Over the Misty Mountains (Spirit of Appalachia Book #1)

By Gilbert Morris and Aaron McCarver

A New Historical Fiction Series From an Exciting New Team!

When Aaron McCarver met Gilbert Morris at the CBA convention in 1991, he never dreamed that those initial discussions would ultimately lead to his conceiving a historical fiction series that he would write with Gilbert Morris. THE SPRIT OF APPALACHIA chronicles the story of the settlers of America's first frontier--the lands over the Appalachian mountains--and of faith that carried them through the harshest of times.

Over the Misty Mountains is the story of Hawk Spencer, a man whose bitterness over the loss of his wife drives him from his home in Virginia and causes him to seek the frontier to escape his pain. Becoming a skilled trapper, Hawk is persuaded to lead a wagon train over the mountains before the snows come, but the trail is marked by sabotage from an old enemy of Hawk's.

When renegade Indians attack the wagon train and leave Elizabeth MacNeal and her children without a husband, how will Hawk respond to Elizabeth's resilient faith in God? And how will the MacNeals survive the frontier settlement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 1, 1997
• ISBN: 9781441262325

Gilbert Morris

Gilbert Morris is one of today’s best-known Christian novelists, specializing in historical fiction. His best-selling works include Edge of Honor (winner of a Christy Award in 2001), Jacob’s Way, The Spider Catcher, the House of Winslow series, the Appomattox series, and The Wakefield Saga. He lives in Gulf Shores, Alabama with his wife, Johnnie.

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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.

Even as he stood talking to her, Malon Jones came up and said, Got yourself a lady friend, Spence?

We’re doing all right without you, Malon, Josh said sharply. He did not like the heavyset, bug-eyed boy. He had had trouble with the bully on several occasions.

Malon reached over and grabbed the material of the girl’s dress. What’s this made out of, a cotton sack? Well, I wouldn’t even use it for that.

Take your hands off of her, Malon! Jehoshaphat said sharply. The other boy was two years older, stocky, and had administered two severe beatings to Josh already.

Now Malon grinned roughly, a cruel light glinting in his muddy brown eyes. You ready for another thrashing?

You can try it if you want to!

Come on then! Outside!

The two went outside and soon were rolling in the dust, gasping and throwing blows at each other. Only when they had battered each other into insensibility did the schoolmaster come out. He grasped them each by the collar, yanked them up, and said, Fighting again? Maybe a caning will make a difference to you!

Josh did not wince even once under the strict punishment administered by Mr. Highliger. Malon squealed loudly as the cane repeatedly struck, but Josh uttered not a word.

Afterward he sat down, his back burning from the strokes of the hickory cane. His lower lip was bleeding where he had bitten it during the thrashing, but he said nothing. After the school day was over, he slowly got to his feet and walked out of the room, moving carefully.

I’m . . . I’m sorry you had to take a whipping.

Josh turned around and saw that the girl had followed him. Her name, he knew, was Faith Hancock, and he shrugged, saying, It wasn’t so bad.

I bet it was. I bet it hurt like anything.

The two turned and walked down the dusty street. The August heat was dying down now, and as they walked along Josh began to grow curious about the young girl. Who are your people? he asked. Williamsburg was a small place, and he knew almost everyone who lived there.

I . . . I don’t have any people. I’m an orphan, she said, looking down.

Josh had known a few orphans before, but somehow the sadness in the girl’s voice struck him. Sorry, he mumbled.

What about your people?

I’m a Spencer. My father’s name is James, and my mother’s name is Esther.

Do you have any brothers or sisters?

No. Just me.

The two walked on, and finally she stopped in front of a cobbler’s establishment. I’m staying here with the Mayhans. I’m going to be bound to them for six years, until I’m eighteen.

Maybe we’ll see each other again. I don’t mean at school. Josh suddenly felt shy and awkward. He was not good at making conversation with girls. Most of the time he felt clumsy and uncertain around them, but when the young girl lifted her eyes and smiled, a shock went through him. There was a gentleness and a sweetness in her face that he had not seen before.

Well, he said, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Faith hesitated and then suddenly reached out and, with a rather daring motion, took Josh’s hand. When she leaned forward her voice was almost inaudible. Thank you for looking out for me.

The touch of her hand was gentle and soft and gave Jehoshaphat Spencer a feeling of pride and power. Clearing his throat, he said huskily, Oh, that’s okay! I’ll see you tomorrow, Faith.

Tomorrow, Josh . . .

****

Esther—!

Josh’s reminiscences were broken off abruptly when he heard his father call his mother’s name. Instantly, he sprang out of his chair and turned to face the woman who had come into the room. How is she, Mother? he demanded.

Esther Spencer was only two years younger than her husband. She was a small woman with brown hair and clear brown eyes. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but now there was an air of trouble in her usually placid expression. Something in her eyes, in the set of her lips, or perhaps in the way she held her hands together tightly, brought a surge of fear into Josh’s heart. Is it bad? he demanded, rising and grabbing her arm quickly. He was a strong young man, not knowing his own strength, and he saw pain flicker in his mother’s eyes. Sorry, he whispered, then stood there waiting for her report.

Dr. Twilliger isn’t as happy with her progress as he would like, she said evenly.

I wish Dr. Hammond were here, James Spencer said. He rose and moved jerkily across the room. There was no smoothness about his movements. All were quick and rather awkward. He slapped one fist into a palm and shook his head, almost viciously. "Why did Hammond have to choose this time to go to Richmond for that meeting?"

Ignoring his father’s outburst, Josh stood staring down at his mother’s face. He noticed the taut lines on each side of her mouth that only appeared when she was troubled. What does Twilliger say?

There’s . . . there’s something wrong with the way the baby is placed.

Can he do anything?

He’s trying, dear! Esther Spencer reached up and pushed the errant lock of hair from her son’s furrowed brow. She knew well the tumult that was tearing this tall son of hers apart, and she yearned to do something about it. Quick flashes of memory of how the other two pregnancies had ended in miscarriages rose in her mind, but she did not want to create any more fear in Josh. You two sit down. I’ll go make some tea and perhaps something to eat.

I don’t want anything!

James Spencer gave his wife a quick look. They had lived together long enough so that each understood the other’s unspoken words by a mere gaze. In those few seconds, it was as if he said, He’s going to pieces, Esther.

Looking at her troubled son, then back at her husband, Esther gave him a look that said, We’ll have to be strong for him. He is not as strong in the Lord, so it will be up to me and you, James.

Esther forced Josh to sit down and said, There’s nothing to be gained by fretting yourself. Now, I’ll fix some tea, and then later Dr. Twilliger will come down, and I’m sure he’ll have good news.

Two parallel lines appeared between Josh Spencer’s eyebrows—signs of anger or disturbance, or both. His parents recognized it instantly. Beneath their son’s rather casual good humor lurked a stratum of temper that neither of them quite understood. Both of them were placid, easygoing people, as were most of their family. From time to time during Josh’s young life, a temper and an intolerance had flashed out, almost from nowhere, that they both feared. As Esther left the room, James sat down with a cautious look at his son and shook his head. It’ll be all right, he said. It’s natural that men would be worried about their wives at a time like this.

Lifting his steady gaze that was troubled and flecked with an inexpressible emotion, Josh Spencer regarded his father. You don’t know anything about this, Father! You’ve never lost two children. You’ve had an easy life. You just don’t understand! He sat back, however, and his father began reading from the Psalms again. As the words flowed across to him, filling the room with the sounds and cadences of Old Testament verses, Josh leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and involuntarily, almost, began to think of how he had married the woman who was now suffering such terrible pangs upstairs in this house. . . .

****

The dance was the biggest in the county, and it was being held in the home of a former governor. Josh Spencer was not a young man who often attended parties. He had spent far more time in the woods surrounding Williamsburg hunting the elusive deer, the coon, and the possum than he had on polished dance floors. Still, his mother had insisted, saying, It’s your duty to go, Josh. There won’t be enough young men there, and the young ladies will be wanting for partners.

Josh had laughed at her, but then had obeyed by going to the best tailor in the city and being fitted with a fine suit. Now, an hour before the dance, he was standing before the full-sized mirror, admiring himself and feeling rather like a fool. I never did care much for fancy clothes, he murmured as he studied his reflection in the mirror.

The suit coat was made of faille—a light, soft, ribbed fabric woven in silk—with light and dark green stripes, and was worn open. Under the coat he wore a white silk shirt with ruffles at the chest and at the wrists. The waistcoat was short, single-breasted, tan in color with a trim of dark green, and had silver buttons down the front. He had on white satin breeches that fastened just below the knee, white-and-green-striped stockings, and low-heeled black shoes with silver buckles. He was carrying a pair of white gloves in his hand.

Finally shrugging, he said with a half grin that turned one corner of his lip upward in a peculiar manner, At least I won’t be sniffing snuff out of a silver box. I draw the line at that!

Wheeling swiftly, he left the room, his stride smooth and even. He moved more easily than most men, the result of long walks in the forest. Going down the stairs, he met his mother and laughed when her eyes widened. Well, what do you think, Mother?

You look beautiful!

Women are supposed to look beautiful! I’m supposed to look handsome!

James Spencer emerged from the study and made his way down the hall. Well, that suit cost enough. You should look both beautiful and handsome. Come along. Let’s go. You better let me drive. I wouldn’t want you to spoil those white gloves with anything as crude as the lines of a buggy.

They arrived at the governor’s house, which was illuminated with what seemed to be hundreds of lanterns, and Josh said, Some house the governor’s got here! It looks like a Greek temple. He studied the portico of Doric columns that outlined the huge building on three sides, noted the balustrade on top, and shook his head. His father would’ve been happy in a log cabin.

Times are changing. James Spencer grinned. But I agree with you. I find it a bit ostentatious myself.

Stepping inside, they heard the sounds of violins, dulcimers, and a clavichord filling the house with music.

The foyer was a large, well-lit room with a domed ceiling and a large chandelier of cut glass. On each side of the front door was a floor-length window covered with white silk damask, faintly caressing the highly polished white marble. A sky of light blue, with fluffy white clouds floated overhead, and the illusion carried on down the walls with trees and the landscape of an old English garden.

At the far end of the foyer, a pair of great oak doors opened onto a large ballroom. The ballroom had a very ornate domed ceiling made of gilded tinplates depicting scenes of angels and other flying cherubs. The walls were white, broken up by floor-length windows alternating with long gilded mirrors that reflected the candlelight of silver wall sconces next to each one. Queen Anne walnut chairs with crimson silk damask lined the walls of the room. Doors to the right of the ballroom led to a formal dining room, where many tables were laden with refreshments. At the back of the ballroom French doors led to a garden filled with fountains, statues, and many beautiful rose bushes.

The ballroom was an array of swirling colors—reds, yellows, greens, blues—as the ladies’ evening gowns swished by in step to the soft music. Their jewelry glittered, catching the reflection of the chandeliers overhead. Jehoshaphat enjoyed the dances he had with several of the local girls. Finally he saw a young woman over to his right with her back to him. He admired the way the rich chestnut hair was done in a French style that he knew was called a chignon. She was very attractive, and a sense of adventure and daring suddenly took Jehoshaphat. He moved over toward her and said, Miss, may I have the next dance?

The young woman turned, and a pair of bright brown eyes suddenly laughed up at him. I thought you’d never ask, Jehoshaphat!

Faith! Josh had not seen Faith for six months. She had been to Boston, and now looking at her in a lovely dress, it seemed that he had never seen her before. Why, you look like a grown woman!

And what did I look like when I left, an old mule?

Josh knew that she was teasing him, something she often did. They had become close friends over the past few years, but they had spent more time studying books in dusty schoolrooms or going for walks in the woods than attending parties.

I’ve never seen you in a party dress, he said.

Do you like it? I made it myself, Faith said, twirling around.

The dress was a simple gown but exquisite, made of a pale pink silk in the Watteau style. It had a low-cut neckline with a dainty white lace frill around it. The bodice fit tightly in front, and in the back the material hung loosely from the neckline, falling into folds all the way to the hem. The elbow-length sleeves were finished with a wide ruffle of lace at the end. The overskirt was of the same pale pink silk, which hung to the floor, trimmed also in exquisite white lace. A delicate pearl necklace, white gloves, and pink satin shoes added the finishing touches to the elegant ensemble.

You look absolutely beautiful!

Why, Josh, I believe you’ve been practicing up on young ladies. Have you gotten to be a gallant?

I don’t believe I have.

Pardon me. I believe this is my dance, Miss Faith.

Josh turned with annoyance in his eyes. A tall young man was standing there, and before he could say a word, Faith was swept away.

She sure has changed, he thought to himself as he made his way to the refreshment table, where his mother was sipping from a crystal cup.

She’s very pretty, isn’t she?

Faith? Why, I didn’t even recognize her! Josh said, then glanced back toward the couple dancing in the middle of the ballroom.

She’s always been pretty, but you’ve never noticed.

Well, I noticed tonight.

Did you know she made her own dress? She’s a very resourceful one. A steady young woman. A fine Christian, too.

Josh did not miss his mother’s comment, but at this stage in his life, he was not particularly interested in Christian girls at all. He was, however, impressed by Faith, and as soon as the tall fellow relinquished her, Josh swept her back out onto the dance floor. Tell me what you’ve been doing, he said.

No, you tell me what you’ve been doing. I’ve missed our walks together and our studies, too.

The dance went on for hours, and for Josh there was only one person there, Faith Hancock. He had difficulty when the tall young man kept insisting on claiming Faith for another dance.

Who is he, anyway?

Why, he’s the son of the governor of New Hampshire. He’s down for a visit.

A nutmeg Yankee? Don’t have anything to do with him!

Why, Josh, don’t be silly. He’s actually very nice.

He’s not as nice as I am. Josh grinned. I’ll prove it to you.

Josh set out to prove that he was nicer than the son of the governor, and from that moment on, everything in Josh Spencer’s life was geared toward courting Faith Hancock.

Perhaps that was the way of it with Jehoshaphat Spencer. He became a single-minded young man when he wanted something. When he set out to become a hunter, he practiced until he became the best hunter in the county. When he decided to be a rider, he had to ride the fastest horses and win the most races. And now he had settled his mind on Faith, and for the next two months he was practically ubiquitous where the young woman was concerned.

Faith was thrilled, although she never admitted it. For years she had been secretly in love with Jehoshaphat Spencer, whom she never called anything but Josh in her own mind, and now she recognized that he was falling in love with her.

The time came, then, a mere six months after the ball, in a gardenia-fragrant orchard when the two stood together. They had been silent for a long time, and finally Faith turned to him and said, You’re very quiet, Josh. Is something wrong?

Yes.

Can you tell me about it?

I’m afraid I’m going to die.

Faith gasped and her eyes widened. Her first thought was that a terrible disease had been diagnosed. Oh, Josh! she cried and put her hand on his chest. It’s not smallpox, is it?

No, it’s worse than smallpox. There was a mournful expression in Josh’s eyes, and he reached his hand out and said, I’m afraid it’s much worse.

Fear came over Faith, and she said, What is it, Josh?

Reaching out, Josh pulled her up against him, holding her to his chest. I’m in love with you, Faith, and I’m going to die if you don’t marry me.

For a moment Faith could not think, and then she realized he was teasing her. She reached out and slapped his cheek sharply. You are awful! she cried, relieved and half angry.

I’m serious, Faith. I love you with all my heart, and I want to marry you. He leaned down and kissed her. It was not their first kiss, but there was something about this one that was different. Faith realized it and came to him with a willingness and a yielding she had never shown before. Her arms went around his neck, and she pulled him closer, and for a time the two stood there in silence. Finally Faith drew back and said, I love you, Josh. I always have—and I always will. . . .

****

The shrill cry of a newborn child suddenly shook Josh to the core. It jolted him back out of that pleasant past when all had been good and sweet and easy, and now his eyes wildly met his father’s. Both men jumped to their feet and ran out of the study. Scrambling upstairs, they stopped outside the door, which opened at once, and Esther Spencer stepped out. Her lips were tight, and there was a nervous blink in her eyes. You have a fine son, Josh.

A son! Josh’s eyes grew dim with tears. Everything was all right. He began to shake, and he held his hands together tightly, squeezing them to control the joy that ran through him.

He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, then heard his voice congratulating him. Then he shook himself and said, Faith! I want to see her!

Son—

Something in his mother’s voice brought Josh up short. A sudden fear seized him, touching something in the inner part of his heart and running along his nerves. His mother was a steady woman, but this was fear that he saw in her eyes, not steadiness.

What . . . what is it? What’s wrong with Faith?

Josh, she’s in a bad condition, I’m afraid.

Josh stood there frozen, as if the world had fallen around him. The joy over his new son left, and all he could think was, Faith’s dying. He shoved inside the door, and the doctor, who was standing over the bed, turned to him.

Mr. Spencer—

Josh pushed him aside with one rough sweep of his arm and fell on his knees. One look at his wife’s face and he knew the worst. Her eyes were sunk back in her head, her mouth drawn back from her teeth. She looks dead already, he thought. Grabbing her up in his arms, he held her and began to weep. Faith—

He felt her hands touching him feebly and heard her voice whispering, Josh.

Holding her for a time, he laid her back down gently and said hopefully, You’ll . . . you’ll be all right, Faith.

But Faith Spencer knew that her life was almost gone, and all that kept her alive now was determination to speak to her husband. Let me hold the baby, she whispered.

The doctor moved quickly to the side of the bed and placed the small bundle in her arms. Pulling back the blanket, she looked at the tiny morsel of humanity.

His name is Jacob, she managed to get out.

Yes . . . yes, Josh said, his voice choking.

Faith Spencer reached up one thin arm, touched Josh’s cheek, and her voice was so still that he had to lean forward to hear it. It came just as a wisp of breath. You must . . . not blame God, Josh. He’s taking me home, but . . . you must not blame Him. He’s giving you . . . part of me to keep.

No! Josh said. No, you can’t leave me!

She turned and tenderly kissed the red face of the child, who lay with his eyes tightly closed as if he, too, were leaving. The dying woman looked once at the baby, then her eyes reached up and touched her husband’s for a lingering moment. I must go with my Lord, she said, but I leave . . . Jacob with you. Good-bye . . . my husband. You have been . . . always my . . . dearest one . . . !

Those were Faith’s last words. She lingered for a few more minutes, then the thin chest heaved once and was silent.

The doctor moved forward, picked up the infant, and whispered, I’m afraid she’s gone, Mr. Spencer.

Keep your hands off me! Josh overflowed with blind, unreasoning rage. It was the strain which lay deep in him that his parents had never understood. Now it arose like a black cloud. Ignoring the baby, he rose and walked stiff-legged to the door. His parents stood frozen, watching fearfully.

The baby’s all right, son, his mother said. Josh stared at her as if she had said something in a foreign language. Without a word, he pushed past her. His father reached out and grabbed his arm, but Josh shook him off and left the room. He walked down the stairs blindly, reached the front door, and without pausing for a coat, stepped outside. The wind blew fiercely in his face as the cold rain mixed with the tears of anger and tragic loss he refused to shed in front of others. A flash of lightning lit up the scene as he moved down the walk. He had no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he felt betrayed by a God he had tried to serve, and he went out into the night. Nothing in the blackness of that night was darker or more ominous than the bitterness and despair that filled Josh Spencer’s heart.

Chapter Two

Incident at The Brown Stag

Since a considerable percentage of people in the Colonies could not read, tavern owners soon learned to follow the English custom of identifying their establishments with a picture. The crudely drawn brown deer with a crown of awkward-looking antlers represented Dutch Hartog’s tavern, The Brown Stag. The sign hung from a cast-iron shaft, and as the remnants of the stormy wind tossed the clouds about in the sky, the faded icon creaked as it swung on its hinges.

Inside the tavern, the proprietor stood behind the bar, polishing a glass listlessly. His smallish pale blue eyes were fixed on the customer who sat with his back braced against the wall staring blindly at the thick brown bottle on the table in front of him. Dutch Hartog was one of the roughs. Not over forty, his thick blond hair had receded halfway down his skull, and his mouth had the look of a catfish, twisted to one side, drawn up by a scar that traced its way down his left cheek. He had served in the British Royal Navy, leaving his right foot and lower leg at one of the furious battles fought by His Majesty’s forces at sea. A stout peg furnished the deficiency, but the loss of his leg had made Hartog a gloomy man indeed. He had made his way to America using what money he had to buy The Brown Stag at Williamsburg. Now he leaned back and considered, with some dissatisfaction, his establishment.

The tavern was a dark, low-ceilinged place—low enough that a tall man could bash his head against one of the greasy timbers that supported the second story if he wasn’t careful. Half a dozen roughhewn pine tables and a motley assemblage of chairs and stools completed the furnishings of the room, all faintly illuminated by two small windows that allowed dim rays of light to filter in from the outer street. Four tin lanterns with intricate punched patterns suspended from pegs augmented this light with a pale yellowish gleam. The smell of cooked meat, grease, sweat, and alcohol formed a pungent aroma about the place. To the left was a door that led to the kitchen where Dutch’s woman did what cooking was necessary.

A flight of stairs nailed to the side of the wall gave access to the upper part of the tavern, which consisted of four bedrooms. One was used by Dutch himself and whatever woman he kept at the moment. The other three were for rent—usually for short term.

Dutch, you ought to make him go home.

Quickly Hartog turned to fix his pale blue eyes on a young woman who had entered the room from the kitchen. She was wearing a green tight-fitting cotton dress, cut low as befitted a tavern girl. She had dark brown hair and eyes, and just above her lip, on the right side of her cheek, was a beauty mark. Her complexion was covered with more makeup than most women wore.

Ain’t my job to run good customers off! Dutch grunted. He shoved his weight against the bar and placed his meaty forearms down, staring at his powerful hands. As long as he’s got shillings, he can stay here and drink.

Rhoda Harper was not happy with his answer. She stood there hesitantly, the dim light of the lanterns highlighting her rather prominent cheekbones, and her lips twisted with dissatisfaction. He’s been drunk long enough, Dutch. Tell him to go home.

You take him to raise? Dutch jeered. Why don’t you take him upstairs. He’s got money, it seems. That’s what you’re here for, girl.

A slight flush touched the young woman’s cheeks. True enough, she was a tavern girl—the lowest level of life in Williamsburg, no more than a prostitute. Still, despite the hardness of her expression and the tenseness of the set of her shoulders, there was something about her that spoke of a past that was different. He needs to go home, she said stubbornly.

Dutch Hartog was

Reviews for Over the Misty Mountains (Spirit of Appalachia Book #1)

[Mark Hall · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

great series