Done?
Mr. Little is dead?
“When they … got to him, those two small ones started screeching. I tell you, it was nothing like I ever heard before, those babies crying. I pulled ’em all inside and slammed the door. But I didn’t know what to do next. I didn’t have me a musket. It was Lizzy, the second of Little’s girls, who had the idea for me to creep up the chimney. I didn’t think I’d right fit, but I did. We all figured that there being no other men, they’d leave the girls in peace. Sarah, Little’s oldest, stood guard in front of the hearth, holding onto those two babies whimpering into her skirts, when they burst through the door. There was many a man that came in, for I heard a load of shufflin’. And those poor little creatures started right back up with their shrieking.” He wipes his mouth with his large-knuckled hand. “Strong girls, Little’s two eldest, with sensible heads on their shoulders. I never heard them girls speak a word excepting to the crying babies. And I never heard no word spoken by the Indians or them Royalist rats. Then they left. Just like that. They gathered up the cows, the mule, and God knows what else, and left. I stayed all squeezed up there until the babies quieted. Creeping down was a mite harder than creeping up, I tell you.” He smiles, wearily. And then turns to look out over the treetops. “He was a good man,” he says, not taking his eyes from the tree line.
“He was a good man,” my mother repeats softly. “And thanks be to God that the girls weren’t left alone and had you there with them,” she adds.
He turns back to us and pats my mother’s arm. And then he tells us the part that I don’t want to know.
“I had the girls stay in the cabin while I made pretense of checking for safety. Truly it was to drag their father’s body into the barn. It would have been too much for the babies to see him that way. It was a bad sight … a bad sight … for they scalped him, you know.” He shakes as he remembers.
My mother wraps her arm under his. “And your wife?” she asks, changing the subject. “How does she fare?”
“She’s been put through the mill, she has, but she fares well. She stayed behind with the girls while I came looking for you three. It’s a terrible day, a terrible day for this valley.” And he clings to my mother for support.
“It is, Mr. Van Etten,” she soothes. “But let us start off for the girls and your wife. They’ll be filled with worry until we arrive.”
The four of us stagger south. The sun is beginning to set. The sky is an incredibly dark red. We walk in silence, each of us turning to his or her own thoughts. What will I say to her? Not one parent gone now, but two.
When we arrive, I’m not ready to see her, so I head for the barn. Although, this choice is not much better. I’ve never seen anyone scalped before. Putting it off, if only for another moment, I remove my frock and lay it neatly across the top of the leaching barrel outside the barn door. Taking one last long breath, I enter the barn to do what needs to be done.
I find him right where Mr. Van Etten said he placed him. I’m struck by how little blood there is. The scalp was taken so cleanly.
“Ah, Mr. Little, you look as though you’ve worked too hard today and have lain down in the hay for a rest,” I tell him. If only this were true. Walking to the back of the old barn, I find one of the horse blankets folded neatly in an empty stall. After shaking it out, I lay it next to Eliza Little’s father and roll him gently onto it, wrapping it tightly around him. I sit down heavily next to him in the hay and look up at the barn rafters. “I’m sorry that I didn’t have time to know you better, sir,” I tell him.
“It is a great loss,” comes a whisper from behind me.
I jump up and turn, reaching for her without thinking, but I freeze solid when she stiffens. We stand like this, waiting for the arm’s length that separates us to feel safe again.
“You can live with us,” I say.
She lets out a little laugh. “You have no home, Noah Daniels. Your mother says that they have burned it down.”
I grunt. She’s right.
We’re quiet again. I see her eyes find the rolled-up blanket at my feet.
“I’m going to plant wheat,” I tell her. “Acres and acres of wheat. For the rest of my life.”
What a beetle-headed thing to say.
Her eyes fill with tears and I watch as the shape of her familiar smile forms across her mouth.
“And maybe one field of corn,” she says, as she reaches out across the space between us and catches the middle finger of my right hand in hers, squeezing it, releasing it, and turning to leave, all in one motion.
“Just one,” I call after her, curling the chosen finger into my palm to feel its extra warmth. “And just to feed the pigs with,” I add.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE LONGEST NIGHT
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
I prepare the wheat field in spring, turning the soil. The day I plant the seed is cool and wet. The sky and the river are the same shade of gray.
Scar gives a snort in his sleep and I start awake. Or at least I think I do—I must have been asleep if I can’t remember my thoughts.
It’s late. The sky is black, with no hint of dawn’s glow. How can it still not be morning? This has got to be the longest night of my life.
I wiggle closer to Scar. Though my face and chest blaze hotter than the fire end of a flip-dog, I am frozen to the bone. And this dark, endless night makes me feel even colder. Thanks be to God that the burn in my belly has become more of a dull, faraway ache. Perhaps this means I’m beginning to mend. Or perhaps I’m just used to the pain.
I settle in and listen to the whistling of Scar’s breathing. I wish I could hear his story. It’s Scar’s turn to bore me into release from this place.
I try to bring Eliza Little’s face into my head, but I can’t. I toss things about in my memory, searching for her. I see the rock where we first sat together. I see the pines along the path where it curves down toward our farm. I even see her worn moccasins. But not her … I cannot see her.
CHAPTER NINE
I WILL GO
TUESDAY, JULY 20, 1779
I stand in the barn where she left me. I don’t want to move but I must. I need to get to Van Auken’s Fort and check on the rest of our settlement. I don’t want to know any more of the damage done today … any more of what might have been prevented. But there is no avoiding it.
As I cross the dark yard, the Littles’ cabin looks hot and uninviting. When I open the door and step inside, I find the air thick and stuffy, just as I suspected. Mrs. Van Etten is in the middle of telling the story of her afternoon. I take a seat next to Mary on a bench, knowing I will need to wait until she’s finished before I leave. Mary leans on me absentmindedly. I let my eyes close as if I’m resting, but really it’s to keep from seeing Sarah and the little ones huddled together in a ball of skirts and grief over on the bed. I try not to shift uncomfortably as I listen to the old woman’s voice.
“When I heard the hollering, I ran deeper into the woods. I was so frightened being alone.” Mrs. Van Etten breathes heavily, as if just recalling her story is taxing her. “But I got all turned around and I didn’t know which direction to run, so I just kneeled down and threw my apron over my head and closed my eyes tight. If I was to die today, I wasn’t gonna watch it comin’ at me. And so I sat there on my knees with my face buried in my apron and my eyes shut and I waited for death. Finally, I heard it coming for me, and I prayed to God Almighty for deliverance. But instead of that devil doing his deed, he knocked me to the ground, and I just laid there in the dirt shaking like I had me a fever, my head waiting for the blow of the tomahawk. But it never did come. What did come was a licking. Someone was licking my neck. When I finally found the courage to strip the apron from my face, I saw that it was Little Jo, the calf I’d been caring for. All along I thought I was being summoned to appear before God and it was that silly little cow that had gone and found me. Oh, Lord, I can’t tell you how I praised God’s name and hugged that calf.” She wipes her ey
es on her apron. “And Mr. Van Etten stuck in that old chimney …”
Mr. Van Etten hugs his wife gently. Poor Mrs. Van Etten. Attacked by a cow.
I give Mary’s shoulder a little squeeze, and stand up. My mother sees that I need to speak to her and she makes her way over, joining Mary on the bench. “I’m leaving for the fort,” I tell her. She nods. She will allow it. It’s necessary that someone from our group report in at the fort, and if that choice is between Mr. Van Etten and me—the old man and the cripple—the cripple wins. “I’ll be back by morning.”
Mr. Van Etten meets me at the door. He shakes my hand. I can see Eliza Little out of the corner of my eye, sitting on a chair near her sisters, watching me. Her eyes shine brightly by the light of the fire, and the cabin is too tight and hot to bear a moment longer.
Outside, the night air cools my face and I breathe it in deep. I hated being in Mr. Little’s cabin. It felt wrong—all of us sitting around without him. I remember that after he’d recovered from his illness and was able to attend church, he always chose the pew in front of me, Mary, and my mother. He liked to tell my mother each Sunday that as soon as they were completely settled, they would have us over for tea. I look around Mr. Little’s farm and think back to the first time I walked Eliza Little home. It is an old place and needs work, but now I see he had cleared the paths, built strong fencing, split and stacked a good deal of wood, and had nearly all his wheat cut and bound. He worked hard, and for what? I turn and hurry west toward Van Auken’s Fort, leaving this sad thought to wander alone like a ghost in Mr. Little’s fields.
Not long after starting out, I pass the path leading home and can’t stop myself from picturing the moon shining eerily on my burnt-out cabin. Then I see it in my mind’s eye as it once was, its familiar shape against the night sky. The thought makes me unsteady, so I focus on the path in front of me and walk on, not raising my head until I smell the smoke from the Van Fleets’. It’s not too far out of my way, just a short hike to the north, and I decide to turn toward it. I already know that it’s been burned.
And it is.
To the ground.
Its blackened walls no longer resemble the house which stood on this spot my entire life.
I call out.
No one answers.
A chill settles on me and I quickly turn back for the fort. “Please, let the Van Fleets be well. Please, let no one else be hurt.”
The last stretch of the hike feels like an eternity, which is not long enough. After what has happened to Mr. Little, my home, and the Van Fleets, I dread what I will find. So when I come upon the fort and see it’s been untouched, I allow myself a few moments of relief before I walk on.
Van Auken’s Fort is more like a strongly built house than a great fort like my father described Fort Stanwix to be. Despite its small size, Van Auken’s Fort can fit a large portion of the inhabitants of our settlement. And tonight, as I walk inside, I’m sure it’s where I’ll find most of them.
Jon Haskell greets me at the door with a nod. It’s quiet and cool inside. I hear soft crying and the shuffling of many bodies trying to get comfortable. One man’s deep voice is speaking in a low tone to a group of men in the corner. I start toward them, but waver. The responsibility of reporting in at the fort had felt right on the walk here. Even my mother had allowed it. But now, as I’m about to approach the men, I think about my foot and imagine I don’t belong.
I hang in the shadows and search the group of men for Mr. Decker, but I can see he’s not there. Although I do spot Martinus Jr., Mr. Decker’s youngest boy, sitting close to the fire and playing with what looks like two coins. I watch him for a few moments. He’s attempting to spin both coins at once. Martinus Jr. is only eight years old, but he has always seemed older. He’s an outgoing and talkative boy, very much like his father.
I make my way over and sit. “How now, Martinus?”
“I am glad to see you, Noah,” he says, acknowledging me but continuing to play at his coin-spinning.
“Where is your father?” I ask, bracing myself for the possibility that Mr. Decker is dead.
“Father’s not here,” he replies.
I bow my head in relief.
“He traveled south a few days ago. But mother said that Thomas Manning has gone to find him and bring him back.” He stops spinning the coins and looks up at me. “Mr. Haskell sent John Carpenter out to look for you and Mary and Mr. and Mrs. Van Etten.”
“He must have gone first to the Van Ettens’. I missed him. We’ve been at the Littles’ this evening. Mr. Little is …” And I stop.
“Dead, Noah?” he says. “Mr. Vaneken is dead, too. They shot him on the schoolhouse steps. I ran when he told us to. He told all us boys to make for the woods. Unlike with our letters, he didn’t have to tell us twice. I hadn’t gotten but ten rods when I heard the musket. I knew it was Mr. Vaneken they kilt. My sister Emily said the girls rushed out to help him but it was too late. She said that one of the men stopped the others from hurting any of the girls on account of Brant’s orders. Mr. Tyler says it was the Mohawk Joseph Brant they were talking about. I ran home, but they’d kindled it, so I ran here.” His story finished, he looks down at the two coins sitting in the palm of his hand.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Martinus.” I pat his shoulder—but I think it’s more for my own comfort than his. I stand to leave. I really should join the men now.
Martinus sits up and stares at me full in the face, and I’m overcome with the need to say something more. “It’ll be all right,” I tell him. But I don’t know if it will be all right; in fact, it doesn’t feel like it will be. And when the boy continues to talk, I know that it won’t.
“They stole the Van Eck boys. Mr. Van Eck went after ’em and I heard them say he’s dead. Mrs. Van Eck is quiet now, sleeping over by the Gilberts—,” he motions off to a dark corner, “—but she screamed straight through dinner. I thought my hair would fall out of my head she screamed so loud. No one could stop her screaming. She sounded like a pig, half butchered …” His voice gets stuck.
“Be calm, Martinus,” I say, sounding as if I’m looking to comfort him when I’m really attempting to stop him from saying anything more. It doesn’t work.
“Mr. Packet is dead too. They shot him running to the fort. He almost made it. They scalped him just a few yards from the door. If you want to see him, Noah, he’s lying covered up behind Mr. Cuddeback. I saw him. He looks the same except the top of his hair, skin and all, is cut off. I don’t think it was much of a scalp because Mr. Packet was mostly bald, you know.” And he shrugs. “Will you go see him?” he asks.
“No, Martinus.” I back away. I need to join the men. It’s time. But his small voice keeps on.
“They sent John Gilbert and Joseph Harper to Goshen for help. They’re planning to chase down Joseph Brant. Will you go, too, Noah?”
The question throws me. I haven’t thought about what happens next; my head is still stuck on today. I can’t believe they took the Van Eck boys. Abram and Daniel are around the same age as Martinus Jr. And Mr. Van Eck, dead. Poor Mrs. Van Eck. She was already a sad and tired-looking woman. I think about Mr. Vaneken and Mr. Packet … and then me, buried under those branches.
“I must go, Martinus.” And I know that I must.
“Yes, Noah,” he says, lying back down on his stomach and returning to his coin-spinning.
I feel poorly leaving him, but I don’t belong at the hearth with children playing games. I’m ready to join the men.
Mr. Tyler is speaking, but he nods in my direction when I step into the group. He’s a rough man with eyes like two rocks. He doesn’t live in our settlement. I’m not really sure where he lives. He seems to travel up and down the river on endless errands. He has a reputation for behaving rashly, but also for being outspoken for the cause. I’ve heard that before the war, he ran secret information between towns and settlements for the Committee of Safety, a respected group of men who worked for the new Continental Congress. Having a
nything to do with the Committee meant sure death if the British caught you.
“… at least a few hours before daylight,” Mr. Tyler says with authority. “Let’s use it to collect any ammunition and muskets we can find. We should gather food and water for the trip as well. Hopefully, the militia will arrive sometime in the early morning and we’ll start north.”
“You can’t be thinking of following him yourselves?” questions Mr. Jacobson, a young farmer with a large family who lives northeast of our settlement.
Mr. Tyler stands silent for a moment, as if not fully understanding what this farmer has just said. Once Mr. Jacobson’s words register, Mr. Tyler’s eyes glow with anger.
“Of course we are,” he snarls. “They headed upriver and we’ll head right after ’em, as soon as the militia shows up.” He glares around at each of the other men, checking to be sure that this diseased thought of poor Mr. Jacobson’s hasn’t infected anyone else.
No one says a word.
“Me and Abraham will lead the way. We know that part of the country better than anyone and I’m in the mood to kill a few savages.” Mr. Tyler almost dances as he speaks, unlike his friend, Abraham Cuddeback, who stands next to him barely blinking an eye.
The group is silent as we each consider what Mr. Tyler has just said. Chasing after an experienced Mohawk warrior is not something any of us were thinking about when we rolled from our straw this morning.
Mr. Tyler keeps up his cold stare at the group, but his eyes seem to linger on me. I feel my face redden as I think back to the ditch. It’s like he can see me lying there … hiding. And I wonder if, when these men hear of Mr. Little’s death, they will realize that it could have been avoided if I’d run ahead to warn everyone. Perhaps even the Van Eck boys could have escaped being kidnapped. But then I wonder something worse … Maybe these men will take a long look at me and note sadly that I couldn’t possibly have done anything to stop any of it.
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