them to arrive. Their boys weren’t anywhere in sight and Maggie Sue sighed with relief. Her Pa didn’t seemed concerned. Maybe he was just joking about getting her married off. She never knew for sure when he was teasing.
After Mr. Russell arrived, Mr. Sheeley guided his flatboat downstream on the Scioto River, then upstream when they entered the Ohio. The water was so clear they could see large rocks on the bottom and fish swimming in the current. The river was wider than usual, swollen from the spring rains that caused its banks to overflow.
The trip was mostly spent scratching large welts from the swarms of mosquitoes biting through their clothing. “Dang mosquitoes,” her pa kept saying as he clawed at his neck and shoulders.
And when they reached their destination, Mr. Sheeley shrieked like a kid hunting rabbit for the first time. “Looky there. Tygart Creek.” It flowed into the Ohio River from the Kentucky side, directly across from the Marshall’s house overlooking both the creek and the river from a hilltop.
Maggie Sue stared up at the huge house, with its winding porch in front and curtained windows upstairs. After Mr. Sheeley docked his boat, she scrambled after her pa up the embankment to the house where Mr. Marshall and his wife Nancy waited to introduce their family.
“These are our young’uns, Jessie, Samuel, Polly, Fannie and Salina,” said Nancy.
“Fannie was the first white child born in Scioto County,” Mr. Marshall added proudly. “She was born on February 6, 1796.”
His wife sent their young ones to play except for Samuel, then took Maggie Sue into the parlor where the men were gathering. Maggie Sue became kind of suspicious when Samuel sat next to her on the settle. She never spoke a word directly to him, and never once turned in his direction. But she was conscious of him all afternoon, shuffling his feet like he was nervous himself, sitting next to a girl.
Her pa didn’t tell her she’d be meeting important men like Henry Massie and John Belli. She was real nervous at first, and kept quiet like her ma taught her when she’s with company.
Mrs. Marshall didn’t talk much, either. She sat in a corner of the room by herself, listening. When she did speak, the men stopped and waited politely. Sometimes her husband would say, “Nancy, how about some more corn whiskey?” and the men would go on with their talk while she got up and filled their mugs.
They immediately started talking about statehood, probably because Ohio had just become the 17th state, the first state from the Northwest Territory. Maggie Sue became so engrossed in their talk, she forgot that Samuel was sitting next to her, and her pa was trying to marry her off.
Her head began tugging when the discussion bounced around the room from one man to the next. Suddenly, she heard a girl say, “Someday there’s gonna be fifty states.” She cringed and nearly bit her tongue. It was her own voice. What made her say that?
Mr. Massie was speaking and stopped for a split second. Jane Marshall touched Maggie Sue’s arm lightly and placed a finger on her own lips.
Maggie Sue flushed with embarrassment and glanced at her pa. He was fidgeting and pulling at his ear, but never turned in her direction. Then Samuel shuffled his feet, and she recalled why her pa brought her along in the first place.
“A lot of folks didn’t want statehood,” said Mr. Massie after his short pause. “I wonder how they feel about it now?”
Her pa responded with a tinge of anger, “I kin tell you. I wasn’t allowed to vote when I got here from Virginy. Jest ‘cause I ain‘t got no papers on the land I been workin’. Jest cause I’m a squatter.”
“You coulda voted if you spent a hundurd dollars fixin’ up yur land,” said Mr. Marshall.
Her pa shook his head back and forth, muttering to himself, “Who in the dang hill’s got a hundurd dollars?”
“All you needed was fifty acres to vote,” stated Mr. Belli.
Another squatter agreed with her pa, since he didn’t have papers on his land either. “Squatters don’t matter,” he interjected. “I work more’n fifty acres, and I ain’t allowed to vote. You ain’t nothing if you ain’t got papers.”
“We got statehood regardless. So what’s yur point?” Mr. Merritt asked, gawking at her pa and the other squatter.
“The point is we wasn’t allowed to vote,” her pa answered, his face growing purple from the veins popping out on his forehead. “Don’t you git it. Squatters don’t matter.”
“But we got statehood,” said Mr. Belli, shaking his head in frustration.
Maggie Sue tried not to stare at Mr. Belli just because he looked so different. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off his knee breeches and stockings. He even had a wig on his head that was braided and tied with a big blue ribbon. He wasn’t dressed at all like the other men, who wore trousers stuffed in their boots. And she had never known a man who had buckles on his shoes.
Maggie Sue jolted from her thoughts and looked away from Mr. Belli when her pa bellowed across the room, “What good does it do me? I still cain’t vote. I ain’t got no papers.”
“I don’t much understand that electoral votin’ stuff,” said Mr. Russell, changing the subject and ignoring her pa’s outburst. “But I hear Congress is talkin’ about makin’ some changes ‘fore the year’s out.”
“They ain’t goin’ to make no big changes, you kin bet on that,” Mr. Marshall responded. “They’re jest changin’ the way we elect the president and vice-president. They ain’t wantin’ no more tie votes, like the one they got with Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr.”
Maggie Sue felt the strong tugging inside her head again before she said, “Women are gonna git the vote someday.” What made her say that? She knew women couldn’t vote.
Mr. Marshall shuffled his feet and Mr. Belli cleared his throat. Then her pa pulled at his ear and scolded her for speaking out. “Women ain’t never gonna vote,” he added. “I’m a man, and I ain’t even allowed to vote.” None of it seemed fair to Maggie Sue, but she kept her thoughts to herself this time.
Jane Marshall motioned for Maggie Sue to follow her into the next room. They sat down at a table and she poured Maggie Sue a cup of tea, and one for herself. It tasted better than the kind her ma made from bark shavings. But she felt apprehensive, sure that Mrs. Marshall was getting ready to ask her to marry up with Samuel. But she only smiled instead and began talking about her family.
“When we left Pennsylvania, I cried,” she stated, staring across the room like Maggie Sue’s ma when she’s upset. “We had a good life there.”
Maggie Sue sucked in some air and waited anxiously. She knew for sure what Mrs. Marshall was leading up to. She wanted to go play with Polly and Salina and Jessie, and forget all about getting married off. But Mrs. Marshall never said a thing about Samuel, except that he was born on June 29, 1789.
“How old does that make him?” Maggie Sue managed to ask, and relaxed when she learned he was only fourteen.
“You want to know things, don’t you, Maggie Sue?” Mrs. Marshall asked.
“Yes’m,” Maggie Sue answered.
“Have you ever heard of Abigail Adams?” she asked.
“No ma'am.”
“She was the wife of President John Adams, our second president. Abigail told her husband not to forget the ladies when they wrote the Constitution,” she replied.
“Did he forget the ladies?”
She smiled at Maggie Sue. “Yes, he forgot the ladies. We ain’t full citizens fer as I kin tell.”
Maggie Sue couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so she asked her how they got to the Ohio Valley.
“We came to the Northwest Territory with General Anthony Wayne. President Washington sent him to sign a treaty with the Indians in 1795,” she said. “To git more land for settlin’ folks on.”
“Was you scared when you got here?” Maggie Sue asked. She was curious how folks feel about things.
“We felt safe with General Wayne,” she stated. “We settled close to the Ohio River. I helped my husband split puncheons from trees to build our first house. It had a dirt floor, and we had to put soil and grass around the outside to keep out the cold winds that whipped around the foothills in the winter. It was the first house built in these parts. February, 1796,” she added with pride.
Maggie Sue shuddered, recollecting her first winter in Ohio. She was seven years old, and the snow was so deep, they got trapped inside their cabin. Her pa had to open the shutters and go out the kitchen window to get wood for the fireplace. Joe and Johnny weren’t born yet, and Myrtie was still the baby in the family. She was only four years old, and already spoilt rotten.
“Did you ever spot any Shawnees?” asked Maggie Sue. Her pa refused to talk about the Shawnees. He said they were gone and that was the end of it.
“Not really,” Mrs. Marshall answered, tapping her fingers on the table. “But we know fer sure they ain’t all gone to the Indian Territory, like they’re s’pose to.”
“Why?” asked Maggie Sue.
“Chief Tecumseh and his brothers won’t go. They tell the Shawnees that land belongs to all the tribes. They don’t believe in ownin’ land. They say you cain’t give away what ain’t yours.”
“Where’s the Indian Territory?” asked Maggie Sue. Her ma and pa were too busy to answer all her questions, and she was intent on knowing.
“Near the Great Lakes. Somewhere between the Great Miami and Wabash rivers.”
“Don’t the Shawnees like it there?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, tapping her fingers again and staring out the window, like she knew they were out there somewhere in the nearby wilderness. “I worry,” she admitted. “Some folks say the Shawnees jest don’t want to share land with the other tribes. They say the Shawnees are stubborn. There’s talk they might be living on top of them foothills overlookin’ the Scioto River.”
Maggie Sue’s throat tightened, but she managed to whisper, “That’s where we live. Near the Scioto.”
Mrs. Marshall puckered her mouth. “Oh. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She got up from the table. “Best we join the men folk,” she said quickly, leading Maggie Sue back to the parlor where the talk was loud, and lively.
####
Chapter III - Maggie Sue’s Book
When Nancy Marshall and Maggie Sue returned to the parlor, Mr. Massie was telling Mr. Belli the town he built on the bottom lands near the mouth of the Scioto was doomed. “Them spring floods washed the Shawnees away back when they was there. But they had the good sense to move to higher ground. Fact is, the Shawnees used to live on the very same land where I’m buildin’ Portsmouth.”
Maggie Sue wished her ma could have heard Mr. Massie carry on, because she told her pa the same thing just this morning. But like her pa, Mr. Belli wouldn’t hear of it. “We already got twenty families in Alexandria. More’n you got up in Portsmouth,” he argued.
Mr. Massie answered polite-like. “Don’t matter none, John. Portsmouth has a destiny. It will grow ‘cause it ain’t gonna git washed away in them spring floods.”
“John, you better listen to Henry,” Mr. Merritt added. “Jest about every family in them bottom lands had malaria, typhoid fever, or cholera this past summer. You better move them families outta that there swamp,” Mr. Merritt said with honest concern.
“Good advice. Plats in Portsmouth are sellin’ fer five dollars. A right cheap price, I’d say,” Mr. Massie added.
“Portsmouth is nothin’ but muddy ravines and tangled vines,” said Mr. Belli. “The best farmland in these parts is by Alexandria.”
“John, that land ain’t nothin’ but flood plains. I was there fer two years. I jest up and left. I been squattin’ in the foothills ever since. Where I been near two years,” her pa said. “Water gushes outta them foothills ever time it rains, fillin’ up my creek and running right into the Scioto. Then jest like clockwork, it floods yur town.”
Mr. Massie turned to Mr. Belli. “Just recollect, John. Them Shawnees used to live at the mouth of the Scioto. There’s a reason they moved outta there to higher ground.”
Mr. Belli ignored Mr. Massie and turned to Maggie Sue’s pa, “You got a nice forest, Adhamh. I s’pose you got lotsa game. But you cain’t farm on them hills, or in the forest. So what’s it good fer?” Mr. Belli sounded just like her ma when she was tired, which was most of the time. She wished her ma had come along, so she could rest awhile.
Eventually they tired of arguing about Alexandria and Portsmouth, and someone mentioned the New Orleans port. Napoleon Bonaparte closed it to Americans the year before.
Mr. Sheeley pounded his knee. He said the frontier was ruined without the port. Mr. Russell shouted there wasn’t a decent road to the east coast that could replace the riverways. Mr. Belli agreed for a change. He said it was easier to take a flatboat full of corn to New Orleans than it was to drive a wagonload over the Allegheny and Appalachian Mountains.
Maggie Sue’s pa vented his anger, too. “We tamed the wilderness. Cut down thousands of trees. Built homes. Planted crops. The gov’ment owes us decent roads fer all that hard work.”
“Let’s tell ‘em to make Napoleon open the port or build us some roads,” added Mr. Sheeley. “We cain’t travel on them ruts. I’m plumb tired of fixin’ wagon wheels.”
“I cain’t count the loads I’ve lost on them roads,” Mr. Merritt added loudly. “We need that port opened. Right now. Today.”
Mr. Massie said he’d heard President Jefferson was trying to purchase the whole Louisiana Territory from Napoleon. Then Mr. Sheeley asked how much they figured it would cost the government.
“We need that port at any cost,” Mr. Merritt responded. Every head nodded in agreement. Mr. Merritt surveyed the room like he was taking a silent vote on the matter. After that, the talk turned to other things.
Maggie Sue listened quietly the rest of the afternoon, glancing toward Mrs. Marshall now and then as she poured more corn whiskey. The conversations became even louder. Mr. Russell told a true story about Judge Collins that upset Mrs. Marshall so much she left the room. The judge had punished a man for hog stealing by placing him in a canoe with his hands and feet tied, and letting him drift downstream with no way to save himself. He was never heard of again.
“Could be his kids was hungry,” Mr Russell rationalized.
“Could be,” answered Mr Merritt, shaking his head.
Mrs. Marshall sighed deeply and shook when she left. Maggie Sue wanted to go with her, but was afraid to move from the settle that she shared with Samuel.
When the men got up to leave, she returned and whispered to Maggie Sue, “I’ve got somethin’ fer you to keep.” Taking Maggie Sue’s hand, she led her into a bedroom. Maggie Sue was relieved to go. She was never good at talking to boys and didn’t know what to say to Samuel before they left.
The bed was covered with a colorful quilt and fluffy pillows next to a table piled with books.“Do you read?” she asked, picking through the books and handing one to Maggie Sue.
“Thank you, ma'am,” she said, like her ma taught her. She held it real tight when she returned to the parlor and followed the men outside. Her pa was talking with Mr. Merritt and didn’t notice her book until they docked and got into their wagon. “What did you git, Maggie?”
“Miz Marshall give me a book,” she answered.
“You cain’t read. Did you tell Miz Marshall you kin read when you cain’t?”
“I kin too read,” she blurted out, just when a strong tugging pounded inside her head. She didn’t mean to sound defiant. She just wanted to get her point across. “Miz Marshall give it to me to keep fer myself.”
“You ain’t never been to school. So when did you learn to read?” her pa asked.
“I cain’t recollect right off, Pa. But I knowed I kin read,“ she answered.
“How did you know?” he asked, pulling at his ear.
“Pa, I cain’t recall. But I knowed I kin read.” She was getting confused, and her head started spinning. She held on real tight to keep from falling.
“Well, you best forgit it,” her pa responded. He clammed up for a minute, then added, “Sides, you ain’t got no time to do no readin’.”
“It’s mine, Pa,” she answered, clasping the book even tighter.
The wagon hit a rut, jerking her forward. She nearly fell from the wagon before grabbing the sideboard with one hand and hoping her book didn’t slide out of her other one. Her pa was in no frame of mind to search for a book he knew Maggie Sue couldn’t read.
When they got home, Maggie Sue ran inside without helping her pa with the horse. “Ma. Ma. Miz Marshall give me a book.”
Her ma was rocking Joe in her arms. “Sh-h-h,” was all she said. Maggie Sue looked for Myrtie and Johnny, but the sandman had already sent them to dreamland.
Maggie Sue sat down at the kitchen table and opened her book to the first page. The title was printed in large letters, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, by Mary Wollstonecraft.
Her pa came in and sat down in his chair across from Maggie Sue. “Let’s hear you read, Maggie,” he said, scratchin’ his neck and rubbing his bald spot.
The words flowed easily from her lips. She read the first page, then peeked at her pa. He was pulling his ear and staring with his mouth wide open.
“Why, Maggie Sue, you kin read, ” he said after a moment.
She continued, “My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their fascinating graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone.”
Her ma came in from the bedroom. “Maggie Sue, who teached you to read?” she asked.
“I don’t rightly know, Ma,” she answered, trying hard to recollect. “I jest knowed how.” Her answer just made her ma more upset.
“Pa, folks have to be teached how to read. Maggie ain’t never been to school. This ain’t right somehow.”
“Maggie, you best not tell folks you kin read. They might think things,” her pa said, watching her closely.
“Like what?” she asked. “Whatsa matter with readin’?”