Kit Carson

From The Serpent’s Knee

By Sam Carson

Edited by Mike Carson



Scuffling roustabouts on the Bella K's Texas deck held the attention of a half dozen passengers bored by the stern wheeler's slow progress. There was a general stirring along the decks, for now the April sun had broken through low clouds; and as the Bella K rounded the final bend of the flood swollen Cumberland, buildings in Nashville became visible.

A young man stood in the saloon entrance, his well tailored coat and breeches marking him as foreigner. He was tall, dark featured with high cheek bones. So pre-occupied was he that the portly man doffing his hat politely, spoke twice before he was recognized. "I beg your pardon sir, but Captain Bell said you were to visit Chatfield Place. But first, let me present myself. The name is Armstrong. Totten Armstrong. Dempster Chatfield' attorney sir"

"An honor Mr. Armstrong. Yes, I am Rodney McIvor."

Armstrong replaced his hat. "A pity I failed to learn of this when I came aboard at Clarksville. I believe Mrs. Chatfield mentioned a guest from England."

Armstrong touched the younger man’s shoulder. “Shall we have a final round sir? With the waterfront so crowded, we may be lucky to get off within the hour.”

Before the long bar, McIvor studied his host’s features in the long mirror. When he caught the lawyer studying him, McIvor flushed.

He’s dying to express wonder at my ruddy skin, McIvor thought. He will find some way to say it.

“….Never been to England, Mr. McIvor. Your name is Scotch, isn’t it? This country’s full of Scotch-Irish, from Virginia and the Carolinas. Some of them are quite tall, Mr. McIvor, but…” he coughed, “…not as…not as sunburned.”

“I’ve been asked that before,” McIvor said patiently.

“Forgive my curiosity.” Armstrong held up his glass. “Gentlemen like you are welcome. Most welcome. We have a new city, Mr. McIvor. Just a few years ago Creeks and Cherokees raided our settlements. But that’s history now. In fact, I recommend Nashville, should you be interested in a business venture.”

McIvor was anxious to get away. Armstrong might be a lawyer of considerable standing, but he was pretty obvious in his effort to pry into a stranger’s affairs. He mentioned the need of looking after his effects. “Of course,” Armstrong concurred. “But don’t forget, sir, if you need any sort of assistance or advice, please call on me. If you should prolong your stay, it would be a privilege to introduce you to the city’s leaders.”

His baggage packed, Rodney paced the small cabin with the deliberate movement of a caged animal. This trip into wilderness country was mandatory; Ailsa Chatfield was to become his bride eventually. Now, as the Bella K worked into a berth along the crowded wharf, to the accompaniment of shouting and much bell ringing, Rodney

McIvor felt a reluctance to go ashore.

Ailsa Chatfield believed him to be a full-blooded Scotchman, the son of Andrew McIvor, cotton factor. They had met at Dieppe while Ailsa and Letha Chatfield, her mother, were guests at the same hotel the McIvor’s visited annually. From the time Rodney was fifteen, then spending considerable time with Cherokee kin, Andrew McIvor and his second wife had maintained a persuasive campaign of indoctrination; he was never to even hint of his mother’s Cherokee blood. Andrew McIvor had married Serena, the lovely daughter of the chief, Black Pine, while operating a trading post in Georgia. Serena had never fit into her husband’s world at Savannah. She died of tuberculosis when Rodney was ten, and because Andrew had to spend considerable time in Liverpool after establishing his cotton trade, the boy was left with Black Pine.

From the time Rodney had left Philadelphia, by canal to the Ohio, sight of wilderness country had stirred latent memories. Steaming down the Ohio, Rodney had only to walk the deck, as the wooded hills marched by, to envision a wild ride through the woods, perhaps with The Owl, or Natunya, or Tresa.

These Vignettes, stabbing out of time, disturbed him. Andrew McIvor and his second wife had done an excellent job in molding the wild boy into a self disciplined man. Still, Rodney had shed this veneer at times, discovering in the process that he had a yen to go berserk when drunk. This trait he attributed to his Scotch ancestry. Since Andrew McIvor’s death, the son had been a rather serious young man. The father’s business associates were pleased that ‘Rodney had labored diligently to salvage a portion of the estate he found quite entailed. The Savannah warehouses had to go. He must check title to lands in north Georgia, legacy of his Cherokee mother. There would be sufficient property in Liverpool for Rodney to keep a junior partnership and provide for Andrew’s widow.

Through correspondence with Ailsa Chatfield, he knew she wished to live in England. Her acceptance of his written proposal was formal, endorsed by her parents. So, with a brief visit, Rodney would be off to Georgia.

He was conscious of a negro, in frock coat and tall hat, bowing and smiling. “I’m Jeffrey,” he said. “Cap’n said you was Mister McIvor.”

“I am. From Chatfield Place?”

“Nossir. I work for Mister Longsdorf. Chatfield folks in Kentucky. Coming back tomorrow. Mister Longsdorf said you stay here.”

“Longsdorf?” Rodney was puzzled.

“He good friend. He is English sir. I got carriage on wharf. Take you to the house, then I fetches your things.”

“This was more than I expected,” Rodney said. “Thank you Jeffrey.”

The sloping wharf was crowded with vehicles, stacks of cotton bales, lumber and boxed goods. Up the way, cattle lowed. Hacks threaded through, splashing mud. Jeffrey led Rodney to the carriage beneath a shed. One thing for certain; Longsdorf was a good judge of horses. The team was matched, with spirit as Jeffrey bellowed, swapped insults with other drivers, and reached the cobblestone street.

The drive was short. Topping a rise, Jeffrey turned into a macadam topped drive, pulling up before a neat brick residence. Promptly a door opened. Out stepped two boys, each with books and slates. Behind them a smallish individual with a guardsman’s mustache, materialized. “Mister Longsdorf,” Jeffrey said.

“So you found him?” Longsdorf came down the walk, hand extended. “Welcome to Nashville sir, and my apologies for your hosts. A matter of business and politics.” He led Rodney inside. “Forgive the looks of my drawing room. You see, I teach here. Some of my pupils are a bit careless.” He removed his rather worn jacket, substituting a dark velvet one. Jeffrey had produced a decanter and glasses. “I go now,” he spoke.

Longsdorf nodded. “If you wish to rest, Mr. McIvor, please go ahead. Usually I take my afternoon walk at this time. Jeffrey will be back in a shake.”

“After weeks in cramped quarters, nothing would please me more than to join you, Mr. Longsdorf.”

“Splendid. I was hoping you would.”

The late sun was out. Longsdorf’s route was along the ridge, past the area where houses thinned. There was a path through cedars, leading to a rocky summit and atop a limestone cliff, Longsdorf began to point out landmarks. “I marvel that in yonder cluster of log huts, people still alive once huddled for protection against Indians. Now the countryside teems with families, clearing land, building homes. This land has a future, Mr. McIvor.”

Longsdorf poked at a cactus plant with his cane. “So we have a young queen back home. Tell me sir, is Victoria liked?”

“Her majesty has good men about her. There is a general feeling that she will do well, Mr. Longsdorf. I am not interested in politics, but people believe Europe will enjoy a time of peace.”

“For a time. Only for a time, Mr. McIvor.” He leaned against his cane, tilting his head to regard his guest. “You wonder what I am doing here. Sometime I do also.”

“I came with the Forsythe group.” Longsdorf shook his head. “I forget. You never heard of them. Lady Forsythe, let me explain, had a dream of forming a colony in Transylvania. None of us realized Transylvania became Kentucky. Our ideas were rather vague, but the Forsythe funds were real. The trouble rose when she died, and ten of us were stranded. I came here.”

“Would you go back, if the chance came?”

“I wonder.” Longsdorf slashed at a tender weed.

“Jeffrey will be preparing dinner,” he said, striking out at a fast clip.

That evening, warmed by a fire against the night chill, Longsdorf told Rodney about his servant. “Bought him at an auction. Custom here dictates that a private schoolmaster have a servant. A slave. I freed the man. Now I have to teach him.”

Jeffrey had come in. “Saw one of Mr. Chatfield’s men. Says they got in at dark.”

“Already?” Longsdorf was surprised. “It’s late, Mr. McIvor. Jeffrey can drive us out tomorrow. You told them Mr. McIvor was here?”

“I sure did,” Jeffrey said.

Before retiring, Rodney read Ailsa Chatfield’s note that Jeffrey had handed him.

My dear Mr. McIvor,

Believe me, my disappointment at having to be absent is great. Papa is so engrossed in political activities. There is much to talk over. One matter is Papa’s determination to have you abandon plans for our living in England. He wants you here. Mother is on our side. So be prepared. And I am so eager to see you, my future lord and master.

Jeffrey knocked. “Just wanted to know if you need anything, sir.”

“Come in,” Rodney invited. The negro entered, standing. He waited, respectful, yet managing to convey an attitude of dignity. Jeffrey had the features of a Kaffir.

“I was interested in what Mr. Longsdorf said about you,” Rodney said. “Were you born in Africa?”

“In Georgia sir.” The words were spoken softly, with an undercurrent of meaning. “In Savannah.”

“Then…then you surely heard of my family.”

“most folks around the docks knew Mr. McIvor. A real man. And a good man. Yes, Mr. Rodney, I knew your father.”

Rodney felt a chill flow through him. How much did Jeffrey know?

The negro smiled. “A long time ago I found out that a black man can know a heap, Mr. Rodney, but can’t talk. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. Mr. McIvor was a fine man, and he never owned a nigger to my knowledge. I have the feeling you sir are the same kind of man.”

Rodney was silent for a long time. “Thank you Jeffrey,” he said finally. Jeffrey went out with a murmured good night. He left Rodney to wrestle with a disturbing situation. Until this journey, Rodney had thrust it from his mind. Long after Jeffrey went downstairs and Longsdorf had ceased playing a flute, Rodney sat before a window, watching lightening play in the west.

With the regularity of a tutor, Andrew McIvor and aunt Selma, as Rodney called his stepmother, had dwelt upon his ancestry. That had been after his departure from Cherokee country. Never was he to mention those years. He was a gentleman-a white gentleman. People would not understand. And his heritage belonged to a world of pure whites.

Why, he asked himself, did Andrew McIvor take a Cherokee bride? There was every reason to believe that Rodney’s father had loved Serena. Her kin had told him of a mother whose beauty was known throughout the lower towns. And Black Pine had adopted Andrew as son.

Andrew McIvor had been honest; he had told his second wife about the Cherokee wife and Rodney. Selma McIvor had been responsible for bringing him to England.

Rodney had regarded Selma McIvor with a portion of awe, yet she was kind, understanding. Her wit was sharp, her friends many. His affair with Ailsa was promoted by the stepmother.

The problem Rodney knew he must face was disclosure of his birth. But when?

Now? Or should he wait till Ailsa could hear his stepmother give details, in a land where people were less race conscious.

There was no ready solution; Rodney would wait. And in weakening, he felt the accusation of his conscience.

________________

Sally Roberts

WOW! Kit:

Your Grandfather would surely be proud! I really enjoyed this story. When you were talking about it before, I was hoping to read it.

Chapter 1 was GRAND! Can't wait to read chapter 2

I am hoping Rodney finds the courage to find disclousure of his birth. And if they'll be more details about Chief Black Pine.
And of course how much information Jeffery knew about Rodney's father.

Thanks for the GREAT story. I'll be looking forward to reading the next chapter.

Blessings

PaintedDiary

Dear Kit,

I am speechless. I don't think I even blinked. So many quandaries, questions, and "I wonders". An amazing, amazing story. Classic and memorable! Should be a book. Was this ever published? I am in awe!

Kimberly