Read Online From Sea to Shining Sea by JAMES ALEXANDER Thom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: JAMES ALEXANDER Thom
Tags: Historical
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went out into the night air and closed the door behind him, trying to be stealthy as an Indian.
The grass was frosted underfoot. The air was crisp and cold and the night was silent. He could smell the smokehouse where the pork was hanging in hickory smoke, and the smell of it made him salivate. There was a patch of yellow light in the kitchen house door and he could smell pone baking. Old Rose was alreadyup, as always before anyone else, getting the breakfasts ready. Edmund knew he could go in the kitchen house and Rose would exclaim and wrap him in a musky hug and give him something hot to eat, but he went on past the kitchen house. George had told him that it’s better to hunt hungry.
Edmund walked on dirt road past the smells of stables and pigpens and tobacco sheds. He came to the end of the road and walked on grass for a way, then climbed over a stile and walked on a long way through a meadow under the cold stars, toward a darker line that was the edge of the woods. He entered the woods and walked with one hand before his face to fend off twigs. A few feet away a slow, regular huffing sound began, and became faster and faster until it was a pulsating rush: a ruffed grouse drumming. He noted where its nest was; he would come here in daylight and get it. Deeper in the woods an owl was calling.
Hoo hoo-hoo, hoo hoo-hoo, hoo hoo-hoo, hoo-aw!
Edmund went on, feeling the ground slope gradually down as he crept toward the Mattapony River. There were places where deer came to drink at daybreak. George had begun bringing him down when Edmund was six, and he had learned all such places.
“EEEEEEYOW!” came an insane scream out of the darkness directly in front of him. Edmund recoiled, heart thumping, but he knew the woods sounds too well to be afraid; it was merely the wild preamble to a barred-owl’s statement, which now came hooting down from a high invisible limb as Edmund walked under, shaking his head. Those idiotic-sounding birds had used to make him think Indians were ready to leap on him, when he was smaller and hadn’t yet got used to them.
The Indian legends in this region were old; it had been settled for years. Grandpapa John Rogers had been one of the surveyors. But the first white man to walk here had been Captain John Smith of the Jamestown Colony, more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when he had been brought through as a prisoner of the Youngtamund Indians. In Edmund’s mind, Captain John Smith looked like George, but in old-fashioned clothes, because it was George who had always been with him in those woods and told him all the old stories. And now George was out where the Indians were still dangerous, and, like Capt. John Smith, walking in places where white men had never walked before. Edmund thought that would be a strange and wonderful feeling, and wondered if he would ever get a chance to feel it. George had told him it made a man feel honored.
Edmund could hear a spring purling in the darkness off to his left and knew which one it was: the one that seemed to comeright out from between the roots of a big beech. He went to it and stretched out on the moss and drank, shivering, smelling the decaying leaves. Edmund never had to carry a water gourd when he went hunting because George had shown him where every good spring and brooklet lay for ten miles in every direction. George had learned every inch of the Mattapony and Pamunkey river land helping old Grandpapa Rogers survey. Edmund could just barely remember Grandpapa Rogers: a lean, long-legged man with a face dark as one big freckle, hair and eyebrows white as snow, and eyes like two dots of blue sky. There were as many stories in the family about Grandpapa Rogers as there were about Georgie, and Mrs. Clark often would say that the two had been cast in the same mold. Grandpapa Rogers had been a very bold man, and one of the proudest tales about him was about the way he had defied the powerful Colonel Byrd and eloped with his daughter—that
The grass was frosted underfoot. The air was crisp and cold and the night was silent. He could smell the smokehouse where the pork was hanging in hickory smoke, and the smell of it made him salivate. There was a patch of yellow light in the kitchen house door and he could smell pone baking. Old Rose was alreadyup, as always before anyone else, getting the breakfasts ready. Edmund knew he could go in the kitchen house and Rose would exclaim and wrap him in a musky hug and give him something hot to eat, but he went on past the kitchen house. George had told him that it’s better to hunt hungry.
Edmund walked on dirt road past the smells of stables and pigpens and tobacco sheds. He came to the end of the road and walked on grass for a way, then climbed over a stile and walked on a long way through a meadow under the cold stars, toward a darker line that was the edge of the woods. He entered the woods and walked with one hand before his face to fend off twigs. A few feet away a slow, regular huffing sound began, and became faster and faster until it was a pulsating rush: a ruffed grouse drumming. He noted where its nest was; he would come here in daylight and get it. Deeper in the woods an owl was calling.
Hoo hoo-hoo, hoo hoo-hoo, hoo hoo-hoo, hoo-aw!
Edmund went on, feeling the ground slope gradually down as he crept toward the Mattapony River. There were places where deer came to drink at daybreak. George had begun bringing him down when Edmund was six, and he had learned all such places.
“EEEEEEYOW!” came an insane scream out of the darkness directly in front of him. Edmund recoiled, heart thumping, but he knew the woods sounds too well to be afraid; it was merely the wild preamble to a barred-owl’s statement, which now came hooting down from a high invisible limb as Edmund walked under, shaking his head. Those idiotic-sounding birds had used to make him think Indians were ready to leap on him, when he was smaller and hadn’t yet got used to them.
The Indian legends in this region were old; it had been settled for years. Grandpapa John Rogers had been one of the surveyors. But the first white man to walk here had been Captain John Smith of the Jamestown Colony, more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when he had been brought through as a prisoner of the Youngtamund Indians. In Edmund’s mind, Captain John Smith looked like George, but in old-fashioned clothes, because it was George who had always been with him in those woods and told him all the old stories. And now George was out where the Indians were still dangerous, and, like Capt. John Smith, walking in places where white men had never walked before. Edmund thought that would be a strange and wonderful feeling, and wondered if he would ever get a chance to feel it. George had told him it made a man feel honored.
Edmund could hear a spring purling in the darkness off to his left and knew which one it was: the one that seemed to comeright out from between the roots of a big beech. He went to it and stretched out on the moss and drank, shivering, smelling the decaying leaves. Edmund never had to carry a water gourd when he went hunting because George had shown him where every good spring and brooklet lay for ten miles in every direction. George had learned every inch of the Mattapony and Pamunkey river land helping old Grandpapa Rogers survey. Edmund could just barely remember Grandpapa Rogers: a lean, long-legged man with a face dark as one big freckle, hair and eyebrows white as snow, and eyes like two dots of blue sky. There were as many stories in the family about Grandpapa Rogers as there were about Georgie, and Mrs. Clark often would say that the two had been cast in the same mold. Grandpapa Rogers had been a very bold man, and one of the proudest tales about him was about the way he had defied the powerful Colonel Byrd and eloped with his daughter—that
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