Read Over the Misty Mountains Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
Over the Misty Mountains
The Spirit of Appalachia, Book 1
Over the Misty Mountains
Gilbert Morris and Aaron McCarver
© 1997 by Gilbert Morris and Aaron McCarver
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopying, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6232-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Cover by Dan Thornberg
Dedication
This book is lovingly dedicated to my parents, Jessie Lee and Jean McCarver.
To my dad for all the things you did to ensure that my sisters and I would have a life just a little bit better than you did, for all the extra hours and the many Saturdays spent working. They were noticed and greatly appreciated. Thanks also for pushing us to get all the education we could and for supporting me in a decision that looked questionable at the time because of what it would cost, but look where it led! I especially thank you for making sure that we all attended church “every time the doors were open.”
To my mom for always being there for a son that she understands better than anyone. I appreciate what you quietly took from others when you decided from the beginning that my sisters and I were more important than the things that money can buy. (I still would rather have you at home with me, waiting at the door with a kiss when I got home from school—as you still do!) But I especially remember you reading the Bible to us and praying with us each night. It was your love and strength that made our house a home.
Thank you, Mama and Daddy, for giving me a Christian home and for teaching me that the only thing in this life that really matters is having a relationship with our heavenly Father. To Him be all the glory, honor, and praise! This book and any blessings it may give belong to the One who made it all possible!
Contents
9. The Martins of Beacon Street
26. The Settlers of Appalachia
Character List
In the eighteenth century, America’s first pioneers left their homes and families and ventured beyond the seaboard colonies. With nothing but their faith and their dreams to sustain them, they struggled to carve out new lives on the rugged frontier . . .
Over the Misty Mountains
.
Jehoshaphat “Hawk” Spencer
—Devastated by tragedy, he leaves his home in Williamsburg and travels over the Appalachian Mountains to lose himself in the wilderness.
Elizabeth Martin MacNeal
—Daughter of the Martins, a prominent family in Boston, Elizabeth gives up a life of wealth to follow her husband’s dream.
Patrick MacNeal
—A Scottish immigrant, he came to the American Colonies with a dream of one day owning his own land.
Sequatchie
—A Cherokee Indian chief who knows the true Way. He has prayed many years for someone to come to his people to read the Word.
Paul Anderson
—A lifelong friend of Jehoshaphat Spencer, he is led to carry God’s message of salvation over the mountains to the Cherokees.
Rhoda Harper
—A beautiful woman caught up in a horrible life working in a tavern, she looks for a way of escape.
Jacques Cartier
—Driven by his hatred for Hawk Spencer, the Frenchman follows a path of destruction that could engulf them all.
Part I
Hawk
November 1755-October 1761
Lo, then would I wander far off,
and remain in the wilderness.
Psalm 55:7
Chapter One
A Loss of Faith
A rough, tearing wind ripped through Williamsburg during the night. Powerful gusts tore down shutters and rattled the windowpanes so hard that the inhabitants feared the glass would shatter into a thousand shards. Overhead, huge ominous-looking clouds descended upon the small city like a mantle of doom. Even as the gusty torrents of cold rain pelted slantwise into the buildings and across the terrain, sharp forked whips of lightning reached down from the ebony heavens and scratched across the roofs of the drenched houses. Loose bricks from chimneys were dislodged, shakes and shingles were ignited by touches of lightning, and then went out with a hissing as the driving rain poured down from heaven like a second deluge.
The Spencer house stood up boldly to the artillery of thunder and the crackling of silvery lightning, for it was a well-built house, designed specifically to withstand harsh weather. An oversized structure, it had a steeply pitched roof with five gables that shed the rain that ran down in torrents. Tall, narrow windows painted pale yellow stood out like jaundiced apparitions in the darkness of the night, and the extremely high, ornamented chimney looked like a soldier rigidly holding himself at attention. It was a red two-story house in the Federal style with windows evenly spaced, and in the front a double-paneled door stood firmly shut and bolted against the rampages of the weather. It might have been a country house, except it was built in the center of Williamsburg, which somehow gave the impression of its being slightly out of place.
Although the hour was long past midnight on November twenty-fifth, flickering yellow reflections from whale oil lamps illuminated the windows on the first floor. To the right of the entrance itself was the largest of the rooms, a rather ornate study, most unusual for the year 1755. The walls were lined with walnut bookcases, their rich grain catching the gleam of bayberry candles that guttered in sconces along their lengths. A cherrywood desk dominated the room, the top littered with books, maps, papers of various kinds, giving the appearance of a busy office rather than a private study. The fireplace crackled with the cheerful sound of poplar logs as they sizzled.
Two men sat opposite each other, one at the desk, his fingers drumming on the polished surface; the other sat rigidly upright, staring blankly at the rows of leather-bound books that lined the walls. The man behind the large desk was James Spencer. At the age of forty-five, he possessed the same general looks of the young man sitting across from him. Though streaks of gray lined his hair, he scorned the wigs so treasured by many of his countrymen and fellow citizens. He was heavy in the middle, and an air of authority and aggressiveness lined his stern face and showed in the firm actions of his body whenever he moved.
James Spencer leaned back now in his chair, his attention momentarily diverted by a blinding flash of lightning that illuminated the garden trees more brilliantly than any sun-filled day. He waited for the crash of thunder, and when it came, his eyes closed slightly and he shook his head. “We haven’t had a storm like this all year,” he murmured. When he received no answer, he leaned forward, picked up a quill, and stroked it with his left forefinger. “It hasn’t been a bad year for storms,” he remarked, not expecting any answer. He studied the face of his son, then said abruptly, “Don’t worry, Josh, she’ll be all right.”
A strange, harsh expression flickered across the face of the young man who sat in the stiff Windsor chair. He sat with his feet planted flatly on the floor, his hands clasping his thighs almost as if he were prepared to leap to his feet and jump into action. Jehoshaphat Spencer was twenty years old, an even six feet, and a clean one hundred and eighty pounds of lean strong muscle. Thick jet black hair covered his head almost like a cap, with a slight wave that allowed a lock to fall around his broad forehead. He lifted his dark blue eyes to his father, and there was a blackness in them, almost as brooding as the night outside. His eyes were shaded by long thick lashes, and there was a firmness and a compactness in the man that spoke of years of hard labor. He had a dark-complected square face, a strong chin with a cleft, and a straight English nose. He was a handsome man, though not apparently aware of it.
“It’s taking too long,” he said tersely.
Quickly James Spencer looked over the desk and sensed what lay beneath the iron control of his son’s face. Josh’s nerves were as tight as a violin string and ready to snap. “It was the same when you were born,” he murmured. Hoping to be encouraging, he tossed the plume down, adding, “It will be all right.” They were useless, meaningless words, for when a child was born in the Colonies in 1755, there were no guarantees. Childbirth was a hard, difficult, dangerous thing, and many homes were filled with children who had never known their mother, having lost her in childbirth.
“It’s taking too long!” Josh grated. “She should’ve had the baby by now!”
Spencer, knowing this was nothing but the exact truth, still tried to reassure Josh. He knew that both Faith, his daughter-in-law, and Josh had never been able to bury their fear about this child, as Faith had miscarried two times before. A grimness came to James Spencer’s mouth, and desperately he searched his mind, trying to think of some way to comfort his son. James and his wife, Esther, had talked this over many times. Esther had said only the night before, “Josh’s faith isn’t very strong, James. If anything happened to this child, I’m afraid it would go ill with him. He might lose all of his faith in God.”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” James had assured her. However, he had disguised his own fears, and now looking at his son, James sought desperately for some way to put a better face on the matter.
Without any idea as to what to say, he suddenly reached over and picked up a thick Bible that lay close at hand. He opened it and began to read from the book of Psalms. It had always been his favorite book, and whenever he found trouble overwhelming him, he would open it to this section. Now the timeless words of comfort began to roll off his lips, and he lost himself in their meaning.
Josh listened for a moment, then got up and walked over to the window. The drone of his father’s voice went on and on, and soon the very meaning of the words themselves became blurred. He had heard the Bible all of his life—from the pulpit, from his father, from his mother. He had even read it himself, but now the fear of the loss of another child that he longed for so desperately loomed up inside him like a dark specter. It sickened him, almost nauseated him, and yet he knew that he could not show his father the struggle raging within him.
Outside, the rain fell in long, slanting silver lines, illuminated by brief lightning flashes. The raindrops made a monotonous drone as they hit the shingle roof, then fell off to the puddles below. There was a soporific effect about it that would have made him drowsy if the fear had not driven him to distraction. The lightning crashed again, blinding him momentarily. He shut his eyes, and as he did so, his mind went back to the first time he had met Faith Hancock. . . .
****
The girl standing in the school yard was small and overly shy. Josh, who was not very good at guessing ages, asked, “How old are you? Ten, I’ll be bound.”
“I’m twelve.”
The girl’s face was pretty, but her clothes and hair were plain looking. From the first day she had come to school in Williamsburg, Josh had watched her carefully. He was bothered by how the other students made fun of the way she dressed. She was wearing a shapeless linsey-woolsey dress of gray that had no trace of beauty. Her hair was drawn back tightly, and she wore an equally shapeless white cap on her head. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes, and there was a frailty and vulnerability about her that attracted Josh Spencer
.