Kit Carson

Chapter Two


Chatfield place stood in a wilderness of cedared hills and cane brake covered valleys. Crews of slaves were building stone fences. The manor house, brick and slate roofed, could have graced an English country estate. Its’ white columns showed above boxwood and magnolias. Whitewashed slave cabins formed a quadrangle behind the stables and other outbuildings.
It was a bit of home transplanted, Rodney thought, noting the formal garden as Jeffrey drove him up the curving driveway. A negro, in footman’s costume, emerged and opened the carriage door.
Letha Chatfield came to the veranda, apologizing for her dress. She had been supervising the new gardens. “We are still building,” she explained. “So much to be done. But welcome, dear Rodney.”
Mrs. Chatfield had the quick movements of a bird; despite her graying hair, she was pretty. As Jeffrey brought in Rodney’s things, Mrs. Chatfield showed him the interior; men were still installing cabinets, applying French wallpaper and hammering away in the rear. It was a pretentious undertaking, requiring plenty of cash, Rodney thought.
Ailsa was out riding, Mrs. Chatfield explained. “Trying out her Virginia jumper. You will like that, Mr. McIvor. You do ride, don’t you?” Rodney said he did.
There was talk of England, and Mrs. Chatfield wanted details of Andrew McIvor’s passing. She walked over to the old house, comfortable but less pretentious. It had been converted into a guest house, she explained. Rodney’s things were already there. “There will be the ball for Governor Cannon next Wednesday,” she said. “Mr. Chatfield is one of the patrons. It will be proper time to introduce you to Nashville.”
Rodney told her of the urgent need to hurry to Savannah. Mrs. Chatfield begged him to reconsider. “After your tiring journey, surely you can stay a fortnight.”
“But I intend to come back,” Rodney said. “I wouldn’t be gone longer than three weeks. Four at the most.”
“Ailsa will be upset. She has planned so many things. And our open house…just two weeks distant. Mr. McIvor, you simply must stay.”
“If I leave immediately, then I might be back in time.”
Mrs. Chatfield thought that over. “I must have Ailsa to persuade you.”
As if in answer to that wish, Ailsa Chatfield came from the stables. She held her riding skirt in one hand as she hurried to greet Rodney. But she drew away, offering no more than an ear when he moved to kiss her.
The passionate embraces on moonlit nights on the beach were things of the past. Ailsa, taller than her mother, seemed to have filled out. Plump breasted, tanned, she seemed so much older. Taking Rodney’s hand she led him to a newly built summer house.
“I hope you aren’t worn out, Rodney dear. So many exciting things to do. The races Saturday. Governor Cannon’s ball…oh, did you know Mamma is to present you then? I’ve been in a tizzy with dressmakers. And there is the ball at the hotel…Rodney; you came at the proper time.”
“But I can’t stay. Not this time.”
She stiffened, eyebrows lifted. In a subtle was Ailsa’s face changed. Mouth tight, she moved away slightly/ “It’s deplorable,” Rodney said, “but I must get to Savannah immediately. The estate. But it will not take long. I had to come by Nashville first.”
“You could have sailed for Savannah,” she said, voice stiff. “Then you could have arrived in time…” Ailsa moved close again, “…Rodney, for me, won’t you stay. Let that business in…in savannah go. It can wait. Don’t you realize how important the Governor’s Ball is? And I’ve told all my friends…” Ailsa dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. He sensed her strength behind this abrupt display of feminine weakness. On the point of yielding, her bit of overacting triggered the McIvor temper. “I am sorry, but I cannot stay,” Rodney said.
Ailsa faced him, balling the delicate handkerchief. “Then you have no regard for me. Why didn’t you write about this…this business at Savannah? You have upset all of my plans.”
“For that I am sorry. Listen, if I delay by a week this mission, it will cost dearly.”
“You mean it will cost your estate?” When Rodney said that it did, Ailsa rose, back to him. When she turned she was smiling. “After all, that does concern me too, doesn’t it?” She shook her head, grasped his hand, “hurry on to Savannah and get this matter over. And…Poppa is bringing Mr. Longsdorf out tonight for dinner. Watch out that they don’t have you investing in one of Poppa’s land deals.”
Rodney grinned. “I think I can hold my own. And I had rather talk about the house I intend to buy in Norfolk county.”
She took his arm, hugging it. “Do they have a hunt club? Rodney, I want to take my horses. May I?”
“But of course.”
Ailsa was at her best, showing Rodney the horses, listening to him describe their future home. “I’m going to love it,” she said happily. “You know, it could be I exaggerate the importance of social life here. It must be crude to you.”
Rodney had no comment. A certain uneasiness was stirring in the back of his mind. Already he sensed Ailsa’s ability to get what she wanted. An obstinate wish to go to his room and be alone, if just for a few minutes, kept nagging him. He was relieved when she left him, just as a carriage topped the distant ridge crest. That would be Chatfield and Longsdorf. Rodney went into the old house.
Dempster Chatfield had the features of a barrister…a successful one. His cold grey eyes peered from beneath bushy eyebrows. He was medium in build, but wide shouldered, walking with a slight limp. He greeted Rodney in the drawing room.
To Rodney, Chatfield was very courteous, almost jovial. “So you plan to carry my only child back to England?” he asked. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll find a way to get you two back.”
“Now Poppa,” Ailsa said, “you promised.”
Chatfield laughed heartily. “I can wait. How do you like our city, Mr. McIvor?”
“It seems to be growing, what I’ve seen. Mr. Longsdorf pointed out the first settlement.”
“Less than a half century ago. I tell you; all this land needs is foreign capital. Settlers are pouring in. Less than a mile from here a man still lives who was scalped by Indians. Now there are cultivated fields on his land.”
Mrs. Chatfield turned conversation to news of England, and the young queen. And when dinner was over, Longsdorf and Letha Chatfield went to the drawing room, he with a flute and Mrs. Chatfield at a spinet.
“There is a countryman of yours who is most versatile,” Chatfield told Rodney. “He tutored my daughter in languages and music. The man is also a remarkable shot.”
“Qualities I was unaware of,” Rodney said. “But our acquaintance has been very brief.”
“Longsdorf has another talent,” Chatfield said. “Twice a month he audits my bookkeepers. Yes, he is a treasure, and yet a mystery. Drinks too much.”
In a lull between musical numbers, Chatfield placed a hand on Rodney’s knee. “I would like a meeting with you, say at my office in town. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“With your daughter’s leave. It would give me a chance to look for horses. I am riding the most direct route to Savannah.”
“Then it is settled.” Chatfield leaned back. He excused himself presently. Ailsa came over. “There is a full moon. Would you like a stroll?”
Longsdorf was leaning across the spinet, arranging a sheet of music Rodney saw Letha Chatfield’s face. The way she looked at Longsdorf was pure betrayal. Ailsa had his hand. Outside she giggled. “The poor, poor man.”
“Meaning your other guest?”
“Ronald, yes. That is his first name. I knew his worship of Mama when he tutored me. It is so…so continental, isn’t it?”
“Continental, perhaps. But here…”
“Oh, Poppa knows. It is one of his weapons over dear Ronald. And he is such a gentleman. We are all fond of him.”
“I think I am fond of the man also.”
Ailsa was full of questions about the future. She warned him again about Dempster Chatfield’s determination to draw Rodney into his group. “But don’t worry, Rodney. He realizes that a few years in England and on the continent will rank me well above some of the local belles.” Her words were scornful.
“What false airs some put on.”
Longsdorf emerged. The hour was fairly late. Jeffrey drove up as if summoned. “will you be in town tomorrow?” he called.
“No,” Ailsa said.
“Yes,” Rodney replied. “your father’s request.” He told Ailsa.
She dismissed him shortly afterward, her mood bordering on sullenness. Nor did she appear for breakfast, when Chatfield suggested that Rodney go in with him. Mrs. Chatfield protested, but not with much force.
Longsdorf’s shutters were closed. There was no sound from the long ell where classes were held. Puzzled, Rodney rapped the brass knocker several times. Jeffrey let him in. “reckon I’m real sorry, Mr. McIvor. But Mr. Longsdorf, he just don’t feel well.”
“What’s that, you prevaricator and defender of my honor?” Longsdorf came in, wearing a Chinese robe, pattern faded. “He means I was too damned drunk to hold classes. Now hear this, my friend, over my brandy…you spoke of needing horses. Let Jeffrey take you in. Best judge of horses in Nashville. Then I shall be sober.” With that he turned, deep voice roaring an ancient carol:
“Rise up, rise up, brother Dives,
And come along with me,
For you’ve a place provided in Hell’
Upon a serpent’s knee.”
“Not even a Trinity College man knows that bit of minstrelsy, my friend.”
Rodney laughed. “On the contrary, there was a senior proctor who read that one, my first year.”
“The words were written for me,” Longsdorf said. “And I can’t leave the serpent’s knee.”
“He’ll be sober,” Jeffrey said as they drove into town. “It’s just once in a while he gets this way.”
Horse buying over, Rodney strolled about the town and no longer did men in coonskin caps, women in calico, mixing with the better dressed, appear strange. He was not offended by those who pointed at him, some derisively. This was land he thought he had forgotten.
Dempster Chatfield’s office was above a store. He greeted Rodney rather warmly. “This place is small, but it gives me privacy from the warehouse workers. I am a few doors from Andrew Jackson’s office. The one who taught you British a lesson.” With this sly dig he nudged Rodney’s ribs. “His kind is fading, Mr. McIvor. Now Jackson stays at the Hermitage, an ailing man. But we owe him much.”
Over a glass of brandy, Chatfield produced maps. “Great changes are coming, Mr. McIvor. A few years ago Nashville was a frontier town, facing the Indian line. Now that is removed. Tens of thousands of acres will be opened up, in this state, in
Alabama, Mississippi and of course, Georgia. The Indians will be removed entirely within the year.” He slapped the maps. “No greater opportunity waits an investor.”
“I heard that the Cherokees in particular are with friends in Washington,” Rodney said.
“Bah. Van Buren has called upon Winfield Scott to take proper military measures, if needed. Take my word, the removal of the Cherokees and Creeks will be affected this year. It is better for them. Lands in the west are covered with game. They will have security there, for the government will pay them for the Georgia and Alabama lands.”
“I seem to remember broken treaties, Mr. Chatfield. However, I agree that the effort of the Cherokees to maintain a nation, with their own laws, cannot survive. Properly done, the removal could be the answer. Mind you,” he added,”I am quoting my late father.”
“Of course. And the reasoning is good.” Chatfield placed the charts in a cabinet. ”My reason for this talk is to present opportunity to a young man. The young man who would marry my only child. True, I am selfish. I admit that. But I want you to think the matter over, before you return. And another matter, Mr. McIvor. I would engage good legal counsel to protect your grants in north Georgia. The state has opened up a land lottery. The division to be made of expropriated Cherokee lands. You should prove your title as quickly as you can. Mr. Armstrong, my lawyer, could recommend several able men in Georgia. Unless, you should use your father’s attorneys at Savannah.”
“I had thought of that,” Rodney said. “And thank you for reminding me of the urgency. I hope you advise Miss Ailsa, for she is disturbed.”
Chatfield laughed. “Leave that to me, as I mentioned last night. Ailsa is a bit headstrong, sir, but she has a man’s viewpoint on many things.”
“I am impressed with her woman’s viewpoint, Mr. Chatfield.” Rodney saw Longsdorf enter from a side room, bearing a huge ledger; it was the first time Rodney had seen him wearing spectacles. It was evident Chatfield was preoccupied now, although he begged his guest to stay, “We shall discuss my proposed ventures in more detail, later,” Chatfield said.
Longsdorf closed one eye, standing behind his employer. Evidently he was about to confuse Mr. Chatfield.
That evening, Rodney found more time to talk about his and Ailsa’s future. One request she made surprised him. “Did you bring your kilts along?”
“My father equipped me years ago. They are packed away. I never dreamed of bringing them along.”
“I’ve told my friends so much about my Scotch highlander. If you would send for them…”
Rodney promised, amused. He even threw in bagpipes, although he detested them.
Ailsa was concerned about his solitary ride. “The roads are still dangerous. And you must pass through Cherokee territory. Ugh. Some came through Nashville a year ago. Filthy, packing goods on their backs. Some of us rode by their camp. The poor things.”
Rodney was tingling; and he felt resentment. If the Cherokee travelers were ill clothed, afoot, it was because they were under duress. However, he made no comment. Tonight, his last of the visit, Rodney felt a growing eagerness to be on the way.
He had promised to stop by Longsdorf’s place. There were no students because of the holiday, and Jeffrey was working with his employer in the garden. After some final packing, Longsdorf went to his gun cabinet. “You have no firearm. I notice,” he said.
“A small pistol. I was thinking of stopping at a gunsmith’s.”
Longsdorf produced a carbine. He had Jeffrey get a saddle holster. “This one has been tested. It is an English smith’s product. Take it along.”
Rodney examined the carbine, noting the excellent condition of the piece. “Would it be for sale?”
Longsdorf shook his head. “My gift, sir. I do have a small price, in a manner of speaking.”
“Name it.”
“The Chatfields persist in calling me Roland. I hate the name. Stewart Roland Longsdorf.”
“You shall be Stewart then.”
Longsdorf chuckled, “What do your friends call you?”
“Rod. And worse.”
They had a parting drink. Longsdorf rode with him to the stage road. The sun was warming. “I shall expect you to stay at my place…Rod. And Godspeed.”
Rodney glanced back at a turn; Longsdorf waved. And as his friend vanished, Rodney McIvor had the feeling of one riding back into time, for he welcomed the forests, marred only here and there by clearings.
Almost ten years had gone since the McIvors had taken him to England. In his memory files, the features of The Owl, Tunanya, John Gunaski, the wise uncle, were still vague. But he thought of them now.
And there was Tresa, full bosomed at fourteen, who could outrun Rodney, laughing all the while. Rodney wondered about Tresa, whose mother was African. Surely she was married by now.
They lived in a peaceful world, farming, the glory of the great years remembered now by the ancient ones talking before council fires. As the sun began to lower itself in the west, Rodney tried to remember the words he once spoke so fluently. The savannah part of his trip, regarded until now as so important, yielded to other memories.

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PaintedDiary

Dear Kit,

I am in utter amazement of this story. It is a fine and masterful piece of literature. Outstanding in all components. I am going to read this again and again. It also read like I was watching on TV. So real, rich in history, dialogue, and characters. The quality of writing and everything is just superlative. Hats off to your Grandfather, and you for editing, as I will never, never forget this story. Beautiful! Both an excellent rating...

Kimberly

PaintedDiary

Kit Carson

PaintedDiary

Sally Roberts

Applause!! Applause!!!

It does take one back into the past. Memories of our ancestors, whichever parts relates to us.

Your Grandfather would indeed be smiling if he knew his story was being read. I absolutely LOVE IT!!

It reads like a classic novel! And it is as well written as "Gone With The Wind" by Margaret Mitchell.

I can't wait to read chapter 3

Blessings