Another Chance

by Janet Cooper

  Wolf's stomach tightened as he waited what he knew would be additional bad news.

  "After they knocked me unconscious, the soldiers raped Quick Rabbit."

  A bleak hollowness filled him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, seeking to control his anger and frustration. "How does she fare?"

  "She is alive, but cannot or will not talk." His voice sounded resigned. "When the women returned, they saw to her."

  Wolf ground his teeth together. Later, he would visit Quick Rabbit and offer his help. "Anyone else?"

  "No. As I said the others had left at sunrise two days ago."

  "Where are the women and children now?" Wolf asked, with rising concern.

  "Since the British burnt what grain they could not carry away, I sent them to glean the fields."

  "Are they alone?" Wolf asked, anxiously.

  "No. I set the older boys to guard them. We must gather in whatever they can cull."

  Wolf nodded his approval. How he wished for braves to defend the women, but they had ridden with his grandfather. Still, Silver Wolf was confident that even young Lenape with bow and arrows would keep the soldiers at bay. "What else did the thieving bastards steal?" he asked. Although he dreaded to hear, he needed to know exactly what provisions they must replace to survive the oncoming winter.

  "Several milk cows, a few goats, and a dozen or so chickens. They planned to take all, but the soldiers were drunk and had difficulty herding the animals." Bear rested his forehead on the arm that still held the shovel.

  "Go. Get some rest," Wolf said.

  "There is much to do," he protested.

  "Nitis, my friend, your duties are over for now. Go, rest." He gently nudged Bear toward his cabin.

  After his man had gone, Wolf tried to comprehend the damage and make plans for the future. I must find provisions for my people. Then I will avenge my father's death and the destruction of our plantation will be revenged.

  The sound of a horse's hooves hitting the earth drew Wolf's attention.

  "Luke."

  Turning, he saw Jeremiah Low.

  Before fully reining in, his nearest neighbor called, "I sent two of my men to find your grandfather and your son. And notified our neighbors. They are coming to help." He vaulted down from the gray gelding.

  "Why did you seek their aid?" Wolf asked. "You know I do not want them on my land." Or you either, he added to himself.

  "During a war, neighbors support neighbors. You share a common border with these people. You need assistance. They will give it."

  "I will block the road." Wolf clenched his fists. "They may not enter my property."

  Jeremiah shook his head. "The time for hatred is past, Luke. These men and women's farms surround your plantation. Don't build a wall when they offer the hand of friendship."

  "Since my father's time, we have depended on no one except ourselves," Wolf responded with pride. "We…

  "I am sorry about Running Deer—err, sorry, I forgot I shouldn’t have mentioned his name" Jeremiah interrupted. "Damn the British!"

  "The Colonists are not saints," Wolf said, pointedly.

  "They don't pillage and rape."

  "Oh? Perhaps not here, but they have done so to my people, often."

  Jeremiah's fair skin reddened. "I am against those acts, as you well know. So are the others who are coming to help."

  Wolf wished to deny the statement, but honesty prevented him from speaking.

  His neighbor's color slowly faded. "What shall we do first?" he asked, as if needing to change the subject.

  Seeing a small cloud of dust in the distance, Wolf realized help was approaching. Although he hated the idea of accepting charity from his white neighbors, a farmer needed a barn and strong fences. "Since I have sent my foreman to bed, will you direct the volunteers?" He gestured at the wagons coming into view. With Jeremiah overseeing the whites, Wolf could avoid direct contact with them.

  "Of course."

  "I must check on my people and take an inventory of what is left of our goods and property," Wolf said.

  "Aye." Jeremiah nodded. "That is important."

  After outlining his priorities to Jeremiah, Wolf headed toward Quick Rabbit's cabin. His failure to protect her increased his guilt. As he approached her log house, he saw her sitting on the step. In age, she and Wolf were only a few years apart. He had often admired her spirit and winning ways. Today, she reminded him of a stone statue, lacking light and warmth. An unbidden image of Sarah crept into his mind. The idea of any man forcing himself on her sparked a monstrous rage within him. She was safe, he reminded himself, safe at the Dilworthtown Inn with her father, where she belonged.

  Wolf knelt beside Quick Rabbit. "The men responsible will pay," he promised her. He lifted his hand to touch her, but she flinched away. Fear showed in her wide eyes. Would such an act of violence devastate Sarah in this manner? The idea yanked at his gut. Wolf vowed that would never happen. Yet, he wondered how he could protect her. Sarah lived ten miles away, and he had been unable to guard Quick Rabbit who lived on his plantation.

  He stayed by Rabbit's side for a few more minutes, before slowly rising to his feet. Helplessness overwhelmed him. Wolf acknowledged that he lacked the skills to heal his longtime friend.

  A few hours later, he had ascertained the immediate needs of his community. Wolf returned to the barnyard, where many of his neighbors worked, hoping physical labor might block his pain. The women, white and Lenape, worked in the fields and orchards, gathering in the remains of the harvest. The men repaired fences and dismantled the remaining walls of the barn. Wolf walked past and nodded a greeting stiffly. Reaching the burned-out structure, he grabbed the shovel Bear had left and raked the coals apart.

  "Might I help?" Jeremiah asked.

  Wolf stared at the man he had once called friend. They had spent the first twenty years of their life together playing and competing against one another. Although a head shorter, Jeremiah's stocky, but agile, body had made their contests even. Now, when Wolf looked at his former companion, he remembered his wife and Jeremiah's part in her death. All pleasant memories of their friendship dissolved when she died.

  Silver Wolf took a deep breath. His nostrils filled with the stench of burnt wood and grain. He wanted to lash out and place the blame for the recent catastrophe on Jeremiah. Realizing the injustice of his thoughts, Wolf said, "I must do this alone."

  By dusk, a gravel memorial stood in the center of a blackened square. The other boulders had been rolled or dragged aside in preparation for the rebuilding that would start tomorrow.

  At the well nearest the house, Wolf washed the dirt from his hands. The physical labor, thankfully, had left little time for conversation or thoughts.

  Jeremiah walked over and drew a bucket of cold water. After downing several dippers of water, he said, "Now, will you join Washington's men and crush the damn redcoats?"

  Wolf took a drink. His demeanor hardened. "Why should I join Washington? Most of the Lenape have chosen the British over the Americans. Should I turn my back on their decision?" Without waiting for a reply, Wolf continued, "Should I care which white group wins? Neither is concerned for my people. Instead, they steal, pillage, and rob us. No, Jeremiah, your war is not mine." He drew another bucket of water from the well and offered it to the man whom until four years ago he had called friend, a man who had never stopped calling Wolf friend.

  "It is your war now!" Jeremiah said.

  "I will seek my own revenge. I will destroy the men responsible for murdering my father, raping a defenseless woman, and ruining the livelihood of my people. While I accomplish those goals, I will arrange for my braves to patrol the boundaries of our plantation."

  Jeremiah dosed his head and hands, then said, "You are wrong, Luke. To repay Cornwallis' men, you will need the resources of an army. How many braves outside the five or six who live on your farm will answer your call?"

  The heartless comment made Wolf's eyes narrow dangerously. I could gather many men,
if your people had not killed so many of them, he wanted to voice the thought, but swallowed back his bitterness.

  "My words are cruel," Jeremiah acknowledged, "but the Lenape Indians living near the Brandywine are almost extinct. You do not have a chief and have not had one since Sassoonan died thirty years ago."

  "If the whites had not interfered…"

  "Hear me out." He leaned against the stone edge of the well. "The reason, we both know and both deplore. that changes nothing. Your people are gone or scattered or living in the Ohio territory."

  "There are still a few communities in West Jersey." Even as Wolf spoke the words, he remembered what Brave Bear had told him.

  "Damn few," Jeremiah replied. "As much as you dislike it, the possibility of a few Indians destroying the British is nil."

  "I do not seek to destroy home rule. My goal is to discover the raiders, take my vengeance, and protect my people."

  "With the help of your neighbors or the Continental army or both, you will discover the men more quickly and easily. If you wait, they may be transferred to another part of the country. Then it will be impossible."

  "Oh, I will locate them, no matter how long it takes."

  "Why wait? Why not strike while your blood still boils at the atrocities?"

  "Unlike you, an Indian waits and waits, but will reap his revenge."

  "If you change your mind…"

  "I thank you for your help. Tomorrow, I will send Brave Bear over. We will buy our next month's supplies from you."

  "Agreed, but only if you allow me to give you the seed for the spring planting."

  "Thank you." Again, Jeremiah showed his friendship, refusing to accept the change in their relationship. It galled Wolf to take the offer, but the expense of feeding his people would leave little money for next year's crop. Wolf's pride must surrender to necessity.

  While they had been speaking, their neighbors had gathered their tools and the women had returned from the fields, preparing to leave. Although he hated his dependency, he admitted his appreciation and his indebtedness. Before they departed, he spoke to each one, expressing his gratitude for their generosity. At first, he uttered the words with difficulty, yet the more he said them, the easier they came. Watching them depart, a sense of confusion flooded over him. Previously, the whites had banished or killed his people. Today, they had helped an Indian who had not wanted them on his property. A bitter thought remained amid his reluctant gratitude. How long would his neighbors stay friendly if they wanted his land?

  * * * *

  Sarah awakened and heard noises below. Wondering who could be in her house, she searched for the telephone to call the police. Unable to find it and not seeing her familiar Art Deco furniture, she realized the dream hadn't ended with her night's sleep. The 18th Century still ruled her life. The thought gave her mixed reactions. Savoring the unknown adventure that lay ahead excited her, but losing control of her existing life scared her. Lying in bed served no purpose and the sounds coming from downstairs pricked her curiosity. Since she had no idea who might be there, after stepping out of bed, she grabbed a wrought iron poker, and edged down the stairs.

  She pressed her back against the stairwell and glanced around the living area. Not seeing anyone, she headed toward the public section on the other side of the wall. Peeking around, she saw Benjamin bending over the hearth, building up the fire.

  The sharper light of morning caught the gray of his un-powdered bushy hair. She judged his age to be late forties, not as old as she had thought last night. A somber, hip-length, gray waistcoat partially covered his white shirt, but he had not donned the green baize apron he had worn the previous evening. His worsted stockings matched the vest. The brass buckles on his shoes had been burnished instead of polished. This, she knew, was the way of the 18th century Friends.

  "Since I was up and Daniel has not returned, daughter, I decided to add wood to the fire and put the kettle to boil," the innkeeper said. He straightened effortlessly. Dusting the dirt from his hands onto his woolen breeches, he glanced at her.

  "Why doeth thou carry a poker?" Benjamin asked.

  "I heard a noise."

  Briefly, he smiled before frowning. "With Daniel gone, thou wondered who might be in the tavern."

  She nodded, although his statement wasn't totally correct.

  "Had thou planned to use that?" He gestured toward the poker.

  A wave of heat rushed over her. Remembering the non-violence code of the Quakers, she knew no daughter of a member of the Society of Friends, even one who could no longer attend meeting, would use a poker as a weapon. Still, she would not lie. "Yes," she squeaked.

  Benjamin shook his head. "Daughter, how could thou consider harming anyone?"

  Easily, she thought, but swallowed the retort. "Fear?" she offered.

  "Doeth thou not trust in the Lord?"

  "Yes." But He might be busy and I'm here now. For an instant, she wondered where "here" was, still a dream or a new reality?

  He glanced at her attire. "Thou is not properly gowned," he admonished.

  "Yes, Father," the word slipped out, astonishing her. Was she as mad as all those about her? Her father had passed on two years ago. An unbidden thought quickly filled her mind, of her mother who had followed quickly after him. She swallowed remembering losing her only family Inclining her head, partially to hide the tears forming and partially from respect, she retraced her steps. Why had she obeyed? Whose dream was this? A horrible thought stabbed her. Might it not be her imagination? She refused to consider that.

  As she walked, the chill in the air attacked her. Earlier, the excitement had kept Sarah unaware of the temperature or that she wore only a shift. No wonder Benjamin had been distressed by her déshabillé. While the cold chewed her insides, the sense of losing control struck again. If this was happening, then last night had happened. She, Sarah Tawes, had met an 18th Century Lenape Indian. She pinched herself. The pain startled her. Two small nail prints appeared. She recalled the burn on her hand and remembered it had hurt. Glancing quickly at her hand, she noticed the red spot. Why was this happening? Sarah hadn't a clue. However, she decided to see "it," whatever that was, though.

  After washing, she brushed her teeth as best she could with her finger, resolving to find a twig to help. A twig. Who would have guessed what she had demonstrated at the museum would become a way of life? When she finished, she wondered what to wear. Last evening, she'd hung her costume on a wall hook, but slept in her shift. She glanced down at the badly wrinkled chemise. She sniffed and the aroma of wood smoke greeted her. Ugh! I do hope I have clean ones.

  The stench again invoked a memory of the men she had served last night and made her wrinkle her nose until she recalled Luke Keenan. The smell of pine, fresh air and a hint of maleness appear to be his trademark. His scent reminded her of the fragrance she had sensed when her neighbor had visited her home. Sarah shivered partly at the memory.

  Needing to get warm, she searched for clothes. A chest stood at the foot of the bed. Kneeling down, she opened it. On one side lay a large pile of linen shifts, corsets, un-boned bodices called "jumps," and cotton and woolen stockings, but of course, no underpants. Thank goodness she had worn hers, but she had forgotten to wash them last night. She would have to go without for a day. This idea didn't please her.

  The next section held aprons. To the left, flannel and cambric petticoats, closest to the end short gowns of varying colors, all folded. Sarah marveled at the neatness. If anyone opened her drawers, she'd died. Pushing the impossible thought of not returning aside, she reconsidered the number of clothes available. Benjamin must be far wealthier than Sarah had suspected, judging by the size of her wardrobe. She remembered reading how a colonial lady passed her clothes onto other relatives, and the receiver appreciated the ‘gift’.

  Feeling cold seeping into her legs, Sarah threw on a clean shift, drew on white stockings, and tied them with dark blue garters. She dropped her pocket over her head, secured it at her wais
t, and then put her sewing kit and penknife inside. Her navy blue petticoat followed. Finding a white and blue stripped short gown, she pulled it on and fastened the bodice with straight pins. A milk-white apron finished off her attire.

  "Daughter," Benjamin called up the staircase. "Daniel just arrived and has news."

  As she started for the steps, a cold stream of air attacked her upper thighs, so much for going without panties. Sarah grabbed a worn apron, tore it and made a diaper for herself. Anxious to hear the news, Sarah slipped on her buckled shoes and plunked her cap on her head.

  As she entered the public room, her father said, "I made some sassafras tea." He offered her a cup.

  A young lad of fifteen or so sat at the table eating. "Good morning, Sarah," he said, pulling his forelock and rising slightly from his chair.

  "Sit. Eat thy breakfast," she said then smiled.

  Taking the mug, she warmed her hands with the hot earthenware container. Oh, for 21st Century central heating, she thought, hoping the liquid might chase her chills. She took a seat near the boy. The outfit he wore resembled Benjamin's, except not as well made. His thin, comely face cast shy glances in her direction. She wondered about her relationship with this teenager.

  "Doeth thou recall the Indian that stayed last evening?" Benjamin asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  She nodded. Remember? Luke had made the night bearable and had occupied her thoughts several times this morning.

  "British soldiers burned his family's barn and stole much of their crops and livestock. I had planned to sell our excess crops in Chester, but hearing of Mr. Keenan's needs, I have decided to donate a wagonload of corn to Long Meadow. With winter coming, they can use the food. Daniel will mind the tavern if thou would like to go with me. Thou might be able to help the women."

  The idea of seeing the tall, dark, dangerous-looking man pleased yet worried her. He had been too much on her mind. She didn't want her feelings for this man to deepen. If she saw him again, they might. No, she corrected herself, they would. She feared any emotional tie with the 18th century. Yet, the thought of seeing an authentic Lenape village tugged at her historian soul. "When do we leave?"