the trees, flags up. Mourning drove the wagon straight across, no getting off this
time. The trail then followed the water downstream, to the point where it fed back into the river, right before a sharp bend.
“Like the man said, there it be.” Mourning shielded his eyes to look up the gentle slope on their right.
“Oh,” was all Olivia could say, sweet contentment abandoning her.
She had tried to heed Tobey’s dire predictions and not expect too much, but
nothing in her experience had prepared her for anything as squat, ugly, and
depressing as her Uncle Scruggs’ cabin. This was Lydia Ann’s cozy little
homestead? Uncle Scruggs’ Garden of Eden? She’d seen drawings of slaves’
quarters that looked more inviting than this. She dismally surveyed the scene.
The cabin perched atop a low hill. A path of crosswise logs led up to it, but everything was overgrown with prickly, waist-high weeds.
Olivia looked back toward the water. Around the bend, where the river grew
deeper, four spindly logs rested over it. That must be all that remained of Uncle
Scruggs’ famous springhouse. Fields fanned out behind the left side of the cabin.
Seven or eight acres had obviously once been cleared, but were now overgrown
with thick brush and dotted with new growth trees and old stumps. Around the
back and on the other side, the woods encroached. There weren’t more than
twenty paces to the tree line.
Olivia reluctantly let her eyes go back to the cabin, which was exactly as
Tobey had warned her it would be. Uncle Scruggs had cut down logs, notched
them, stacked them on top of one another, and filled the wide gaps between them
with a clay-like substance, most of which had crumbled away. The walls at either
end rose in a triangular shape and a heavy log rested between them, but that center beam was all that remained of the roof. There was an opening in the front
wall, slightly off-center to the right, but someone had apparently walked off with
the door; nothing but rusty hinges remained. Not only were there no lace curtains
at the windows, there were no window openings at all.
“There’s no roof,” Olivia noted dully.
“That ain’t no problem. Roof be easy. Lucky for us that center beam still up
there. You got a good center beam, all you gotta do is rest your roof poles on it,
tie ’em good and tight, and cover ’em with bark shingles. Bet I can cut them poles and get ’em up ’fore dark tonight. You can help me with piecin’ the bark.
That gonna take some time cause it gotta dry first, but I bet we gonna have a roof
over us ’fore the next rain.”
The oxen snorted and pulled them closer. Another roofless log structure,
which she assumed was the barn, stood to the right of and slightly behind the cabin. The rickety and well-weathered outhouse in back of it was the only
structure built of planed lumber.
Olivia looked sideways at Mourning, expecting him to be furious with her for
talking him into coming to this dreadful place, but she saw only enthusiasm on
his face. He jumped down and all but bounced through the weeds. She remained
in the wagon, not yet prepared to claim the dingy little hovel as her new home.
Mourning ducked down to go through the doorway, and she heard him stomping
around inside.
