A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [169]
“Amen to that,” said Jay.
40
TEN DAYS AFTER PEG RAN OFF, MACK AND LIZZIE RODE across a wide, flat plain and reached the mighty Holston River.
Mack was elated. They had crossed numerous streams and creeks but there was no doubt in his mind that this was the one they were looking for. It was much wider than the others, with a long midstream island. “This is it,” he said to Lizzie. “This is the edge of civilization.”
For several days they had felt almost alone in the world. Yesterday they had seen one white man—a trapper—and three Indians on a distant hill; today, no white men and several groups of Indians. The Indians were neither friendly nor hostile: they kept a distance.
Mack and Lizzie had not passed a cultivated field for a long time. As the farms became fewer, the game had increased: bison, deer, rabbits and millions of edible birds—turkeys, duck, woodcocks and quail. Lizzie shot more than the two of them could eat.
The weather had been kind. Once it had rained, and they had trudged through mud all day and shivered, soaking wet, all night; but the next day the sun had dried them out. They were saddle-sore and bone-tired, but the horses were holding up, fortified by the lush grass that was everywhere and the oats Mack had bought in Charlottesville.
They had seen no sign of Jay, but that did not mean much: Mack had to assume he was still following them.
They watered the horses in the Holston and sat down to rest on the rocky shore. The trail had petered out as they crossed the plain, and beyond the river there was not the faintest sign of a track. To the north the ground rose steadily and in the far distance, perhaps ten miles away, a high ridge rose forbiddingly into the sky. That was where they were headed.
Mack said: “There must be a pass.”
“I don’t see it,” said Lizzie.
“Nor do I.”
“If it isn’t there …”
“We’ll look for another one,” he said resolutely.
He spoke confidently but at heart he was fearful. They were going into unmapped country. They might be attacked by mountain lions or wild bears. The Indians could turn hostile. At present there was plenty of food for anyone with a rifle, but what would happen in the winter?
He took out his map, though it was proving increasingly inaccurate.
“I wish we’d met someone who knew the way,” Lizzie fretted.
“We’ve met several,” he said.
“And each told a different story.”
“They all painted the same picture, though,” Mack said. “The river valleys slant from northeast to southwest, just as the map shows, and we have to go northwest, at right angles to the rivers, across a series of high ridges.”
“The problem will be to find the passes that cut through the mountain ranges.”
“We’ll just have to zigzag. Wherever we see a pass that could take us north, we go that way. When we come up against a ridge that looks impassable, we turn west and follow the valley, all the time looking out for our next chance to turn north. The passes may not be where this map shows them to be, but they’re in there somewhere.”
“Well, there’s nothing to do now but try,” she said.
“If we get into trouble we’ll have to retrace our steps and try a different route, that’s all.”
She smiled. “I’d rather do this than pay calls in Berkeley Square.”
He grinned back. She was ready for anything: he loved that about her. “It beats digging for coal, too.”
Lizzie’s face became solemn again. “I just wish Peg was here.”
Mack felt the same way. They had seen no trace of Peg after she had run off. They had hoped they would catch up with her that first day, but it had not happened.
Lizzie had cried all that night: she felt she had lost two children, first her baby and then Peg. They had no idea where she might be or whether she was even alive. They had done all they could to look for her, but that thought was small consolation. After all he and Peg had been through together, he had lost her in the end. Tears came to his eyes whenever he thought about her.
But now he and Lizzie could make love every night, under the stars. It was spring, and the weather was mild. Soon they would