King of the Mountain (Wilderness # 1) Page 3

  “You’re serious?”

  “As God is my witness, I would never jest about making you happy.”

  “And how will you accomplish this magical feat?”

  Nathaniel started to reply, to explain about the letter and his belief concerning the treasure Ezekiel had found, until he realized she would never understand, would never attach any credibility to his uncle’s claim. Even his own family would view Zeke’s letter as the ravings of an eccentric. But he knew better. He remembered the many hours he had spent with his carefree, fun-loving uncle; he recalled the basic decency and honesty Ezekiel had always displayed; he recollected the confidence Zeke had instilled; and motivated by the same impulse that had prompted countless men down through the ages to embark on questionable enterprises, namely the love of a beautiful woman, he came to a momentous decision. In answer to her question he only smiled and said, “Wait and see. You’ll be proud of me one day soon. Very soon.”

  Chapter Three

  Nathaniel departed New York City on April 1, intending to travel at a leisurely pace and enjoy “the adventure,” as he thought of his trip, to the fullest. He had planned every detail of his departure carefully, and he rode away through New Jersey on a fine mare, with another horse laden with his supplies trailing, at eight A.m in the morning, oblivious to the nip in the air, his spirits soaring.

  The four months since his receipt of Ezekiel’s letter had been spent eventfully. He had put aside every cent he could spare for the journey, and combined with the funds he had already accumulated during his employment at Tuttle’s and earlier, he now carried the hefty sum of 273 dollars in his inner coat pocket. He had purchased a blue wool cap to keep his head warm, and gone to a tailor to have new wool trousers made, trousers with extra stitching to withstand the rigors of extended periods in the saddle. He had also purchased a new pair of black leather boots, the ultimate in footwear according to the kindly man who’d made them, guaranteed to hold up under the harshest weather.

  Nathaniel told no one about his plans. He dropped hints to Adeline, arousing her curiosity to a feverish pitch, but to all her entreaties he would only say that he intended to make her one of the wealthiest women in New York.

  Once he attempted to broach the subject of Uncle Zeke to his family at the dinner table. His father immediately announced that Ezekiel had forsaken them to go live in the wilds with savage Indians, and accordingly Zeke was not, and would never be, a proper topic for discussion in the King household. End of subject.

  During the four months Nathaniel’s emotional state fluctuated between firm resolve and insecure anxiety. Scores of times he told himself he was being a fool. Yet the thought of traveling to the frontier, of seeing his uncle again, and most importantly, of possibly sharing in the treasure Zeke had found, beckoned like an irresistible beacon. The excitement of the unknown also appealed to him, the prospect of encountering strange people and strange lands and having experiences he could one day relate to his children and his children’s children. The adventure promised to be a once-in-a-lifetime enterprise and he wanted to make the most of it.

  On the night before he left, he composed three letters by candlelight at the small desk in his room. The first was to his family, explaining about the letter from Zeke and expressing his regret for leaving secretly. He assured his father and mother that he loved them, and vowed to return by July at the very latest. The second letter went to his employer, thanking Turtle for teaching him the fundamentals of accounting and apologizing for leaving the firm in the lurch on such short notice. He also suggested that Matthew Brown would be delighted to handle the pile of work he hadn’t finished.

  Without a doubt, the hardest letter for him to pen was the note to Adeline. Four pages long, he poured his heart out to her, professing his love repeatedly, and pledged to return at the earliest opportunity. Knowing his father would inform her father about Zeke, he went into great detail about Zeke’s letter and his belief that his uncle had amassed a fortune, either in precious ore or by trapping, like John Jacob Astor.

  Everyone in New York who could read knew Astor’s story. An immigrant from Germany who came to New York City when he was twenty years old, Astor went into the fur trade in 1787, founded his own company in 1808, and eventually acquired a monopoly of the trade south of the Canadian border. In the process he became a millionaire many times over and the richest man in America.

  Toward the end of his letter to Adeline, after vowing his undying affection one more time, Nathaniel added the lines tht would haunt him in later years. “Everything I do, I do for you. Your happiness means more to me than my own, more than my life itself. For you I would risk all. For you I would do anything. If money is your heart’s desire, then money you shall have. Think of me always for I will constantly be thinking about you. In three months I will return to ask for your hand in marriage, and I’ll be counting every minute until then.”

  Nathaniel thought of those closing words again as he rode to the southwest from New York, hoping Adeline would cherish them in her heart until next they met. Brimming with youthful confidence, he inhaled the crisp air deep in his lungs and congratulated himself on selecting the Cumberland Road route instead of taking the Erie Canal.

  The decision had been a difficult one.

  Traveling westward via the Erie Canal had been his first choice. Completed only a few years ago, in October of 1825, the canal linked the Hudson River and Atlantic Ocean with the Great Lakes, providing a much-needed water route into the heart of the country. Three hundred and sixty-three miles long, the waterway was daily jammed with boats crowded with passengers or transporting freight, and there had already appeared editorials in several newspapers calling for the canal to be expanded. For only a cent and a half a mile, passengers traveled at the rate of a mile and a half an hour on heavy boats pulled by horses. The going was exceedingly slow, which proved to be the deciding factor in Nathaniel’s decision.

  By contrast, a traveler on the Cumberland Road—or Great National Pike, as many referred to it—could move at whatever pace was necessary. Begun in 1811 and funded primarily with Federal money, the road ran from Cumberland, Maryland, up over the mountains and across the south-western corner of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, where it terminated at the town of Vandalia, not more than 61 miles from St. Louis. Although not yet completely paved, thousands traveled its almost 600-mile length each month. Sixty feet wide where completed, the road included a center strip to separate the traffic flow.

  Nathaniel opted for the National Pike because he could ride as many miles each day as he wanted, and he would be much closer to St. Louis at the end of the pike than he would if he took the Erie Canal. By following the many signs and sticking to the major roads, he reached Cumberland on the evening of the seventh day. With approximately a thousand miles to cover, he was not inclined to push his horses. Both animals had been purchased at a stable on the southwest outskirts of New York City, and the proprietor of the livery had also agreed, for a nominal fee, to store Nathaniel’s gear until such time as the supplies were needed. Nathaniel had not dared hide any of his provisions in his room for fear of them being discovered.

  Once on the National Pike, Nathaniel began to relax and truly enjoy his trip. Guilt had nagged at his mind the first five days, until he’d finally convinced himself that his course of action was justified. He found the people traveling on the Cumberland Road to be remarkably friendly. Back in New York, he had been lucky to receive a curt nod in response to a hello. But the farther west he went, the more amicable the people were.

  All types of travelers used the pike. Those heading west formed a steadily flowing river of vibrantly optimistic humanity, the vast majority en route to a better life in a better area of the country, where the sweat of their brow would reap the reward of having their own land and their own house, where they could prosper and share in the budding American dream. Or so they hoped. There were travelers from all walks of life and almost every state in the East. They went on fo
ot, or on horseback, or in carriages or wagons. Livestock mingled with the people, primarily cattle being driven to Eastern markets by drovers from the frontier.

  Nathaniel reveled in the journey. He particularly liked the evenings, when he invariably stopped at one of the many comfortable inns lining the road to eat and rest for the night. The stops gave him the opportunity to associate with his fellow wayfarers. He met a farming family intent on starting anew in Missouri, a doctor from Philadelphia who had grown tired of the city life and longed for a change, and a missionary heading for the Old Southwest to “Christianize the Indians.” All told, he talked to dozens of fellow wayfarers during the 27 days it took him to complete the trip.

  Three incidents of note transpired, two of which he would never forget for as long as he lived.

  The first incident occurred at an inn in eastern Ohio, a shoddy establishment where the food was undercooked, the bed uncomfortable, and the manager a slovenly sort who always seemed to have a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Nathaniell had pushed his plate aside halfway through the meal and headed for his room. As he placed his right foot onto the bottom step, the manager suddenly appeared at his left elbow.

  “I say, young sir, would you care for some pie?”

  “No, thank you,” Nathaniel replied, and went up two steps.

  “But it’s freshly baked tart pie.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the man, surprised to note a certain anxiety in the set of his chubby features. “Thank you, but no. I have spent all day on the road and I would like to retire early.”

  “I’ll throw in a free ale.”

  Although tempted, Nathaniel shook his head, bothered by a vague feeling of unease. “Good night, sir.”

  The manager gave a small bow and backed away, frowning.

  Now what was all that about? Nathaniel wondered, and proceeded to the second floor and along the dim corridor. Two yards from his room he halted, amazed to behold his door hanging open several inches when he distinctly recalled locking it behind him earlier on his way down to eat. He eased to the jamb and peered inside.

  Looming as a vague inky shadow in the dark room, a burly man was in the act of rifling through Nathaniel’s possessions piled on the bed.

  Without thinking, angered by the sight of the thief tossing his clothing about, Nathaniel shoved the door wide and blurted out, “You there! Hold it!”

  But the thief had no intention of doing any such thing. Uttering a curse, the man spun and charged the doorway, barreling into Nathaniel and battering him aside.

  Lunging with his left arm, Nathaniel succeeded in taking hold of the other man’s coat. Before he could capitalize on the grip, however, the thief jerked to one side and wrenched loose, throwing Nathaniel off balance into the opposite wall. Nathaniel pushed erect and gave chase, yelling, “Stop, thief! Stop, thief! ”

  The man never looked back. He reached the stairs and bounded to the bottom, taking the steps four at a stride, then bolted out the entrance into the night.

  His pulse pounding, Nathaniel followed to the front door, when he paused to scan the lawn beyond for the pilferer. The earth had swallowed the man whole, and the expanse of green grass mocked him with its emptiness.

  “Hear, hear! What’s the meaning of this uproar?” the manager demanded, hastening over from the desk.

  “A man was in my room,” Nathaniel responded, still infuriated, still surveying the lawn.

  “What man?”

  “A thief.”

  The manager, his tone laced with the venom of a cotton-mouth, snapped, “Not in my establishment, young man.”

  Nathaniel spun, even more incensed at having his word doubted. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?” He expected the manager to argue the point, but to his surprise the man did an abrupt reversal.

  “Not at all. I would never impuga the integrity of one of my guests. If you say there was a gentleman in your room, then by all means there must have been someone in your room.”

  “He wasn’t a gentleman.”

  “Is it possible another guest might have entered your room by mistake?”

  “The man wasn’t a guest. He was a thief.”

  “Was anything stolen?”

  The question galvanized Nathaniel into action. He bounded up the stairs to his room and checked his personal belongings. To his immense relief, none of his possessions had been taken. As he finished folding his clothes he heard someone cough behind him and turned to discover the manager.

  “I have checked the grounds and there is no sign of anyone who shouldn’t be here.”

  “The thief is undoubtedly long gone by this time.”

  “Is anything missing?”

  “No,” Nathaniel said.

  “Then no harm has been done,” the manager commented. “In the future, though, I would advise you to lock your door. Inns are not farmhouses. I have no way of knowing what type of person may be taking a room for the night. Occasionally someone bad slips in.”

  “So I see.”

  “Well, if that will be all,” the manager said, and gave another of his courteous little bows. He grinned, an oddly sinister twisting of his thick lips, and walked off.

  Nathaniel promptly closed and locked the door, then checked to ensure the single window on the east wall was securely latched. Unnerved by the incident, he pushed the bed against the door and lay down fully clothed on his back, his head resting in his interlocked hands. He stared at the ceiling for over an hour, reviewing the episode from start to finish, and came to the conclusion he must pick the inns he stayed at with greater care in the future. The manager’s behavior troubled him, although he couldn’t determine precisely why. He slipped into a fitful sleep, and his last thought before he slept was that he should give serious consideration to obtaining a weapon.

  The second incident took place a few miles east of Indianapolis, which had been designated the capital of Indiana only seven years before. He stopped shortly after noon to give the horse a rest and enjoy a light meal at a quaint inn packed with other travelers. His dinner consisted of delicious baked beans, which had been steeped with generous portions of pork in a big pot left overnight in the ashes of the inn’s fireplace, as was the custom. After eating he went outside to enjoy the fresh air and the warm sunshine, and it was then, as he strolled toward the southeast corner of the building, that he saw them. At first he mistook them for shadows, and not until one moved did the shock of recognition stop him in his tracks.

  They were seated under the spreading branches of an enormous maple tree, at the base of the trunk, their backs leaning against the rough bole, partly ringing the giant patriarch of the forest that had once claimed the land on which the inn sat. There were four of them, each with his knees drawn up against an emaciated chest, each with iron shackles on their ankles. Their clothes were in tatters, and the grime from many miles of travel caked their sweating black skins. Two of the four wore beards; the other two were quite young, barely out of their early teens.

  Nathaniel noticed them when one of the young blacks lifted a weary hand to lethargically scratch a bulbous nose. He halted in astonishment 20 feet from the maple and gazed at them in bewilderment, striving to fathom the reason for their condition and the shackles. The oldest of the quartet turned a lined visage toward him, regarding him with the blank eyes of someone who had penetrated an inscrutable veil and who now viewed the world as if from a vast distance. Somehow, those vacant orbs also conveyed the indelible stamp of incalculable inner torment and sadness commingled in a singular countenance. Nathaniel looked, and felt an invisible, frigid wind chill his spine.

  “Hey, you want somethin’, mister?”

  The words, spoken in a peculiar, protracted drawl, came from one of the six men who were lounging about a wagon parked a dozen yards to the south of the tree. All six wore homespun clothes. Several rifles had been propped against the wagon, and the speaker wore a large hunting knife in a brown leather sheath on his right hip.

  “Why are those men in chains?”
Nathaniel asked.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Ain’t you never seen slaves before?” the speaker rejoined, prompting a cackle of mirth from his companions.

  Nathaniel turned, noting the man’s ragged blond hair, wispy blond mustache, and pale blue eyes. “They’re slaves?”

  “Escaped slaves, boy. All the way from Mississippi. As ignorant a bunch of niggers as you’d ever want to meet.”

  Nathaniel had seen many Negroes in New York, although in the circle of his acquaintances he could number only two Negroes he knew personally. Both had been slaves, domestic servants in the house of a man who did business with his father, and both had been freed on July 4, 1827 when the State of New York officially abolished slavery. The pair had stayed on with their former owner, apparently satisfied with the working conditions and the treatment they had received.

  Many stories were related in the press about the growing institution of slavery in the Deep South, and the moral and legal aspects were vigorously debated. Other states besides New York, including Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and the new state of Illinois, had banned the practice.

  “Are those shackles necessary?” Nathaniel inquired distastefully.

  “They are if we don’t want them niggers to light out on us,”‘the man responded. “We didn’t trail ’em this far to lose ’em again.”

  “You’re from Mississippi?”

  “Yep. We do this for a living, and get paid fair money too. Slaves are always taking off, no matter how decent some of ’em are treated. They’re so dumb it’s pitiful.”

  Nathaniel looked at the oldest slave, who had tilted his head against the tree and closed his eyes. “Aren’t there laws against chasing slaves across state lines?”

  The blond snickered. “You sure don’t know shucks about . the slave trade, Yankee. Ain’t you ever heard of the Fugitive Slave Law?”