Crossing the Blue Ridge is a sprawling and inspirational Revolutionary War historical fiction novel that reintroduces the forgotten American Patriots who fought against superior British Tory forces in one of the most decisive battles in the American Revolutionary War at The Battle of King's Mountain.
Crossing the Blue Ridge is a sprawling and inspirational Revolutionary War historical fiction novel that reintroduces the forgotten American Patriots who fought against superior British Tory forces in one of the most decisive battles in the American Revolutionary War at The Battle of King's Mountain.
The Susquehanna River runs peacefully enough down
its course, relieving lush farmlands and wooded forests
of their excess. Broad and deep, its tranquil shores offer
a broad vista that brings calm and amicability to all those
who view it. But sometimes deep gray storm clouds appear
on the horizon, leaden and heavy with their burden. The
thunder crashes and unleashes a torrent of rain, pounding
down, thrashing and hammering all it touches.
Rivulets form, and turn into creeks, streams and floods,
and the Susquehanna turns into a roaring monster, leaving
its bank and sweeping away all in its path. It rushes
towards the sea, scouring the landscape and all before it,
both natural and man-made.
At times, in the course of human events, the same sort
of phenomenon occurs. Thunderous dark clouds of dissent
and dispute come across the horizon, darkening all below.
A deluge of riotous, tumultuous events come about, and
sweep before them everything in their path, changing the
direction of history, much like a raging river fed by a flood
will change its path.
My name is Caleb Anders. I am the fourth child and
only son of Jeremiah and Celia Anders, and was born
on March 7, 1757. I was raised in what is now Harford
My name is Caleb Anders. I am the fourth child and
only son of Jeremiah and Celia Anders, and was born
on March 7, 1757. I was raised in what is now Harford
County, Maryland, not far from the Susquehanna River.
My older sisters – Jane, Susanna and Martha – were my
seniors by many years. By the time I was ten, all were
married and had left home. Jane and Susanna married men
from Baltimore and moved there to start their lives anew.
Martha, closest to me in age, being but seven years my
senior, married a local farmer, Jacob Finley. They farmed
acreage left to Jacob by his grandfather, and lived an hour
west from us by horseback.
My mother, Celia Smith Anders, was the kindest woman
I have ever known. She was tall and angular, with pleasant
features and bright blue eyes, which I inherited. She was
keen on seeing to it that my sisters and I could read and do
our numbers. Her well-worn copy of the “New England
Primer” from her own youth was the foundation of our
education. With it she instilled in me a love of learning,
though I think a part of it was due to my love and affection
for her. She was a godly woman, who saw to it that we
attended church whenever we were able. At a young age,
on Sunday mornings, I was able to hitch the horse to the
buggy with the help of my older sisters, and without my
father we would make our way to church.
My father, by contrast, was short and stout, and as
gloomy and unhappy a man as you would ever want to
meet. Where this glumness came from I have no idea. He
farmed the 120 acres left to him by his father, acquired
after he left the old world for the new. Thus, from his
youth his path was set. How he managed to marry such
a thoughtful, industrious and intelligent woman as my
mother is unknown to me.
He was a brutal and uncaring man. He treated my
mother with contempt. Any shortcomings she had were
dealt with harshly. He grumbled and fumed at the hours
she spent teaching her children, and if his supper was late
because of it she would see the back of his hand across
her face. He never noticed, but my sisters and I saw the
bewildered looks and silent tears that came from his cruel
treatment of her.
His treatment of us was no less harsh, which I believe
led my sisters to marry and leave home at a young age. We
rarely heard from Jane and Susanna, safely ensconced in
Baltimore City. They were busy raising children of their
own, and the less they had to do with our father, the better.
This added to the weight my mother carried in her heart.
She sorely missed her eldest daughters, but I believe she
understood the reason why they so rarely wrote or visited.
Starting at the age of about eight, I had regular chores
on the farm, and these grew in size as I did. My father
was a harsh taskmaster, and expected more than I was
ever able to give. I suffered terribly at his hands, which
he freely used to beat me with anything handy – the staff
of a pitchfork, the reins of the draft animals, or the fallen
limbs of a tree. His ill treatment of hired workers was so
well known that by the time I was ten he was never able
to hire anyone else to help. Even slave owners refused to
lease out their slaves to him because of the harsh abuse
he would heap on them. As a result, the burden laid on
my shoulders during planting and harvesting season was
sometimes almost impossible to bear.
The only respite I would have was during the height of
summer, when the crops needed little tending, and during
the hard, cold winter months. During these times, Martha’s
husband Jacob would ride east and cajole my father into
letting me stay with them, claiming he needed my help
with maintenance on his own farm, which was twice the
size of ours. He would bring a half dozen chickens or a few
smoked hams to recompense my father for my absence.
Grumbling mightily, my father would usually agree, while
warning Jacob of my laziness or incompetence.
“Make him work! I can’t seem to get much out of him,”
he would state with disdain, as I climbed into Jacob’s
buggy. “And don’t let him eat you out of house and home!”
And so I would be off, often feeling guilty for leaving
my mother with such a man.
Jacob and Martha were the only light I had, other than
my mother, in those dark days. The time I spent with them
were the best of my young life. I helped Jacob repair
fences and barns, and Martha with her chickens and
kitchen garden. In the evenings we would often play cards
by the firelight, or read from the Good Book Jacob had
inherited from his grandfather.
But it was my time with Jacob out in the woods that
proved most useful in my later life. He had a great fondness
for hunting, and it was he who taught me the proper way
to load and fire a flintlock rifle. He had two – one that
had been passed down to him from his grandfather and
one he had purchased on his own. He taught me how to
track game in the woods and how to read the prints they
left. He taught me how to throw a hatchet, and how to set
up a camp. How to read the signs of the trail, to see who
else had used it. How to build a roaring fire, or a small,
smokeless one if need be. He taught me which plants were
edible and which ones were poisonous. He showed me
how to trap small game using snares like the Indians, and
the proper use of metal ones.
“How did you learn all this?” I once asked.
“My parents died when I was young, from a fever. I was
raised by my grandfather, who came over from the old
country when this was just a trackless forest. He learned
his skills from experience and some friendly Indians in
these parts.” he replied.
“Why are you teaching these things to me?”
“Caleb, we have no way of telling what will befall
us in the future. We must be prepared for whatever
circumstances might arise.”
At times, while we watched and waited for game, Jacob
would wile away the hours by sharing with me what he
knew of the politics of the day. He explained the Stamp
Act, those despised taxes imposed on us colonists by the
British, and the Townsend Duties, which were more taxes
thrust upon us.
“The main problem as I see it,” he would exclaim,
“is that we have no say in it whatsoever! We have no
one to plead for mercy from those grasping rascals in
Parliament!”
He went into great detail about the incident we knew
as the Boston Massacre. How the British had killed those
who were protesting the heavy hand of the British Army
on our necks. “It’s getting worse, not better for us, son.
Those fellows up in Boston are aching for a fight. I fear
the worst is yet to come.”
Being young and foolish, I paid little mind to these
speeches. I had no notion these events would have any
impact on my life, or what they would lead to. I was
just content to be surrounded by the lush woodlands and
meadows, a rifle in my hand and in company with as fine
a fellow as Jacob.
And so we spent many happy hours in the woods. I
discovered I was a good marksman, even better than
Jacob. The rifle felt comfortable in my hands, as if it was
meant to be there. I yearned to possess one of my own
someday and told Jacob.
“Perhaps you will one day. But until then, you are
welcome to use one of mine.” he smiled in reply. Many
times we would not make it back to the farmhouse until
darkness had fallen. Martha would smilingly fuss at us.
“I tried to keep your supper warm. Why the late hour?
Did you get lost?”
“No, Martha,” Jacob would reply. “This boy is difficult
to drag home. He would live in the woods if we would let
him!”
We used everything we hunted. Jacob knew the proper
way to preserve our game, and taught me how to skin them
for their hides. His smokehouse was often full with our
harvest from the forest – venison, bear meat, fat turkeys
and ducks, geese, squirrels and rabbits.
“If you would like, Caleb, I know a man who would
buy these hides from us. I could easily sell them. And
some of the meat as well. Martha and I cannot eat all we
have brought in.”
I paused and thought a moment. “Can you hold the coins
for me?"
“Certainly.” He looked knowingly at me.
“It’s just that my father would gladly relieve me of
anything I earn.”
“I am aware of that,” he replied. “I will hold your
portion of the earnings until you have need of it.”
When it was time to travel back to the small but sturdy
farmhouse of my father, I would grow quieter the closer
we would get. As we drew near, I could see the cornfields
that made up the bulk of our farm, either the growing
stalks, laden with their bounty, or the stubble left after
the harvest, in stark contrast against a blanket of white
snow. The red brick house would appear first, with the
outbuildings and barn peeking from behind it, like an
overprotective mother shielding her young. I worried as
to what condition I would find my mother upon my return.
Most often, I would get a happy smile from her weary
face, and a strong berating from my father.
“It’s about time you made it back!” he would declare
sullenly.
Jacob would often intercede for me. “Caleb was a big
help and very useful to me, Jeremiah. I would have been
hard pressed without him these last few weeks.”
“It may be so. But he will have to work extra to make
up for lost time.”
The days of my youth passed, and I anxiously awaited
for the time I could strike out on my own. In those days,
the only thing that kept me at my father’s house was my
mother, who continued my education as best she could,
despite the querulous nature of my father. She was quiet
and strong, cooking and tending house and gardens for a
man who held her in low regard. I admired her strength,
and determined to stay as long as she had need of me.
And yet, I always anxiously awaited Jacob’s return
each summer and winter, and used my time with him and
Martha to learn and grow in the ways of the woods. Jacob
continued to sell our stockpile of furs and hides and meat,
and showed me the coins that were my portion of the
earnings.
“I bartered my measure of our little enterprise, Caleb,
and managed to get these coins for you. I thought they
would be more useful to you.”
“Thank you kindly. There must be five pounds here!”
“Yes. Enough to give you a fresh start. A beginning,
when you start your journey in life."
I bowed my head, grateful he understood my situation. I
dared not voice my objections to my father’s mistreatment,
but I could easily see my brother-in-law understood it.
“It’s fine, Caleb. Your sister Martha has voiced her
concerns over what goes on at your father’s house.”
He stopped, ruminating. “I’m grateful to have found
your sister. Even though I am a good ten years older
than she, our marriage has been a happy one. We hope to
have children of our own one day.” He sighed. “The Lord
moves in mysterious ways. Although he has not blessed
us yet, I am grateful to have such an astute student as you.
I hope you don’t mind if I treat you as the son I hope to
have one day.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Not at all,” I gulped, trying
hard to duck my head and hide the feelings I was sure
showed plainly on my face.
“Then, let us get back to the woods you love so much,
and work on your education!”
Laughing, we headed off.
While I learned much from Jacob during those years,
many of the lessons he taught me had little to do with
the woods. He taught me how to be a husband and father.
How to be positive about the future – and even to look
forward to it. During my years on this earth, I have found
that some of those around us teach us how not to be. My
father was a perfect example of that. He gave me little
in the way of guidance when it came to life. But Jacob
– he stood out in stark contrast. I’m grateful I had his
example in those early days, or I fear my life would not
have prospered as it has.
As I entered my sixteenth year I had grown to be a full
head taller than my father. The years of hard work on the
farm had given me a muscular frame, which came in good
stead, as it turned out. As I grew, my father’s punishments
became less severe. He would hesitate to strike, as he
could no longer look down on me, but must turn his face
upward. At times, I could see a flicker of fear come across
his face as he gazed into my defiant eyes. I had even begun
to step in front of my mother when he berated her.
“So that is how it is to be,” he would sputter angrily.
“Yes,” I would obstinately reply.
As the year 1774 dawned, bitterly cold with snow
heaped all around, I began to contemplate my future. I
knew there would be a time when I could no longer stay
under my father’s roof. What would happen then to my
mother? What course would my life take? I did not know
the answers to these questions yet, but a tragedy would
catapult me forward, into a life I could not have imagined.
I have always enjoyed historical fiction, especially about early America, so I was looking forward to reading Crossing the Blue Ridge. I was not disappointed. This book is about the time before and during the Revolutionary War, and it uses a lot of historical facts woven within the fiction.
Caleb had a rough start to life with an abusive father, so when his lovely mother died, he decided to leave home. Luckily, Caleb’s brother-in-law had taught him how to hunt and to survive on his own. I can’t imagine how scary hitting the road alone with no destination would be! When he met Nate, they decided to travel together, which was the best decision they could have made. They lived and worked together for years.
The relationships between Caleb and others are interesting, especially with Lydia, his future wife. He visited her and her father often and helped with chores and spent time talking to her. They had not even kissed when he asked for her hand in marriage. From what I’ve read, this was often the case. How times change!
Caleb and Nate ended up near the Blue Ridge Mountains, where they trapped and helped fight Indians when needed. They also found themselves fighting the British at one point under Colonel Shelby. On the way to the battle at King's Mountain, they went over Roan Mountain, which really hit home with me because we were just there in June. I’ve also been to the Blue Ridge Mountains, and they are still just as beautiful as the author described them.
There are a lot of good descriptions. They’re not overly detailed, but they’re just as I like them with enough detail to be able to get a picture in my mind.
I like how Crossing the Blue Ridge ended with updates on the characters several years later. I definitely recommend it to anyone who likes historical fiction!