Tranquilla: Book 1 - Pioneers: Tranquilla series, #1

By Charles McRaven

Tranquilla Taylor should have been a pampered Southern belle, and indeed was courted by two suitors who were best friends. But this hard-riding, straight-shooting rebel scandalized Mississippi planter society by learning Latin, mathematics, the classics. She freed her inherited slaves, worked the fields alongside two husbands, both tragically murdered, and held her family together despite war, poverty, and too much death.
She lost two infant sons, raised nine children, then lost her father, a gifted daughter and a husband in a few wrenching months on the eve of the Civil War. And a gentle son at Gettysburg, who had helped her hold the plantation together.
Her daughters were belles with blisters on their hands, and her sons were forced to grow up too soon. There was the doctor, driven to alcoholism by the carnage of Shiloh. Two daughters married doctors, and one was denied medical school because she was a woman. Her land changed hands 32 times during the war, and her house was raided, set afire. Her son's fiancée was attacked, beaten.
Tranquilla's best friend and former maid, who was involved in helping escaped slaves, endured it all beside her into old age, both iron-willed, defiant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094853

Book preview

Dedication

To Tranquilla's descendants: the independent women who share her blood and her ideals,

including my daughters and granddaughters.

One

IN 1821, SANDERS TAYLOR left his plantation

in Anson County, North Carolina, in a wagon

train, bound for Mississippi.

—Descendants’ oral history

It was the rhythmic ringing of Isaac’s hammer on the anvil that woke her, and for a long moment Tranquilla believed she was back at home. But as her eyes focused in the morning air, she recognized the dim, orange light above her as early sun through wagon canvas. The woodsmoke smell could have been Anson County; Isaac’s anvil could have been down the plantation lane at the head of the rows of cabins. This could be home, still. Almost.

But awakening in a bed of quilts in a wagon, with dim morning sun glowing through trees: this was the road, wilderness. This was Tennessee. She caught the faint ripple of creek water moving over stone. A low murmuring of voices and the clink of metal utensils. Then the smell of bacon: it was really morning.

She stretched, letting the warmth of the quilts into her body one luxurious moment more. The May air was cool, and she could see a ghost of mist over the creek through the canvas wagon flap. Then she was up, pulling her traveling dress on with an eagerness to see what this place looked like.

It had been late when they reached the creekside meadow. The first wagons had been unhitched and the horses loosed to graze. Cooking fires were crackling by the time the family’s driver whoa’d his team and Tranquilla had looked around. Only a glow of sunset outlined the forest across the stream, with the rising hills beyond.

Now, slipping from the wagon with a towel, sliver of soap and a comb, she could see Isaac’s light forge and a thin smoke lifting from the charcoal fire. His helper, Gabriel, worked the bellows slowly as the smith shaped a chain link on the anvil. Tranquilla moved among the women at the fires...smiling, touching an arm here, giving a greeting as she passed. She imagined she saw sparks of excitement in their eyes, at this adventure.

A thick copse of willow hid a creek bend and screened her from the camp. She washed, combed out her hair, giving it half the hundred strokes Aunt Rose always insisted upon with the tortoise-shell comb. Tying it up with the faded ribbon Mama had bought her in Asheville that time, she reflected that it might be a long time before the family would visit a store again.

Well, no matter. She liked the fine-woven cloth, the ribbons, the yarns, even the smell of the stores back home, but she preferred the outdoors. At fourteen, Tranquilla was still more at home among the horses, in the garden, the smithy or the woodworking shop than in the stuffy parlors of their or their neighbors’ homes. The smith Isaac was still her best friend, and she was impatient with the giggling and preening of the girls of Anson County.

But they’re gone, she suddenly remembered, and a pang cut short a breath. Home was gone, with all its familiarity: church, the subscription school, the warm feel of worn pasture fence boards under her hand. Gone.

What would Mississippi be like? They’d had letters from earlier settlers who’d gone down the Natchez Trace from Nashville. Kin, friends. So many had felt the press of too many people, too little land in Anson and Buncomb Counties. The stories were of fine land along the big river, of land where the long-staple cotton grew in bottomless black soil.

It had been too much for Tranquilla’s father, Sanders Taylor, to resist. He’d attained prosperity in North Carolina in the years after the last war with England, adding to the land his father had left him. But things were changing: new machines were making their presence felt in everything from plows to boats and steam power. As his acres had grown, he’d felt the craving for still more acres.

The challenge, the call of new country, was a fever. The red men were being crowded out of the new territories, and the planters wanted the land. So Sanders Taylor was headed west, with his family and everything they could reasonably move.

Tranquilla took in the scene beyond the camp. Blue, shaggy ridgelines sloped across each other, leading west. The land led downward from the high peaks now that they were in Tennessee. Knoxville would be just a few days farther on. Stores there. Of course there would be.

Morning, Isaac.

Mawnin’, Miss ’Quilla, the smith smiled. He was a solid man of forty, easily the most valued of the Taylor hands. From his forge had come a steady flow of tools, utensils, nails, bolts, repaired and crafted necessities for the entire plantation. And now, on this wilderness road, he was at work patching wagons, welding braces, mending chain, almost as busy as back at home.

Tranquilla smiled at Gabriel, the apprentice, a somewhat listless twelve-year-old. He couldn’t seem to learn, she reflected. Why, she could hammer out a knife or a chain hook herself better than the boy, who spent all his days supposedly learning. Now he averted his eyes, embarrassed.

Early on she’d been fascinated by the smithy and the magic within its walls. It wasn’t, of course, the place for a proper young lady to be, but she’d managed to spend long afternoons chattering with Isaac, asking endless questions, captivated by the red glow of the fire, the almost fluid shaping of the iron. Whenever she hadn’t been where she should be, the entire plantation had known where to find her: working the bellows in the smithy, or hammering a pattern in the end of a strap hinge. Isaac had provided a leather apron for her, and insisted she wear a hat to keep the sparks out of her hair.

Tranquilla’s brothers teased her still. She’d always been the tomboy, climbing the highest trees, hunting with them, hating the sewing and the dull women’s talk. To be indoors in a stifling room, stitching away a glorious spring day, was torture. She wanted to run, to ride, to race into life like the young colts she often tended.

How is Mittie? she asked the smith. His wife was slowly regaining her strength from their youngest child’s birth. Mittie was not a strong woman. Tranquilla had insisted on helping her mother and Aunt Rose tend the woman during the birth, over the older woman’s objections.

Oh, she fine, Miss ’Quilla. She some porely, still, but she be fine. He bent over the anvil, looping yet another chain link around the next one and the welded eye of a hook. Two hammer taps and the link closed, its tapered ends lapping, ready for white heat and the hammer-weld.

I’ll look in on her. You going to let Gabriel make that weld?

Gabe, he ain’ ready fo’ dat jis’ yet. But he comin’ on. Jis’ give him time.

When we get to Mississippi, everybody’s going to be twice as busy, Papa says, clearing land, planting, building. You’ll need two helpers, Isaac.

Well, den, I jis’ git Mas' Sanders to let you come he’p me, Miss ’Quilla, the big man’s eyes shone. The boy Gabriel was absorbed in the progress of a fly walking along the leather bellows frame.

I’ll do it, too. You know I will.

Yas’m, I knows you will. Make dem sparks fly. She shared his laughter, moving away toward her wagon, thinking again of her long-term plan. Yes, the monumental one: the eventual freedom of the family's people.

The Taylor slaves seemed for the most part as contented as could be expected. They were more fortunate than many, in the care their owners gave them. That these owners did not know or suspect the tangle of feelings behind their charges’ dutiful masks did not disquiet them.

Damn stupidity, mistreating slaves, was Sanders Taylor’s summation of the subject. Man cuts himself off at the knees if he puts his work force at risk. So even if the master’s motivation was founded principally in economics, the results were as positive as the peculiar institution of slavery allowed.

Tranquilla had entered into long discussions with her father about the morality of owning other human beings. Her mother refused to talk at all on such subjects, and her brother, Greenfield, suggested she must be out of her mind to question a system with so many advantages.

To the owners, of course, she’d needled him.

Who else is there? he’d retorted. Greenfield, alone of the family, seemed to enjoy ordering the servants around. It’s not as if we we’re discussing equals here, little sister. Slaves are like children. They must be cared for, directed, driven, if necessary. And like parents, we must be firm with them when they require it. He turned, dismissing Tranquilla. What embarrassing idea would she come up with next? He’d left the room to avoid finding out.

So it was to her father she went with her troubling questions. He alone tolerated, even seemed to enjoy, this daughter’s outrageous behavior as her mother put it.

A lot of people have freed their slaves, Papa, she reminded him on one occasion. They were riding over the fallow fields one fine autumn day the year before. The air was almost a liquid amber, against a sky so blue it ached. The boys had gone off hunting, even though young Wash, at nine, was relegated by his older brother mostly to carrying things. Her sister, Candace, was in the house, probably sewing something. Tranquilla had saddled her mare and joined her father. She rode astride, much to her mother’s horror, but Sanders Taylor didn’t scold her. Tougher than the boys in lots of ways, he reflected. So now she was at it again...

Well, daughter, most of the owners who’ve freed their slaves aren’t that dependent on them, first of all. Letting a couple who are household help have their freedom isn’t a great hardship, you see. And mark my words, people do gracious acts in relation to how much those actions cost them. You won’t find a master who’s cleared land, built up a plantation with his life’s blood and sweat, jeopardizing it by shooing off his workers. That sort of foolishness would ruin the country overnight.

You could hire workers. People have.

"Not good ones. A man who sees you making a profit from his work won’t give it his all. He wants to be on his own, and that’s human nature.

"No, great minds: Washington, Jefferson, have wrestled with the slave question, and could not solve it. I’m not as smart as they were, and I can’t, either.

Besides, he didn’t want to let the subject go, now that his daughter had him going on it, If I freed a slave in this time of expansion, rising prices, high demand, he’d be stolen in a day. I’d be doing him no favor. President Jefferson has freed those of his people he felt could survive, and kept those he was certain couldn’t. I doubt any of ours could. They’re best off here with us. We care about them, and the world does not.

Greenfield doesn’t seem to care much.

He has a heavy hand, it seems. I’ve spoken to him about that, and I shall again. Your brother lacks charity in some degree, I fear.

Isaac could survive on his own.

Ah, but he’s my most valuable man. Not that he’s just of monetary value to me...Has he given any indication he’s unhappy?

Oh, no. I’d say he’d rather be with us than anywhere he could imagine...

Then there you are, my crusading child. Let’s not speak of forcing burdensome freedom on those who do not seek it.

And so on. Tranquilla was able for the most part to continue in the balance of master and slave, since the Taylor workers weren’t rebellious or openly discontent. She’d been aware of masters whose slaves had seemed barely contained, a powder keg awaiting a spark. The stupidity her father condemned was alive in the land, she knew.

And the seed of an eventual resolve had been planted in this girl's mind: when and if she were able, she would do all she could to resolve this issue. Yes, someday I'll be in a position to free some of them, and I will. As for the rest, if only their emancipation comes peacefully, she thought now, if only there is no violence.

TRANQUILLA SPENT THE morning riding her new gelding, Hector, out in front of the wagons with the field hand, Jeems, her brothers, Wash and Greenfield, and her father. The wilderness road followed the creek generally, down from the higher hills. Some tumbled boulders that had dislodged from bluffs had been rolled aside by travelers before them. Now and then a wind-blown limb or a fallen tree trunk had to be chopped apart and moved. Sanders Taylor always lent a hand at this, and required his sons help, too, despite their guarded grumbling. It gave Tranquilla a measure of satisfaction to be first out of her saddle to help, dragging limbs away as fast as big Jeems could chop them.

Greenfield never failed to send his sister a dark look when she took on men’s work, but young Wash rarely lost his good cheer, striving to keep up. Their father had long since given up admonishing his daughter for her tomboy ways. She’ll make some young planter a fine wife, he observed, suddenly realizing that, at fourteen, she was growing fast.

Not yet, though, he reflected. There’ll be time in the new country to get settled, get to know the gentry. There’ll be prosperous families, fine young men. Why, there’s talk of a college just off the Trace, not far from where the Pearl River crosses. Time enough for my girl to be a girl, before she’s pushed into being a woman.

He smiled at his daughter, at the beads of perspiration on her reddening face, at her impatient brushing away of the long brown hair that kept sticking to her cheeks. Back on their horses, a breeze sprang up, cooling them, tossing puffy clouds beyond the trees.

They could hear the lead wagons, catching up. Just ahead a wide gravel bar bordered the creek, and Sanders squinted at the sun, then took out a heavy watch.

We’ll stop here a spell. Green, you spot the wagons. We’ll unhitch for an hour.

Greenfield sat his horse, directing the wagons. He was something of a dandy, Tranquilla noted for the thousandth time. His boots were shiny, his shirt always with ruffles, even on this back-country trek. Dark hair, like their mother’s, always seemed to stay in place, wavy, ending sharply far below his cheekbones, where he shaved often. There was a little of the hawk in her brother, she realized: arrogant, proud. Greenfield must always be in charge wherever he went, whatever he did.

She dismounted, leading Hector to the water. He drank deeply, then nuzzled her with his wet nose. She had a bit of dried apple in her apron pocket, and fed it to him, brushing the lint and some wood chips off it. She turned the pocket inside out and dusted crumbs out. Her hair was tangled, and there was a smudge of creek mud on her apron over the knee. Somehow she’d also managed a small tear in the hem of her dress.

Well, miss, her mother eyed her, I see you’ve been pioneering again. It was a gentle rebuke. Sarah Taylor despaired of civilizing this daughter, but she liked her very much. Now she gave her shoulders a squeeze, directing her to a pitcher and basin on the tailboard of the wagon.

Wash your face, dear. Mustn’t frighten the others, now, must we? You look like an Indian. Tranquilla grinned, silently thanking her mother for the morning with Hector and the men.

The caravan spread out under maple trees still in young leaf. Bread from a tavern the day before was brought out and sliced, along with hams and a great wheel of cheese. Tranquilla remembered the crowded tavern, how she and her mother had shared a bed with her sister, Candace, while the men, notwithstanding her father’s status as a prosperous planter, slept in hay in the barn.

But the food had been good, and Sarah had bought provisions for the days ahead. A plump girl of thirteen had served them, wide-eyed at the prospect of their going west.

Wisht I was a-goin’, she’d confided to Tranquilla. This ole place, ain’t nothin’ to do, ‘cept work. She hadn’t known what to say to this earnest girl, but it hadn’t been awkward, because the pause was short.

That yer brother? A grin, showing a space between the girl’s front teeth. He’s a fine looker, now. You got yerself a feller? I do, but Pa says he ain’t right bright, y’know. Lotsa folks comes through here now, like y’all, movin’ out. Some a them boys, now, like yer brother, they’re real fine. The voice had gone on unbroken, and Tranquilla had half-heard, nodding and smiling as she helped the women stow the provisions in the wagons. The girl had eventually moved away, trying to catch Greenfield’s eye.

She thought of the tavern girl now. Probably be married to the dull boy in a year or two. Even some of the planters’ daughters married young, and several of her friends back in Anson County had set their eyes on beaux. It was mostly giggly talk so far, but matches were being speculated upon, at least.

Dem gals ain’ growed yit, the Taylors' Mammy, Aunt Rose, had snorted. Jis ‘cause dey gots breasts all at oncet, don’ mean dey’s ready fo’ a fambly. Rose was not shy about volunteering her opinions, whether of field hand or squire, and she knew a fool when she saw one.

An’ don’t you git no notions in yo’ head, chile, she’d admonished Tranquilla. I’se seen dem fancy Collins boys lookin’ you up an’ down. Dey ain’ wuth de dust on yo’ foot. Struttin’ ‘round, makin’ to be better’n dey is.

The Collins brothers, seventeen and nineteen, had seldom missed the chance to make advances upon any girl who seemed to pause long enough. Tranquilla had been mostly embarrassed by their attentions, but had to admit to a vague shiver at recognizing the beginnings of a certain inward response to attractive young men.

The road that day led down the creek past scattered cabins and clearings, to join other rough roads branching up hollows. There were ragged children standing in the yards, watching solemn-eyed as the long train of wagons rolled past.

Tranquilla wondered what life held for these lost backwoods children. Certainly there were no schools here, no towns, no social life beyond the few rough meeting houses they passed. There was a strong similarity to the farther reaches up from the river bottom and creekside plantations in Anson County, she supposed. Away from the towns and the prosperous farms, it seemed life was all about survival. The culture, the society came later, if at all, after the human animal had fed and slept and built, and could at last garner precious time from the most demanding chores.

They camped that night at a small river crossing. As soon as the fires were going and the horses fed, the boys wanted to go fishing. Deep, clear holes promised big catfish and strings of perch, to be fried with hush-puppies.

Wash scratched in black soil under old leaves for angle worms while Greenfield found fish hooks and cord. They cut willow poles, baited and dropped lines deep into the water. Soon Tranquilla felt the tug on her line that always made her catch her breath sharply. She waited a beat, set the hook with a firm, quick pull, then swung the sunfish up and out onto the bank.

She looked toward her brothers, a wide grin flashing. Wash smiled back, but Greenfield ignored her, intent on moving his line around a submerged ledge. She eased the hook out, then threaded a forked willow she’d cut, through the gill and mouth. She slipped the fish back into the water, then tied the stick to an exposed root.

If they could catch enough perch, the family could feast on the crisp little fish, a welcome change from their travel fare. She re-baited her hook and caught two more of the nine-inch flat fish. Wash had caught two, but Greenfield, impatient at not having hooked a large fish, had moved off down to another deep place.

Tranquilla set her pole aside and climbed up to the camp. Her mother was directing the cooks at the fires, her apron full of onions.

We’re catching sunfish, Tranquilla told her. Would you want to make hush puppies?

I suppose so. Look at that dirt on your dress! ’Quilla, you’re a savage.

It’ll wash off, she called over her shoulder, already on the way back to the stream. She glimpsed Isaac filing an axe and went to him.

There’s a good hole in the river, Isaac. When they get their chores done, why don’t you send Hetty and Josh down? Perch are biting.

I do dat, Miss ’Quilla. Somebody chop a rock wid dis good axe.

We’re just over there. I’ll rig extra lines. She was off again, to find Wash beaming over a foot-long bass he’d landed. He had another perch on the willow stringer as well.

After a half hour, Tranquilla had to cut another stringer. She had a little bone-handled knife in a small sheath she carried with her. Isaac had made the knife for her, and had drilled a hole in the handle and attached a leather string to it so she could tie it to her apron string and carry it in the apron pocket. Losing such a knife would be a hard thing to get over.

Hetty and Josh, Isaac’s children, came on bare feet, noiselessly, down the path. Tranquilla had cut poles for them, and now tied lines and hooks. Hetty was eleven, with spiky hair and a curiously Oriental look about her. Lean and strong, she was an efficient helper to her mother and in the Taylor kitchen. Josh was five, with huge, solemn eyes and gentle hands. He usually had a kitten or baby chick with him, and the barnyard ducks, geese and puppies followed him everywhere.

Tranquilla baited a hook for him and showed him where the water curved under a sycamore root, a spot the fish liked. He smiled at her, observing the strict silence fishing required, and dropped the hook in. Wash moved over for Hetty, who promptly caught a perch. Tranquilla moved upstream a bit, planning to let her bait tumble along a shallow rill into the pool. She’d like to catch a bass, and they lay alongside the swift water, waiting for food to wash down.

The light was still good, but they’d have only a half hour more if they didn’t want to clean the fish by firelight. Shadows lay long now, and the fish were hungry. Tranquilla’s hook had washed into deep water with no strike, and she was set to pull it up again when she felt the nudge of a catfish. The line moved a few inches upstream, then jerked down as the fish took the worm.

The pull was strong, and for a moment she could imagine the corded hemp line parting. But she got the pole aimed high, so its bend took the pull and gave when the fish jerked the line tight. There were roots and rocks under the bank where the fish wanted to go, so she firmly pulled it upstream to more open water. Once among sharp rocks or tangled in underwater branches or roots, the fish would be lost. More than once she’d seen catfish with old hooks and broken line still in them.

Tranquilla pulled the fish into the shallows, and caught a glimpse of its white underbelly as it turned and pulled down toward deep water again. It was a big fish. The other children were watching, but Josh had a perch on, and was pulling it in, looking from it to her effort. She snubbed the strong pull downstream as much as she dared, seeing the willow pole arc in a tight bend.

Then the fish slacked for an instant, and she pulled it upstream again. Again, it turned, lunged away. Again she dragged it upstream. And again. This time its pull was weaker, but it drew her downstream once more.

Then she saw Greenfield, coming up with some fish on a string stick. Just don’t interfere, she said to herself. He’s tiring: I can land him. She got the downstream run stopped, just short of Hetty’s position on the bank, and began the slow pull up again.

Greenfield hurried up the bank, dropping his pole and pushing the stringer at Josh.

Hold this, boy, he commanded. His voice was a harsh intrusion on the scene of the silent struggle. Tranquilla bit her lip. The fish was nearing the end of its fight, and here was Green, ready to grab the pole from her. She didn’t need his help, or his gloating at having saved her, as he’d no doubt tell it later. She flashed him a hard look, but he kept coming.

Just then Wash, a fish on his line, half-rose, stumbling backwards directly in Greenfield’s path. If he had planned it, the move was perfect, but it looked like pure accident. Green sprawled full-length with a surprised outflow of air. He rolled, but his brother’s pole was jammed into the soft ground between his knees, and he couldn’t sort out his feet just yet. A small perch swung from the line on the upraised pole, right into his face.

Tranquilla felt a surge of affection for her younger brother. She could see he was sprawled among the thrashing feet, but he still grasped his pole, with the swinging fish.

She focused on her own catch. The fish was alongside the gravel rill again, and she risked a hard pull to get it grounded. The line held. Then, as she could see Greenfield getting to his feet, she dropped the pole and jumped across the neck of deepening water to the edge of the gravel bar, landing in four inches of fast water. She lunged for the catfish, getting first one thumb then the other hooked into its lower jaw. She held tight, keeping away from the spines, and hauled the big fish ashore in spite of its thrashing and jerking.

Greenfield had been about to jump into the water to help her and, she knew, claim much of the credit for the catch. Now he turned on his heel, retrieved his pole and snatched the string from Josh. He stalked off as Tranquilla held the great fish, flopping, in her clamped grip. Hetty helped her pull the hook out, and the two carried the catfish up to the camp, with Wash and Josh bringing the strings of perch and bass along, chattering excitedly.

Greenfield had left his string of fish with Aunt Rose and was nowhere to be seen. Everyone, including her father, crowded around the big catfish, admiring it and praising Tranquilla. She remembered to give Wash a hug and a whispered thanks for his help. He grinned happily, proud of his sister, and not a little happy with his own string of fish. Candace hung back from the spined monster, but was also clearly in awe of her sister’s catch.

Later, in the glow of the dying cook fires, Tranquilla gazed beyond the canopy of dark trees at the star-filled Tennessee sky. She was pleasantly stuffed with fried fish and hush puppies, their cornmeal-and-onion taste still in her mouth. Life was good, just now. The road held few cares and many new sights, and she wished it could go on forever.

That’s probably what keeps the gypsy bands on the road, she reflected. Sometimes they’d camped on the Taylor place, trading horses, tinware, brightly woven fabrics. They traveled in garish wagons, and never seemed to be without music. They answered to absolutely no one.

By contrast, the life Tranquilla knew she was expected to lead would be predictably ordinary. All too soon she’d be expected to entertain suitors, in a brief, concentrated courtship. That would end with her married to some young man with a suitable expanse of land, a house at least being built, and a set of expectations of her. Then the house would fill with children, and her own pursuits and desires would be set aside. Forever.

Not an enticing prospect. So this was life, then, here and now: perhaps the last times there were to be few demands being made of her. This was a brief, bright springtime that would, like forest flowers, be gone all too quickly. No, not enticing at all.

She resolved to have her own way for as long as she could, then, because it would end; that was just the way things went. Unless she remained single. She could do that, and become like the spinster aunts in Asheville, old and brittle and strict. They were independent, as long as there was family money to live on, but they were not, she knew, happy.

She was, at this moment, generously happy, and that was enough. Maybe things wouldn’t change, after all. Or if they did, maybe she could still control events around her. She wasn’t dumb, often outwitting domineering Greenfield, getting away for time of her own. She could continue that.

At any rate, she needn’t rush her life. The stars above her had been there forever and would be forever. In the realm of the universe, her concerns were like grains of sand. She guessed it didn’t really matter much how she lived her life; there was to be so little of it, actually. All the more reason to keep control, then, and not squander the years she had.

The stars. She remembered lines from Shakespeare her father had read aloud: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves... Indeed.

KNOXVILLE WAS MORE of the mountain people, albeit in a more civilized setting. The town had grown from a nearby fort a half-century before, and its frontier roots were evident. She saw men in buckskins shouldering long rifles as they strode the dusty streets. Wagons with oxen or mules choked the open spaces. Dust settled on her. Women with sunbonnets tied tight beneath their chins gazed out, bright eyes in sun-wrinkled faces, hands gnarled from farm work. As her wagon passed, a tall young man with an axe on his shoulder looked her directly in the eyes, his an earnest blue. She did not drop her own eyes, and the boy smiled broadly.

Mornin’, ma’am, he touched his hat. She smiled in return, feeling color rush to her face. Mountain man, she thought. Probably had himself a cabin in some deep hollow. Come to town for supplies. Or a wife. She reddened more, but leaned out for a look back. He still stood looking after her.

"What are you gawking at, ’Quilla? her mother asked from behind her. You’ll fall out of this wagon! Mind the horses, now, if you insist on driving." Ah, that had been what had caught the young man’s eye: her handling the reins. He’d no doubt imagined her a hardy, work-roughened frontierswoman, good stock for a mountain man.

Like a beef, that’s how he was measuring me, she thought, remembering the frank gaze. I was livestock. Part woman, part field hand. Well, not for you, bumpkin. Did have nice eyes, though, when he smiled. Hope he finds himself a good...

’Quilla! You’ll run over that cow! Her mother’s voice jerked her eyes back to the road as a Black woman led a dun cow across just under her horses’ noses. She pulled up, nodding to the woman, whose efforts to move her beast along were foundering. Tranquilla flicked her leather drover’s whip out and across the cow’s rump. Startled from its reverie, the creature shambled forward, chewing.

G’yup, she spoke quietly to her team, and the wagon moved again, now into thinning traffic. The town began to fall behind them, and she could see mountains rising to the west. With today’s stocking of provisions, there would be no need to stop again until the wagons were up among those blue heights.

Two

Nashville in 1821 was to Tranquilla a city trying to grow out of its pioneer past into graciousness—with some little distance to go. She saw fine, new houses along the roads into the Cumberland basin, and rich, limerock farms. Some of the business buildings were of cut limestone and prosperous-looking. But she saw that log cabins still crowded the residential streets, and there were chickens and hogs wandering free. Some of the streets were cobbled, but dust lay thick on others, and mud from a recent rain still defied the drying sun in the low places. She knew this was being tracked into the houses.

This was an energetic, muscular town, with traders setting out down the Natchez Trace or off on the Cumberland River toward the Ohio. The family learned that these travelers aimed finally for the Mississippi, to the southern ports. Livestock was driven to pens at the edge of town to be sold, traded. The bawling of cattle and neighing of horses created a constant background, giving the most cultured exchange a tinge of the barnyard.

And culture there was to be, in the days the Taylor family stayed over at the capital city. There were invitations from distant cousins and vaguely-remembered family friends. To dine, to dance.

Sanders Taylor thought it all a waste of valuable travel time, and Tranquilla was inclined to agree. But her father was aware that Sarah needed a break from the demands of the road, and there were, after all, the amenities to be observed. For his part, Greenfield was eager to mix with the young dandies who rode sleek, blooded horses, their boots ashine and linen spotless. Each young aristocrat was attended by his servant, which amounted to a gangling, tumultuous following whenever several such lads gathered. Greenfield was instantly at home here, his natural haughtiness matching that of his new-found peers.

Tranquilla thought it all pretty silly, the posturing and preening of this, the upcoming gentry. Nashville was, if anything, more rustic than Asheville and, to her eye, these peacocks had a little too much horse manure on their boots.

Her cousins and their friends bore a striking similarity to girls she’d known back home. They were consumed with the young men of their acquaintance and, to a one, were taken with her brother, Greenfield. So much for insight into character, she thought. Couldn’t they see he was vain, arrogant, a loudmouth? Apparently one saw what one wanted, especially if the object were from that magic place: somewhere else.

But she, too, she realized, was something of a celebrity to these Tennessee girls. Beth Clarke, her second cousin, was a year older, and while seemingly not exactly an intellectual, had been overly sweet to her, and insisted on parading her about socially. Beth also understood the need for air, after stifling afternoon musicals and teas, and could ride as well as Tranquilla.

Surprised that her cousin also rode astride, she asked as they walked their mounts along a woods’ road at the Clarke place, if Beth had met resistance to this unladylike act.

Oh, my God, yes, her cousin rolled her eyes. Mama swore I’d destroy my virginity if I put a leg over a horse. Did they tell you that, too, ’Quilla?

That and worse. Mostly that my brazen behavior—she drew herself up pompously—would lead to a downward spiral of my morals, and the ruin of my virtue was inevitable. Something like that."

Ooh, my! Virtue in the gutter! And just for mounting a horse properly. Can you imagine? That’s such horse shit—pardon my language. And of course, anything over a sedate walk would be scandalous, right?

Oh, of course. Tranquilla then tried for an expression of innocence, her lips pursed, but let her eyes cross, and the two girls howled with laughter.

They had reached a long, flat field beside the creek, planted to young corn. The wagon road ran straight for a quarter mile. Not a field hand was in sight, and a look passed between the cousins.

Can that gelding run? Beth asked, appraising him.

A little, I guess, Tranquilla admitted, eyeing her cousin’s mare, a tightly-bunched mass of muscle. Her Hector was long of leg and very fast, actually, but had a deceptively somnolent look to him. Greenfield had disdained even trying the horse when their father had traded for him, so he became hers by default. That his sister had actually beaten him on his regal black with this horse was a sore spot still, and he stubbornly refused a rematch.

Let’s do it! Beth said in a hoarse whisper, looking around as if they were being watched. They drew the horses side-by-side in the road. On go, then? Tranquilla nodded.

Go! The mare shot ahead like an uncoiled spring, and the gelding stretched to catch up. He was noted for a languid start, but always closed quickly. This time Tranquilla held him in, letting him gain only slightly on the flying mare ahead. She’d guessed Beth’s horse was a quick burn-out, but that might not be the case: a quarter-mile wasn’t far enough to find out. She let her mount out a little and he pulled alongside as the end of the field came closer. Beth urged the mare on, but there was no more to give. And the race started being over.

But Tranquilla, flushed as she was at the prospect of an easy victory, sensed that beating her cousin was not the thing to do. First, she was a guest, and second, it had become obvious that Beth was accustomed to winning, and that was important to her.

Tranquilla leaned forward, as if to urge her horse ahead, but sent a little pressure along the reins. The horse responded the necessary fraction, and the mare inched ahead. The woods rushed at them, and the girls reined in together, sending clods of turf flying at the curve in the road.

You can ride, girl! Beth whooped, flashing white teeth in a smile as big as Tennessee.

So can you, cousin, Tranquilla beamed, bringing her mount expertly alongside, feeling the other girl’s arm on her shoulder, returning the gesture.

And that horse, he’s not as sleepy as he looks. Longer race, he’d eat my mare alive.

She’s like a keg of powder. She’d have lost me if I’d been on her, a start like that.

They cooled their mounts along the creekside in the young afternoon on the way back, talking excitedly of horses. Then, inevitably, talk turned to the upcoming ball that night, hosted by a family named Franklin. Beth, at fifteen, was tantalized by the romance of it all, and clearly envied the older girls who were on display and as it were, eligible.

And quite frankly, predatory, she told her cousin. We’ll be in the second rank, ’Quilla, but we get to flirt like hell without the consequences. And say, there are some beautiful young men hereabouts, honey, who can dance your toes off! Most of them worthless, mind you, prideful, vain. But they do know how to make a girl’s heart skip.

Tranquilla had her reservations about the young Tennessee swains, but managed some enthusiasm for the much-anticipated ball. She’d been to her share of such events, but always knowing everyone there, had felt none of the magic such gatherings were said to evoke in teenage girls. A bumbling, pockmarked adolescent boy from school was no less bumbling on the dance floor, and a conceited teenage ass was made no less so by candlelight and fiddle music.

But she supposed here it would be somewhat different, if for no reason other than she would know no one but the few cousins.

So it was with only mild anticipation that she endured the solicitous flutterings of her mother and Aunt Rose as they dressed her, brushed her, perfumed, and powdered her to offset the healthy tan so distressful to proper ladies.

Her dress was new, having been purchased with just such an event in mind by her farsighted mother before the trip. Tranquilla’s hair was dark, her eyes a deep brown, and this dress was the color of candlelight in wine. In effect, it and the ministrations of her mother made the tall girl appear years older. This fact, which seemed to give Sarah Taylor deep satisfaction, somewhat alarmed Tranquilla as she inspected the stranger in the big looking-glass. Why, she supposed she was pretty, in a way almost regal, which was exactly the opposite of her perception of herself until that moment.

Candace, her twelve-year-old sister, fluttered in and out, chattering. She had always been relegated to the children’s room before, and was ecstatic at this, her first ball. Although the two girls normally had little in common, this night Tranquilla paid particular attention to her sister, and fussed over her almost as much as their mother did.

Beth bounced into the room, her light sunburned hair and blue eyes electrified by a dress of incredible blue.

Ooh, look at you, cuz. Hey, you will break some hearts tonight, my girl. Oh, I know a dozen lads whose suavity will just melt into the floor at sight of you! And I can’t wait!

Tranquilla doubted she’d make that kind of impression, but a strange awareness was coming over her. She was experiencing a sort of confidence, a power even, based on how she looked. And she knew with certainty that this would carry her through the evening. She would not be shy, not feel inadequate around the young men and older girls at the ball. She would be in control, very much her own woman.

This event would be fun for her, but not the crowning, high point of her life it seemed to be for the other girls. Well, maybe not Beth. She seemed to have more to her than most of the young women Tranquilla had met. She liked her cousin more the longer she knew her. She was brash, friendly, a little profane, and fun to be around. And Tranquilla rightly surmised that, at fifteen, Beth Clarke had not yet set her cap for any of the young Nashville dandies, and so would devote herself to having a good time.

The ball opened without any of the suffocating introductions the North Carolina planters were accustomed to. The big hall in the Franklin house was quickly filled with people, and the musicians began with a reel. Black servants circulated discreetly among the guests with trays, under the watchful eyes of the ancient butler and housekeeper.

As at home in Anson County, these young people all seemed to know one another, and all were at ease. But both Greenfield and his sister quickly became the focus of their attentions, and were whirled into dancing every set.

Watching her older brother, Tranquilla had to admit he really was a fine dancer. Most of the girls danced demurely, but Beth led Green a merry step. She flounced her skirts, rolled her eyes, and shook with the beat of the music in a way that raised eyebrows among the older folk. Behind her, Tranquilla heard an older man exclaim, That Beth Clarke, now, she dances like she knows where she’s goin’.

A little too...energetic, I’d say, his aging companion sniffed, but her toes were beating out the time and the old man began to clap his hands. As the sound spread, Beth flashed a smile, and Greenfield Taylor grinned like a treed ‘possum. Tranquilla realized she and her partner had stopped dancing, their hands clapping, too. And two by two, the other dancers dropped out until only Green and his cousin were spinning about the floor.

The Black musicians played on, with sweat glistening on their faces, an up-tempo version of Soldier’s Joy. The smell of bayberry candles, perfume, and of baked delicacies mingled with that of new clothes, flowers, sweat and the scent of horses that always clung to riders. A smile was on every face, and Tranquilla was aware that this was one of those moments people remembered when they were old: plantation life at its height, the gentry dancing as if their world would go on forever. Perhaps it would.

Finally, exhausted, Green and Beth spun to a standstill, bowed deeply, acknowledging the applause that swelled like a storm about them. The other young people crowded about, congratulating, smiling, shouting over the noise. Tranquilla caught her brother’s eye, and pursed her lips, nodding approval with a raised eyebrow. He grinned wide, pointing to her as if to say now it was her turn.

And without quite knowing how it happened, she felt herself propelled onto the dance floor by a tall youth she’d met a half hour before. He must have asked her to dance, but that nicety had escaped her. What-was-his-name spun her expertly into a romping Arkansas Traveler that already had feet