Following the Bear’s Lead

Chapter 1 – A Preview

The Bear’s Den

April 12, 1818

What goes through the mind of a dying man? William Brooks would tell you that it depends on the mind of that man and the life that preceded him. Then, he’d smile and say, “I’s ready.”

The old farmer had a peaceful, yet expectant sense that permeated this afternoon’s idyllic southern setting. The last of the winter snows had all melted away and whippoorwill were singing in the new spring planting season. Fresh breezes skirted lightly through the longleaf pines, spreading their evergreen scent over the newly-plowed fields. The tall pines floated shadows, sharp outlines swaying in the bright sunlight across the lined rows of freshly cultivated ground. The air was crisp and clean with wondrous scents to tantalize the senses… refresh the soul as only the birth of spring can.

Twinkles of light flashed luminously from the surface of churning water rolling swiftly over the rocks of the aptly named “Rocky River.” Winding and whirling, the swollen old stream disappeared into fresh, green deciduous forest draped in sweet-smelling honeysuckle. April-blooming Catesby’s Trillium dotted the forest floor, like splattered specks of white paint on a magnificent oil-filled canvas.

Back from the river landscape northward, on the higher ground amongst those fresh open fields sat an old house that one may find in such a painting. As most older homes in this time, it was constructed from the local timber and resembled most log homes of the period. Anyone could see that it was smaller once, having old grey logs in the mainframe with thick mud chinking. On the west end was added another room and on the east was a kitchen with a chimney.

It was a patchwork affair quite like a myriad of old pioneer homes portrayed in such a landscape. This old log home had the appearance of gentility, a lasting, comfortable tranquility made during a lifetime of necessity. It had already lasted half a century and would likely be here the next century to come.

But, the most remarkable part of the old home was the porches, especially the back porch. The immense size and sturdiness of the massive structure was surely indicative of purpose. Stretching the entire length of the house, strong pine timbers supported a huge array of oak shingles on the roof. An unusual characteristic for any log home of the day were multiple rooms inside the house, indicating a great deal of wealth. But, there seemed to be more utilitarian motives behind this home. There was purpose here.

This house had been built for a reason. A reason not readily recognized by the casual observer. Still, discerning that reason may be no more complex than a simple glance southward from that porch.

From that porch could be seen the gentle slope of the fertile land as it bowed to that mighty river, the gently churning essential highway of the early American pioneer. Beyond that river could be seen the Anson county lands, rolling into the distance. Far off evidence of human habitation occasionally dotted the landscape.

A few moments consideration on that view would say it all. The purpose of leaving Virginia… even to life in general, the friends and family spread out upon those hills. Simple as that.

Like a stage, this porch, too served its own large number of sensible purposes. Such practical considerations, however could never take away from the breath-taking view. Business deals had been made on this porch. It had seen the many comings and goings of family and friends, some business partners and associates, most of them just plain old pioneer farmers like William Brooks.

It should continue its purpose well beyond him.

Now, an aged old man, he sat at a heavy oak table on his back porch writing with his feathered quill pen. From time to time, he would stop and think, sometimes looking perplexed. After a moment of thought that dried his ink, he’d lick the quill and scribble some more, occasionally dipping the quill into an ink bottle and dabbing the excess from the tip.

After awhile, a particularly perplexing moment allowed his attention to drift. Wrinkling his thick grey eyebrows, he squinted upon the brightness before him on such a beautiful spring afternoon. Serious thoughts did not let him see the pretty sky until the sparkles from the river caught his attention. Then, his eyes seemed to brighten.

A younger man’s vision gazed upon the fields before him from that porch. He thought of all the years that he and his brothers, sons and nephews cultivated this ground. Many years he’d seen pass here. Many children he had brought into this world had been raised right here to carry on in his stead. Right here, on the Almighty’s most blessed lands of the old North State.

North Carolina.

It was once just “Carolina.” William remembered his Pa once called it by that name. Not many folks were still around that could remember back that far.

He recalled the trials they had endured under King George III of England. And he remembered the Great War of Independence that he and his family fought for… sometimes died for, to gain their liberty. Mostly, he remembered what North Carolina had given him and how its wondrous fruits shadowed what it had once taken from him.

William remembered those worthwhile times. Those struggles that brought them nearer to their destiny. They had planted a seed here, nurtured it, watered it and watched it grow. And, it continued to grow. Its branches stretched far and wide, out from Anson, northward to Montgomery and southward to the lower half of Carolina. And, it would continue. And now, it reached west to the Mississippi and beyond. A lasting legacy.

An old man’s lips curled in a smile through the many wrinkles. Eighty-two years is a long time…, he thought.

William Brooks would always remember. That was the greatest treasure of an old man, besides his children, grandchildren… even great-grandchildren… a memory stretching far back to growing up in Virginia, fishing along the Rappahannock and talking to that young surveyor working on the holdings of Lord Fairfax. Then there was the war with France in the Ohio Valley where he and John had served with that young surveyor feller, Lieutenant Washington at The Battle of Meadows in 1754.

I’d have mentioned James ‘cept he was still a might young for fightin’. Ma would’a let us all do it no how. We didn’t actually serve under the General himself. Actually, I was under Captain Robert Mackenzie and John was in Thomas Waggoner’s command but I knew that Washington was somewheres about there. Seen him once or twice. Fort Holland I think.

It was that war that got us so adventurous as to take off for unknown lands. Of course, the land offer by George Selwyn for the Anson land in Carolina came at a fortuitous moment…then Grandpa died and Grandma right after. We took care of them through the hardships of old age but, when they died… well Ma and Pa didn’t really have purpose no more. My uncles and aunts were all living in other parts of Spotsylvania and Hanover… even one on the Blue Ridge. Me and John wasn’t there when they went. We was still fightin’ in the war. I wished I could’a seen them. I was named for my Grandpa, ya know.

It wasn’t long after that long affair with the French and Indians that John Brooks, Sr. had said his goodbyes to the rest of his family and brought his wife and children from their former home in Culpepper County, Virginia, to Fredericktown, then down the Great Wagon Road at the foot of the Blue Ridge past Bedford, past Lunenburg to the headwaters of the Yadkin River, even past where the Germanic Moravians had made their homes in Bethania and Bethabara. Far from their home in the Virginian high country, surrounded by virgin territories, it was the quintessential time for such courageous pioneers. A time that stretched wide the known world and tested the best men and women.

William could now fondly recall that trying day just as they entered the Anson territory, the well-traveled road to Charlottetown ran out and they had to make their way through virgin woods, sometimes blazing their own paths. That lawyer friend of Selwyn’s, McCullough had promised them rich lands beyond those trees to the south and they were gonna get there come hell or high water.

An English feller owned that land… probably never would see it. He’d never have use of it. Well, John and me sure could use it, and that English Selwyn feller could make a lot of money… even selling it cheap like he did.

So, they bought some… and they kept on buying some after they got there. Hundreds of acres.

It was a real good price… nearabouts free. That feller in England was about looney, I tell ya.

William wasn’t born in England so all he knew was American ways. Consequently, the English never made much sense to him. He wasn’t sorry about having to join in the fight against them in ‘76. It was just some island across the seas to him, anyway. We didn’t need nobody telling us how to live. And the taxes were outrageous.

They learnt better than to tax our eyeballs!

The English King George gave that feller thousands of acres of land in a far off country that he would never see, nor have any inclination to even visit. Land that he never could turn his plow into… grow anything in… hunt on… build a cabin on… what gets in their minds?

Well, William Brooks had always known his mind. Or was certain that he always did. And he figured John was of the same thinking.

William was just eighteen and “unhitched”, same as John, though John was a bit older. But, the Brooks boys was itching to get hitched and their hopes of finding anyone to marry were dwindling fast as they tromped through that dense jungle of a forest south of the Wagon road. Their Pa had to reassure them that there would be plenty of folks where they were going… all pioneering the same lands and such.

William laughed to himself. Well, Pa… that won’t exactly what you expected. It was years before some women came along, and most of them were young girls.

They was mighty slim pickens and I was lucky to find two good’uns, thank the Lord. He sure was with us in those days.

Recalling his adventures as a young man, he thought about how he and his family were rolling their Pennsylvania-made Conestoga wagon over old Indian trails; how they pulled that heavy wagon up steep hills with rope, blazing new roads when there weren’t none and slapping at a thick mass of “skeeters” on their necks that just got bigger as they moved further south. A load of sweat and muscle went into that trip… a trip that took weeks instead of days.

But, when their eyes lighted upon that Rocky River, they knew they had found it… their own part of heaven. It took three weeks of the hardest travel. Maybe that’s what made the sight of that river so special to them. It virtually teemed with life, glowing from the sun. They knew they’d found what they were looking for when they saw that fertile bottom land that would grow almost anything, a land that was sometimes carved in the middle of that life-giving river and those lovely rolling hills.

This is God’s own land. I remember James got real excited and exclaimed, “Almighty Lord in Heaven!” when he saw that Rocky River for the first time. He was just a youngster and prone to such youthful fits… still, I was thinkin’ on it. That river was a sight to behold. It was like Heaven had sprung a leak and pure silver ran out of it. That river sparkled so pretty as the water flowed over the rocks. Still makes me stop every now and then. A long time ago it was… long ago. But, I can see their bright smiles as though it were yesterday. Elizabeth sitting pretty as can be in the wagon with Mama, wearing that bright blue dress that Mama made for her when she turned sixteen. I remember Mama’s bright round, hazel eyes as she smiled down at me when we first seen that river. She had such pretty hair in the sunlight.

William gazed wondrously out upon that beautiful river as though it were his first time seeing it. His adoring, aged hazel eyes easily bore witness to the fact that all the sweat and tears were worth every minute. He and his boys purposely built this home so he could spend his waning years in silent reverence to that time… and to that river.

His gaze slowly drifted westward to a clump of birch, pines and oaks surrounded by more rows of loose ground. The plowed field ran all the way around the untouched trees. This “island” of trees had been left unbroken for a reason. A hallowed reason.

William Brooks’ pleased demeanor paled somewhat. Sadness crept into his thoughts as he contemplated his father, John, gone now some thirty-five years. And there was his brother, John, Jr. that had gone prematurely before him from the arrow he took years ago at Hiawassee town.

Their old wooden markers had almost disappeared now. Years of wind and rain had reduced his Daddy’s marker to a mere stick in the ground. Instantly, William felt regret from all the times he meant to do something about that and just “never got ‘round to it.”

I’ve got to get Ben and Lear to make ‘em somethin’ more permanent. Got to do it now ‘cuz it’ll never get done when I’m gone.

The old man’s thoughts grew melancholy as most thoughts are want to before such a scene. Tragedy had struck their family when he and his brother had gone with Capt. John Culpeper over the Blue Ridge into the heathen lands of the Cherokee.

I can’t really remember where those folks did us much harm, anyway. But, we were young. I thought John was alright for a long time… that he healed proper. But, he never really did. Could’a been God’s judgment on us. Why he took John is his business, but I’da gone in his place. I’d have surely done that. Rebecca and her sons had it hard after that. And his kids never could find a place here, all of them had to go elsewhere to find what it was they were looking for. The whole bunch of ‘em took off. Lee and Mary left. Little John and Elizabeth left. Only Edmond gave stayin’ a try… until his wife died. That was enough, I reckon. Enough death… enough for any man. I don’t blame them none.

His swelling eyes lingered absently on a pair of newer wooden markers in that “island” of trees. Another pang of emotion rolled through him, spilling from his eye. There was a time when it wasn’t often that he let his mind wander about like this. But, thinking on his brother’s widow did it often enough since then. Thinking on his beloved Sarah did it every day. Rebecca, Sarah and he had spent many an hour on this back porch talking about John and the boys and how their boys missed their Pa. Rebecca mostly talked about how she missed John.

She and Sarah got to spend time together though. It was good for both of them. But, that Rebecca Suggs was born a soft-hearted woman. Sweetest thing he ever knew. Rebecca had loved John, it was so plain on her face. The pain of John’s death was a pitiful reflection for it. Sarah said she couldn’t fight those demons. William know’d it wouldn’t be long. He usually had work to do and didn’t go around praying all the time like he did then… for Rebecca. But, he couldn’t help himself.

William prayed for John’s boys, too. He felt great sadness for his own, personal loss but nothing like what he felt for those boys. And, for her… cut short like she was. Rebecca never had her dreams realized. A few years after, she died from a right nasty spell of whooping cough. William counted it as a blessing for her. At least she was with John now there in blessed glory. They all had that to look forward to.

So, when Sarah died a few years back, William decided that he’d been here long enough too. It caught him kinda by surprise. Being so busy for more than half a century, he just didn’t know how to slow down and take a good look. He hadn’t noticed until now that he just kept right on living. Why, he didn’t know.

Only God can tell me that when I see him.

He didn’t really feel sad about it. It’s not a bad thing to be with all your loved ones. Death is just the end of this life, another beginning. He could see his Pa, John, James, Rebecca, Sarah… everybody was waitin’ for him. He was excited by it and almost couldn’t wait.

This old man has tarried too long… stubborn ol’ coot! Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

William couldn’t remember where he’d read that, but it sure suited him.

Sarah probably found that in the Bible somewheres.

Somewhat overgrown with brush, this “island” of trees amidst his fields had been the resting place of William Brooks’ family who had the misfortune to go before him, those who awaited his arrival eagerly. He smiled past the tears. Joy was in his heart for he would see Sarah and Lydia again and walk beside them forever.

Squinting, he tried to make out the wooden markers better through that tall grass. Tall grass that threatened to cover over the whole cemetery.

Tall grass that shouldn’t be there. Tall grass that should have been cut days ago.

Irritation grew in his mind. The smile faded.

William drew his eyes together and pursed his wrinkling lips. “That boy don’t pay me no mind!”

As if answering his father, Zeke’s huge lumbering form erupted from the cabin door. Old hinges squealed in complaint of their constant use. Zeke slammed the big wooden door as usual.

William’s ink bottle wobbled from the door’s impact, spilling some ink on the table, barely missing the paper he was writing on. Putting down his pen and corking his ink bottle, he turned slowly to face his son.

“Ezekiel Brooks, quit slammin’ that door! And, haven’t I told you time and again to keep that family ground cleaned off?”

Zeke was about twenty years of age, a big man and not unhandsome. His hair, like the rest of the Brooks was dark brown and he had hazel eyes. But, there was something in his eyes that looked innocent, childlike. At his father’s scolding, he dipped his head and scowled.

“Aw, pa! I ain’t got no time no more!”

Turning his face away in angry shame, he put his hands quickly in the pockets of his canvas brown overalls. Uncombed dark brown hair fell across his face.

“Yes’in you do, boy! Your mama is o’er there a lookin’ at you makin’ yer excuses right now! You feel ashamed now don’t ya?”

Zeke was afraid to look at the cemetery now. Lips were pouting and he looked down, occasionally throwing his eyes up past his father to the island of trees beyond. Blue eyes that grew moist with emotion.

William’s ire turned slowly to concern. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them slowly and removed a linen handkerchief from the back of his britches, to dab up the spilled ink.

“Son, one day this ground could be yer’n. I just wanna know that you can take good care of it. I’m not gonna last forever ya know!”

At the thought of William’s demise, Zeke looked worried. Becoming agitated, he scuffled about on the porch in short bursts of nervous energy. His eyes focused on the oak planking of the porch and refused to look at his father’s aging face.

“Why you always talkin’ ‘bout that? You ain’t gone nowhere! You gotta stay here with me and James and old Cesar!”

William looked tired. Lines on his face had become valleys over the past couple of months. Ezekiel had seen it just like everybody else. He just couldn’t accept the truth of it.

“I ain’t livin’ forever, Zeke. I’m almost gone now and you just gotta get used to it.”

William was hurting for his son. He knew that Zeke was always slower at understanding things than most. But, damnation! That boy could work!

“No, Pa!” Zeke repeated, kicking another chair on the porch. Immediately, he looked worried and put the chair back upright, looking quickly at and then away from his Pa.

William just shook his head and didn’t say anything further. Zeke couldn’t handle much seriousness. He didn’t know what would happen to Zeke if he had any more of those fits. Devil be damned for it!

Zeke loved being alive. He was life. Just about anything would make him happy. Simple things like birds and animals, flowers and even working the farm. To Zeke, the plowing, planting, horse shodding, feeding the animals… they were all fun to him. Though he didn’t care much for hurting those animals nor for hunting. The sight of blood sent him into hysterics.

Still, he really liked the woods a lot, all except for climbing trees. His Ma had got him off that. She used to make those sour faces that were uniquely Sarah’s whenever he'd get up in one.

The old man remembered running one day after his wife’s hollering. Sarah had shrieked when she saw Zeke going up in a tree higher than she could reach. It scared Zeke so bad he jumped clean outta his skin and fell to the ground.

Zeke could scare easy. And Sarah Brooks had a double fit over his falling out of that tree. “Ezekiel Brooks, you could a' broke your neck and took your head clean off!" She didn't mean to sound so loud, William knew. Still, that simple phrase-conjured vision was all it took.

"I just havin' fun, Ma," he'd say, whimpering more and more.

Maybe it was her being so mad. Or it could'a been the picture in his own mind, of his head bouncing across the ground. We all get the strangest thoughts sometimes. But, Zeke had a look on his face like the devil himself had just danced on him. And he started to cry.

"Just be more careful, Ezekiel. Now git over to the well and wash up for supper. Then go inside and put your bed clothes on."

"Yes, Ma," he said, between the sobs.

She was still mad, but softenin' up fast. Sarah had dusted him off and held him for a minute or so. She held him till his wailin' was down a bit, and then she let him go do what she said.

She pampered that boy good. Maybe too much… maybe not enough. Only the Lord knows best, I reckon.

Zeke really missed her.

William missed her. It was one of his fondest memories of Sarah before she died… Zeke and that tree. The tree was still there, in the back yard. William was staring at that sycamore tree with the large, broad leaves. Good shade. Sarah Brooks had spent many an afternoon shelling peas under that old sycamore.

Zeke was saying something and woke the old man from his melancholy. Zeke was still looking nervous but lightening up quickly.

“Pa? When’s William and Mary comin’? I miss ‘em bad, Pa.”

“Son, they’s right across that river.”

The old man’s face lightened a couple of notches. “But, I know whatcha mean. I miss’em, too, boy.

Zeke knew to get his Pa’s mind off of something he could just bring up his older brother William. It worked every time. And William let it.

William’s eyes glowed at the mention of his boy. William and Mary’s family were living in Anson County now, just across the river really. If you were to stand at the western end of the open fields, just past the cemetery, you could almost make out their house through the trees. One could always tell by those huge stone chimneys. They had moved into the old Morgan home over there.

It wouldn’t take him and his family more than an hour or so to ride the buckboard this way from the meeting at High Hill down in Monroe. Maybe only ten or fifteen minutes after crossing the ford which was much further east of here.

Thank the Lord William and Mary stayed here…what with all the family I’ve lost to those western lands openin’ up in Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee and even up Kentucky way.

More Indian land…

It was Sunday and his son William was bringing the family to the old home place after services like they done every Sunday. They had been going to a new church further south. So, it would take them awhile to get home, he knew. William glanced at the sun, judging its position from decades of experience and pronounced, “Near ‘bout that time, I’d say. About three hours past midday.”

He reached down to pick up the paper he was writing on from off the table and stood, none too easily. Zeke saw his difficulty and wanted to help but didn’t know how. His father only smiled at him, patting him on the shoulder.

“Go and fetch yer brother James son. They’ll be here soon.”

“Ok, Pa!”

Zeke was jumping with excitement. James was one of his favorite brothers. Well, he probably liked them all just as well. Zeke just couldn’t help how he felt. There weren’t a mean bone in him. But him and James were like best buddies. Zeke loved every chance he got to pester James. And to splash around in the creek.

I gets to jump that crick, was the only thought on the boy’s mind as his feet left the edge of the porch.

Zeke got along with all his brothers and sisters just fine, except for maybe Alexander. Alex was always so serious with Zeke. But, Alex was just a serious-minded feller. And seriousness just didn’t suit a simple-minded boy like Ezekiel Brooks.

But, James was closer to him in age and they “cut the fool” together all the time. He even let Zeke play with the fish in the trap down by the island so long as Zeke promised not to set ‘em free like he done before. Zeke would help James pull in hundreds in a day sometimes and they would sell them to folks in Frog Pond, up the road. James would always let Zeke carry the fish in.

Sam would often object though, saying it was his job. Sam was James’ negro. James said he found him one day not far down the road to Frog Pond. He was living by the river as a free man and Sam took to him and wouldn’t leave.

“There’s a story behind that one.” William figured it was best that he didn’t hear it.

Zeke jumped a rock and ran across the field east of the house, jumping clear across Island Creek twice, making a soggy fuss and ran all the way to James’ house.

Why don’t he ever use the bridge I wonder, thought the old man? Years ago, James and Sam had built a large wooden bridge across the creek that divided their properties for easy access back and forth. Since then, James spent a lot of time at William’s with Sam, him and Cesar on the back porch. William knew that his youngest boy just wanted to be around him as much as possible these days.

William could see Zeke running like lightening through the apple trees near the creek. He smiled, grabbed his paper and started to go inside his home. Pausing for a moment, he held the paper up and peered at the title, Last Will and Testament. Looking back once more at Zeke as he ran out of sight, he turned decisively and went inside his house.