Becoming Americans (56 page)

      Cypress and juniper trees rose to a hundred feet above the water, draped with eerie, ghost-like Spanish moss. Their roots stood above the water in spikes, or knees. Roots of gum trees formed arches above the yellow-orange water. Heads of water snakes slid through the stillness.

      Daniel Bourne looked about, getting his bearings, then stepped into the water.

      "Where are you going, old man?" Richard yelled at him.

      Stephen's grandfather stopped and turned around.

      "Where I said I was going. Where you and Joseph asked me to go. I'm taking you to the camp to find workers."

      "No one lives in the water, old man! We can't go into that mire. If the snakes don't get us, the quicksand will!"

      "The quicksand's more over towards the big lake, and on down into Carolina. The snakes probably won't bother you. Do lots of splashing," Grandpa Bourne advised.

      Stephen was frightened, but he trusted his grandfather, in the swamp.

      "Damn!" Richard said. He stepped into the water, feeling for the bottom. Stephen followed his uncle, and the men waded in knee-deep water, following an underwater trail that only the old man knew. Stephen looked for landmarks that his grandfather might be using, but one towering cypress looked like another, no clump of trees or fern or moss-covered trunk appeared outstanding to him.

      Stephen strayed slightly from the path and slipped and sank to his armpits. He held the gun above his head and called out to his uncle and grandfather.

      "Don't move!" Daniel Bourne cried.

      The two older men turned and waded back to Stephen. Richard passed his gun to Bourne and reached out to grab Stephen's weapon.

      "Don't lose your grip!"

      Richard steadied his stance and held Stephen's gun outstretched in both hands.

      "Now, pull!" he said.

      Stephen held onto the stock of his gun and pulled at it, as he would have the limb of a tree. His uncle was an old man of forty years, but still nearly as strong as he was. Stephen's upper body had grown powerful with thousands of swings of the broadax. Slowly, he pulled himself from the mud, leaving his boots stuck in the bottom.

      During two hours of precious daylight they struggled to retrieve the boots. Finally, with his uncle holding him by the feet, and his Grandpa Bourne holding the knapsack of supplies and barter above water, Stephen felt around beneath the dark water and pulled his boots free. They waded to an island of gum roots and sat, recovering their breath, as Stephen rinsed out the boots and put them back on.

      "You wouldn't make it a hundred yards without the boots," his grandfather said.

      They ate dried beef and dried corn and went back into the water.

      Stephen followed the men very carefully, ignoring the birdcalls and gnats, staying on the hidden, underwater path.

      Light was dimming when Daniel Bourne started calling out, "Jordan! Jordan!"

      After each call he waited for an answer. When no reply came he repeated, "Jor-dan! Jor-dan!"

      It was nearly dark when a shot was fired and the thud of a bullet was heard in a tree behind Bourne. Dozens of unseen birds went to the air, honking and screeching.

      "Don't shoot! You'll wet the sugar!" Daniel Bourne called out.

      "Jordan, it's me, Bourne! We've got sugar. And powder for your guns!"

      There was silence as the three of them stood motionless, waiting for an answer. Finally, a voice called back, "Over here! And put down your guns when you step on land!"

      They slowly waded to the group of trees that hid the voice, Grandpa Bourne leading the way, testing the depth before each step. They wove through cypress knees to land and held onto the knees to climb up, then leaned their guns against the trunk of the mighty tree.

      A man stepped out of the gray Spanish moss; his face nearly covered with hair, his body only partly covered with clothes. His shirt and pants held the form, alone, of their original patterns, the substance of them being formed from bits and pieces of material patched together as the originals had rotted or been torn away.

      "Who are you? What are you doing here?" the man asked.

      "I'm Daniel Bourne. Who are you? Where's Jordan? He'd always been the lookout. Jordan or Amos. Where's Amos?"

      "I don't know no Daniel Bourne. How'd you know Jordan?" the man asked.

      "I known Jordan for thirty years. Amos, too. I lived in this swamp for twenty years! Who are you?"

      The stranger didn't answer.

      "This here's my grandson and this is my son-in-law's brother. We're looking for some workers. Building a mill. Up at Deep Creek. Brought you some sugar and some lead."

      The stranger was thinking.

      "Don't take too long, Boy. It's gettin' dark. You ain't gone kill us because you know Jordan would cut off your…."

      "Jordan's dead," the stranger said. "Been dead for five years."

      Bourne took it in.

      "And Amos?" he asked.

      "Amos took ill last week. He's about dead, himself," the man said. "Let's see that sugar."

      Bourne opened Stephen's knapsack and pulled out the sugar loaf. He broke off a chunk with his knife handle and tossed it to the stranger. The man broke off an edge with his teeth and started smiling.

      "I know the way to the camp," Bourne said. "Want me to lead the way?"

      "Go," the man said, and chipped off another sliver of sugar.

      The path to the camp looked to be dry, but footprints filled and disappeared. Only once did the stranger correct Bourne's direction, and he announced his approach to the camp with a strange call.

      "That's the call of a South American parrot," he told Stephen.

      They emerged from the moss-draped trees and poison ivy to a small clearing, formed when three large oaks had been felled and the undergrowth removed. Stephen quickly glanced around.

      Small huts perched on the three stumps. Two more small huts had been built atop platforms mounted on large, sunken poles. Three naked children were playing with a pile of turkey feathers near a shaft of light. Three men sat around a fire that sputtered and hissed from its bed of shells. A young woman turned a makeshift spit that held a pig. Walkways connected the buildings to each other and to the fire; rows of poles, lashed together, lay lengthwise; smaller poles, crosswise, were lashed on top. Stephen cleared his eyes. People could live anywhere!

      The stranger went to one of the men at the fire. He was a fat and greasy man with one ear missing, and a nose that appeared to be one large sore. He stood up, then motioned for the Deep Creek men to approach. The man seemed curious.

      "You knew Jordan, you say?"

      Bourne told the big man that he'd lived in the swamp—in a camp near this—for many years. He mentioned several names, but the man shook his head at each one. Then three names caught his attention.

      "Nan, go get Turner."

      The woman let go of the twisted tree branch she was turning and went to one of the huts. She returned to the fire as a man called out from the shaded entrance, "Bourne! What did you bring with you?"

      "Sugar and powder. How's Amos, Turner?" he called back to the dark.

      "Got a stone he can't pass. Bad off, he is. I'd kill a dog that sick, I would," Turner said. He came into the firelight. "Came for workers, did you?"

      "We did."

      Stephen's grandfather introduced them all, and told Turner what the job would be.

      "We can talk about it after we have a smoke," Bourne said, and took a knot of fine "sweet-scented" from Stephen's knapsack. It was still dry and ready to be torn and crumpled into their pipes. He spat out the old chew from his mouth.

      Shadowy figures emerged from Turner's hut. The first man was very tall and powerful in appearance. His hair and great bushy beard were blacker than the shadows. Behind him was a man, possibly as old as Bourne. He had no nose, he wore an eye patch, and his bald head was covered with a tied kerchief. As he came into the light, it was obvious that he was badly scarred by burns. The Deep Creek men stared at the menacing two.

      "You have competition looking for men," Turner said to Bourne, turning to the two behind him. "They want a crew to sail with Mister Drummond, here." Turner pointed to the large, bearded man.

      Richard Williams stood up from his log seat and took a step towards the old man with the kerchief.

      "Carman?" he said. "Carman! Is that you, old man? We thought you were dead!"

      Stephen stood back up and examined the old man with no nose, comparing his memory to the face he was looking at.

      "Richard, boy!" Carman called back. "And that's one of the nephews, I'll wager. Wouldn't my Edy be proud of that grand boy?"

      "Carman, we thought you were dead," Richard repeated.

      "'Bout as close as I've come, so far," Carman said. "Got blowed into the water when the powder went up. The water was burning. I was burning. I washed up on an island by Lockwood Folly with the doctor from Major Dorsey's boat. He kept me going till I was up, then he took sick and died. I made it down to Charles Town and got up with some old friends. Some men you mighta knowed at Batts Grave."

      Turner took back over.

      "Carman and me took Mister Drummond, here, to see the lake what's named after his kinfolk. He needs some twenty men to sail with him. Sounds like a profitable business he's in."

      "Teach is the name I go by now," the man named Drummond said. "Captain Teach, it is. Could use a stout lad such as yourself," he said to Stephen.

      "I wager you could, Captain Teach," Bourne said. "But this here's my grandson, and he's got plenty to keep him busy, right now. Could be, in a few years, he'll want to look you up."

      "I'll likely be there!" Drummond said. "Hung up from a gibbet!"

      He laughed, and everybody laughed along. Stephen realized that Captain Teach was a pirate, wanting him to join his crew!

      Turner, Carman, and Captain Teach went back into the hut they'd come from. One of the three women Stephen had seen led them with a torch and a jug.

      Turner was the ruler of the camp. The twenty men and four women who lived here were a mixed group, those by the fire told the Deep Creek men. Daniel Bourne recognized only two of the men they mentioned; Amos, who had lived here when the Bournes had, and Turner, whom Bourne had met later as a hired laborer.

      One of the women was an Indian. One, a transported felon who'd avoided hanging in London by rite of clergy, then escaped from her Virginia master by running away. One of the other women was a branded prostitute. The pretty one was Turner's woman.

      One of the children was the prostitute's, one was a runaway claimed by her, and one was a mulatto who looked just like Turner. Turner had stolen the boy from a Carolina planter when the boy had been sold from its master. The mulatto boy, the whore's son, the Indian, and the Williamses were the only ones born in America, Stephen realized. He smiled.

      When the quiet in the hut was ended by shouts of laughter and clapping hands, Turner reappeared in the doorway. He called for Bourne and Richard to join him for a taste of the rum that Captain Teach had brought. Stephen fell asleep on the walkway by the fire as the men sitting there talked into the night.

When Stephen awoke, the camp was already bustling. Five men were going back to Deep Creek with Bourne; four were joining Captain Teach and Carman. Stephen and his Uncle Richard were joining that party through the swamp, west, to Bennett's Creek, a tributary of Carolina's Chowan River.

      The way out of the swamp was different, but no less frightening to Stephen. They entered vast areas of marshy reeds that rose four feet above his head. The reeds grew thickly, like everything in the swamp, and even here the briers pulled at their feet. It was hot, and no air moved in this denseness, although they could hear wind rustling the branches of white cedars.

      "That jug of rum's getting lighter going out, is it?" Daniel Bourne called back to his grandson.

      "Aye," Stephen muttered.

      They stopped for a rest and a drink of the rum. Most of them had already drunk from the jug, and Teach carried his own. Stephen was hesitant to drink. He was desperate to get out of the reeds and wanted to keep his wits. Why had God made such a forbidding and useless place? He wondered about the firmness of the soil. He cut a ten-foot cane at its bottom, and stuck it into the ground. It sank its length in the spongy soil.

      "Don't drop that compass, Thatch," Richard said. "We go in circles without that compass. Where's the sun?

      "Better still be behind us," Captain Teach said.

      "Wouldn't want to do it," Daniel Bourne said, " but I knowed a man going through here what lost his compass. Took a fat louse out of his beard and put it on a piece of white paper he'd stole. The blind critter turned north, to the darkest part of the sky. Led him out to the piney swamp, then to dry land, it did."

      Captain Teach roared and took a drink from his jug. He swung his long knife at the reeds. His sword hung from a belt. A brace of pistols crossed his chest.