Yet no matter. Once I was properly into the Journal, I put such questions behind me and soon found myself reading along out of enjoyment. Not only was I learning details of an expedition into a part of the world in which I had always had a keen interest, it also brought Lawrence Paltrow into focus for the first time. I found him eager, intelligent, likable. In entry after entry — each was dated — I recognized the serious naturalist he might have become; I also sensed within the lines of the Journal the author’s talent for narrative: There was a flow in his description of the expedition westward; there were interesting characterizations of the individuals in the party of twelve. (He seemed to respect Eli Bolt as a scout and woodsman, though he seemed not altogether trusting of the man.) And throughout the text there were well-executed sketches of the flora and fauna encountered along the way — leaves of trees, wildflowers, birds, and mammals, small and large. I saw that the Journal might indeed have provided the basis for a proper book on that part of the country through which they traveled — mountainous, thickly wooded, populated with those fierce North American aborigines about whom I had even then read a great deal.
SIX
“Having tromped this verdant country o’er, I do now believe that there is no other place for beauty, neither in the old world, nor in this, the new, like this great land of Virginia. Well do I recall our trip through the A-pa-la-chins which culminated in our passage through what Mr. Bolt has called the Cumberland Gap, a path between the tallest and most forbidding of the mountains that led to a view of the valley below and beyond. What a sight it was! The green of the newly-leafed trees stretched on for tens, perhaps hundreds of miles, to meet at the horizon with the light blue of the sky wherein I could see no sign nor even hint of a cloud. There, what seemed to be directly beneath us (but proved to be some distance removed) the sun blinked and shimmered upon a swift-moving body of water: the Cumberland River, so I was told.
“We struck south upon reaching the river, the six of us marching along its margin as Mr. Bolt and Sa-Ku-Nah searched ahead for the ford which seemed always to be just ahead. It was found twelve miles SSW today. Tomorrow we shall attempt the river-crossing. I, who had always prided myself on my strength and vigor while in school and at Oxford, find myself taxed each new day by the pace set by my companions over this rough, beautiful country. Yet each morning I rise, rested and ready to meet the challenge once more. I doubt that any of my fellows at Balliol could match me in this.”
“In my continuing attempt to survey the flora and fauna of these parts, I present on this page a drawing from memory of a bird said to be right common hereabouts — a red-headed woodpecker. While the woodpecker is common enough in England, and well known for its ability to bore holes in trees, we have not one with this coloration. Here it is called a ‘sapsucker’.”
That entry from Lawrence Paltrow’s ‘Journal of Exploration and Discovery’, which was dated May 11, 1763, was not yet the last in the book. There were a good many additional entries, each filling a page or more. And each represented a day gone by on this mysterious expedition into the backlands of the colony of Virginia — and beyond. Not that there were formal and absolute boundaries in this primitive frontier region (for there were no towns, settlements, or even freeholds to be seen along the way once passage had been made through the Cumberland Gap); nevertheless, he was given to know that at some point in their journey they had passed out of Virginia and into what was known as Kin-Tuh-Kee. By the sound of it, the name clearly had its origin in one of the numberless tongues of the North American Indians. What the word — or words — meant I have no idea, yet in my reading of life in the North American colonies, I had come across reference to it a number of times; so it was that I knew it to be a wild region, one filled with ferocious and dangerous animals, as well as Indians capable of the most ferocious behavior.
Though Lawrence Paltrow gave no firm indication of the purpose of their journey, I found that with the aid of a detailed map of the Virginia colony and its surroundings which I purchased at Bricker s, the cartographer in Grub Street, I was able to follow what Paltrow called their “trail” with fair accuracy quite some distance. It was clear that they had made a long journey southward. Was it truly a journey of exploration? No, the title of Paltrow’s Journal notwithstanding, Eli Bolt was not the man to lead a map-making expedition: His sort would do what he could to keep those back trails secret; he carried his map within his head. But a journey of discovery? Now, that was another matter, was it not? The question was, however, what was it they sought to discover? They must be there in search of something.
If we knew what that something might be, I would better understand what Lawrence Paltrow was doing in such strange company; and conversely, if we knew what his role had been on this expedition, we might then know its purpose. I could but wonder at such questions as these.
“May 12,1763.”
“On this day we made a ford of the Cumberland River. It was not accomplished without great effort nor without loss. I, who had no experience in such fearsome maneuvers, had little notion of what lay in store — yet that was perhaps just as well. Had I known, I might well have fled at full speed back the way we had come.”
“The fundamental reason for the extreme difficulties at which I have hinted was no more than a simple consequence of nature, to wit: Heavy spring rains that year had lasted late into April. As a result, the river had reached its flood crest only a week or ten days before, and was higher by at least a foot on this day than when Mr. Bolt had made his crossing at approximately the same time the year before. Two of his own men, Coley and the unfortunate Miles, balked and protested the plan, saying that the water ran too high and the current too swift to undertake the fords at this point. When Mr. Bolt asked in his rough way what they proposed, they responded in chorus that it was only sensible to wait until the river be down to a safe level. Their leader said nothing in immediate response to them, but turned away and put the matter briefly to Sa-Ku-Nah. (At least one assumes that was what they discussed, yet for all I knew of the latter’s guttural talk, they might just as well have been conversing upon the price of tea in Williamsburg.) The aborigine let forth a proper laugh in reply, then stepped out into the river to show them they had nothing to fear; I noted, however, that he did not step far out into the river. In any case, Mr. Bolt allowed no more discussion of the matter, but set the party to work building the raft upon which we would transport packs, rifles, powder and shot, tools, and my instruments. Since trees had been cut the evening before, they had only to be sectioned and lashed together to make a raft, which to all appearances might be used again when we made our return.”
“Thus by mid-morn were we ready to make our assault upon the river. Near naked, pushing the raft before us, we ventured cautiously into the water. We soon felt the pull of the current, but could do no more than keep a grasp on the lashings and hope for the best. Alas, the best was not to be! We were not even halfway across — no more than up to our waists in those chill mountain waters — when we were quite suddenly hit by the full force of the current. I held tightly to the braided leather; others could not. I found myself lifted from my feet. The raft began to whirl in the current, taking me with it. It knocked one of our number down, which of them I could not tell, so busy was I trying to plant my feet firmly upon the river bottom. Then was I grabbed by the shoulder by one who proved to be Mr. Bolt. He alone, it seemed, with his remarkable strength, managed to halt the whirligigging of the raft by grasping the lashings with one hand and me with the other; as long as I held on as tight as he, he had control of the situation. So was I able then to find the river bottom with my feet. Mr. Bolt ordered us all back to the shore whence we had come. As we hauled and heaved, I glanced round the raft and saw that one of our number was gone. The missing man was Timothy Miles; it must have been Miles, I realized, who was knocked down when the raft went out of control. He and Coley had insisted the crossing was unsafe — and so it had proved to be. The proof, however, was in the loss of Miles himself. I had seen him knocked down, perhaps knocked unconscious; he disappeared beneath the water’s surface, never to rise again in my sight; indeed, he might by then be half a mile downstream and most certainly drowned.”