by C. C. Finlay
“It won’t make landfall,” Deborah said softly. Then added, quickly, “I mean, will it?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t think it will. Still, we’ll sail close to shore and safe harbor, well clear of the storm.” He reached up with his hand and smoothed his bushy mustache on either side of his lip. “If it gets rough, you two should head below.”
“We will,” Proctor assured him.
Hammond looked him in the eye. “I just spoke with Cuff. I don’t appreciate any trouble brought aboard my ship, especially not when I’m doing a man a favor.”
“You won’t have any trouble on account of either of us,” Proctor said.
“I won’t ask you to swear to it, because I respect a man’s beliefs, and I know you Quakers don’t hold no account with swearing,” Hammond said. “But I don’t hold no account with lying either.”
“Neither do we,” Proctor said. The little lies they had to live with each day ate away at him. “If you can drop us off in Gravesend or nearby, we’ll be grateful.”
Which was all truth. Hammond nodded his acceptance and went back to the quarterdeck.
“Thank you,” Deborah said under her breath. “I know how hard it is for you, all the lying. You were raised in an ordinary household, as part of a community.”
“It’s hard for me because it’s wrong,” Proctor said.
“I’ve lived with it my whole life, since before I can remember. The need to hide who you are from people, to hide everything you’re doing.”
Thinking about that made him think about The Farm, and the six people left there. Would they be safe? Would Bootzamon try to follow him and Deborah south, or would he return to The Farm and try to break through the seal on its borders? They wouldn’t know the answers to those questions until they returned from their journey.
“Why do you suppose they want to capture young talents?” he asked.
“They have some plan that requires great power, more than anyone wields alone,” she said. “They need the power of slaves. It must be a plan of extraordinary proportions.”
That was not a comforting thought. The ship rocked over another swell, and the wind came from a new direction. Deborah lifted her head and said quietly, “I don’t think the storm will come this far east at all.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
Deborah stared at the waves and the skies for a while before answering. “My mother had the talent to a degree.” Proctor thought about the rain that had poured over her mother at her father’s funeral. “But it’s as though, as my talent grows, I can see the hand of God moving about the earth, arranging the bowls and spoons like a cook in a kitchen. Almost as if I can nudge them. It’s … unsettling.”
The ship plowed through a large wave, sending spray over the sides. Proctor’s stomach felt unsettled too.
A hand gripped Proctor’s shoulder, gently shaking him awake. He lifted his head and felt the deep imprint on his cheek of the coiled rope that had served as his pillow. Out at sea, with the rocking of the boat and no way for Bootzamon to reach him, Proctor had slept well for the first time since Virginia.
Cuff knelt beside him and shook him again. “Captain Hammond, he wants to see you.”
Proctor shook off the slumber and stood up. The sky above was middle-of-the-night dark, with clouds blotting out many of the stars. Another ship floated nearby, and a dinghy was tied up alongside that. The motion of the waves made it tap against the side of the hull.
Captain Hammond held a lantern, the light reflecting off several new faces. Hammond was talking in low tones to them. “This is the Silver Molly, out of Sag Harbor,” Hammond said when Proctor arrived. Then, to the other men, “Tell him what you told me.”
“Black Dick,” one man started, and then looked over his shoulder as if naming the devil might make him appear, even though Black Dick was merely the name for British admiral Richard Howe. “He started landing troops on Long Island, at Gravesend, a day and a half ago.”
“So we won’t be able to make landing there?” Proctor asked.
Hammond shook his head. “Black Dick’s got three hundred ships in these waters. He hadn’t closed off the northern passage or the Narrows as of yesterday morning, but he will as soon as they’re done moving troops. The Silver Molly is making sail for Boston, if you want to go back with her.”
“No, we still have to try,” Proctor said.
“There’s going to be fighting. You’d best think of your sister as well.”
The door to the tiny cabin creaked open, and Deborah stepped out. “His sister agrees. Our aunt is elderly, and she said she would wait for us. We have to reach her if we can. We’re not part of the battle, so we should be safe.”
“I wouldn’t count on that overmuch, miss,” Hammond said.
“How close can we get?” Proctor asked.
“I plan to sail north for the Narrows and land the men and supplies in time to help Colonel Glover. We could put you ashore near Oyster Bay. I don’t think we can get you any closer than that, and I won’t have the lady aboard once we pass Hell Gate. Black Dick’s ships are likely to fire on us anytime from that point south.”
The other sailors climbed back into their dinghy. The oars dug into the waves as they rowed back to their own ship. Proctor turned to Hammond and said, “How soon can we make it to Oyster Bay?”
Hammond shrugged. “That’ll depend on the winds.”
As he walked away, Deborah whispered to Proctor, “Now that I’m rested a bit, I think I smell a good wind coming.”
Deborah went to the mainmast and stood with her hand against it, and her head bowed in prayer. Several of the sailors and passengers gave her curious looks. When Cuff walked by, Proctor mumbled, “She’s very devout, prays every morning.”
He had the feeling that the sooner they were off the ship, the happier everyone would be. The sky lightened toward dawn, turning from indigo to steel gray in the east. Sunrise brought bits of clouds torn off a great mass like sheets ripped off a clothesline. The waves rose, slapping the sides of the ship as they shoved her forward. The sails snapped and billowed, pulling the ship on.
Deborah removed her hand from the mast. She looked drained, with dark circles under her eyes as if she had not slept at all the night before. One of the mates nearby yelled out orders, and she winced instantly—Proctor knew her head must be aching to burst.
“How do you do that?” Proctor whispered to her.
“You don’t want to know,” she said. “You don’t want to pay the price. I’ll be in the cabin, asleep in the hammock.”
She staggered off, barely able to keep her balance as the ship bounced over the waves. Proctor didn’t know if he could pay the price or not, but he wanted to know how she did it, he was sure of that much.
The ship sailed west that whole day, entering Long Island Sound. The long, low horizon was broken by frequent bays and sandbars covered by clouds of gulls. Small ships moved back and forth like birds skimming the waves. Shouting trumpets called out the latest news.
Deborah emerged late in the day, looking pale but a little more rested. “The British still haven’t commenced their attack,” Proctor told her. “It takes a long time to move thirty thousand men.”
“Maybe we’ll have time to reach Gravesend, find … our aunt, and escape again before they do,” she said. “I would like to be back at The Farm as soon as we can manage.”
“Yes,” Proctor said. “I’m worried about them too. There was a dolphin swimming along the ship a little while ago.”
“Oh!” Deborah ran to the railing. He joined her, pointing to the spot where it had last appeared. When the sleek nose pushed out of the water and the dolphin started sewing its way through the waves, Deborah’s face lit up like a lantern in a dark room.
Proctor found himself smiling with a glad heart for the first time in the longest time he could remember.
The wind whipped her hair out from under her cap, and he was tempted to reach up and catch it for her—he knew how
she liked to have everything orderly and just so. But brothers didn’t do that for sisters, and he kept his hands to himself.
It was in the hours before dawn when they set anchor in Oyster Bay like smugglers so they could go ashore.
“I’d wait until morning,” Hammond said. “But we can’t afford the delay.”
Cuff rowed the dinghy up onto a beach strewn with shells. Proctor climbed out of the boat and helped Deborah leap from the prow to the shore without soaking the hem of her dress.
“Which way do we go?” Proctor asked.
Cuff pointed over the dunes, past a gray, weatherworn house. “Go that way until you find the road. When it curves to the west, take the footpath south toward the ridge. It’s about nine miles to Jamaica Pass. From there, you’ll find King’s Road to Gravesend.”
“Good luck,” Proctor said.
“Same to you,” Cuff replied. He hesitated, then leaned forward and offered Proctor his hand. “Hope you make it a ways before she stops to do her morning prayers.”
Proctor smiled as he shook the other man’s hand, then helped push the boat back into the waves. Deborah hiked across the wide, flat stretch of sand.
“The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go home,” she said. “I don’t want to leave my students in Magdalena’s hands any longer than I must.”
“Why do you have such a problem with Magdalena? Your mother trusted her to teach. She knows a thing or two about the talent.”
“It’s the wrong things. She knows protective charms to keep your milk cow from the dropsy, or how to heal your baby from an ague, but what can she do against power wielded by the likes of that southern woman? She ran out of the house in fear the night she found that black altar. My mother died chasing after her.”
Proctor understood. Deborah didn’t trust Magdalena because she blamed the old Dutch woman for her mother’s death. “If Magdalena hadn’t woken and run outside in a panic, everyone would have died,” Proctor said.
Deborah’s hand knotted into a fist and slammed into her pocket. But after a moment, she said, “Maybe you’re right.”
“Have you given thought to how we’re going to get home?” Proctor asked.
Given a practical problem, she relaxed. “The Lake family has served as guides on the highway, I know that much. I’m hoping that if we make contact with them, we can follow Friends north until we reach home.” She stumbled over a rut in the road, but caught herself before she fell. “There will be a lot more walking, I expect.”
“Walking’s not so bad if the company’s right. How many guides on the highway, do you know?”
So she told him about the Quaker Highway. She started with her earliest memories, traveling with her father as a small girl when he guided witches to new locations, because a man, a woman, and a child together were invisible, unlike a man and woman. The night raced by while they traded stories and covered the miles to Jamaica Pass. Deborah laughed several times, and Proctor found himself smiling more often.
Dawn pressed up against the windowpane of the sky, peeking over the horizon as they passed through lightly forested hills very close to the pass. Birds sang in the trees. Deborah stopped to inhale the fragrant white blossoms clustered thick on a climbing vine.
“I swear you’d stuff a mattress with those if you could,” Proctor said with a laugh. “What flower is it, that you love it so?”
There was just enough light in the sky to see her blush. “You’re mocking me,” she said.
“No, really I don’t know. What is it called?”
“Virgin’s bower,” she said.
She dropped the blossoms in her hand. When she looked up at him again, with all the wariness and worry erased from her face, his heart wanted to spill out of his chest. For the moment, he felt like they had become man and woman again instead of brother and sister. He held out his hand for her.
Her fingers were outstretched to clasp his when they heard the tramp of boots on the road. They yanked their hands back and stepped out of the way as a unit of British troops approached.
“Who goes there?” the British officer shouted at them as his men set up a barrier across the road.
“Who are you?” Deborah asked. The hard lines had returned to her face. “We’re on our way home.”
“Hurry on, then,” he said. “You’ll want to keep your heads down and stay out of the way today, miss. God save the king.”
“God save us all,” Deborah said, picking up her skirts and hurrying past them.
“I don’t know the land hereabouts,” Proctor said quietly when they had passed the soldiers. “But Redcoats, this far north, it can’t be good. Do we continue to Gravesend or do we try to help Washington’s army?”
Before she could answer, they heard the tramp of more feet. There was a crossroads just ahead. Files of Redcoats passed through, followed by horses pulling gun carriages. There were so many, an overwhelming number. Suddenly guns boomed in the east, startling the birds to silence.
Proctor met Deborah’s gaze. “If the British win this battle,” he said, “the Revolution will be dead in the cradle. The Covenant will have the victory it wants.”
“We can slip behind the British,” she said. “Make our way to Gravesend.”
Proctor shook his head. “Why don’t you go?” he said. “The roads will be safe behind the lines. Or you can wait here for me, at the tavern down the road. But I have to go see what I can do to help.”
“What difference can one man make in a battle of thousands?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I have to do something. I won’t feel right if I don’t. If I can’t make any difference, I’ll turn around and come back.”
She looked angry enough to strangle him. “If you’re going, I’ll come too. Lead us where we need to go.”
He turned west and cut through the woods along a trail that followed the line of the ridge. The trail reminded him of the race through the countryside during the battles of Lexington and Concord. The sound of guns and artillery echoed over the hills. From their vantage, Proctor and Deborah could see the British take position on the hillside. A group of Americans advanced on the road below, unaware of the danger.
The familiar cry of “Ready! Aim!” sounded from the hillside. The Americans would be cut to pieces.
Deborah stretched out her arms. At the cry of “Fire!” she flung her hands into the air as though she were tossing seed.
Fire jetted from the ends of the British guns. One American pitched backward, and another fell, spinning, but most of the lead whistled overhead, tearing up the leaves and branches. The Americans beat a quick retreat to cover, and Deborah collapsed to her knees.
Proctor’s knees felt shaky at her display of power. He rushed to lift her to her feet.
“It’s no use,” she said. “I don’t have the strength or focus to move all that lead every time they fire.”
On the opposite hillside, the British fired a second volley at the retreating Americans. Despair marked Deborah’s face.
“Come on,” Proctor said. “We’ll try to find some spot where we can make a difference.”
Easier said than done. They scrambled along the top of the ridge, chasing the battle and trying to catch up with the American retreats. Eager to make a difference, Proctor pushed forward too far. As soon as he heard lead ripping through the leaves around his ears, he dragged Deborah to the ground and rolled under the edge of a log. They cowered there for what felt like an hour while shot whistled overhead and thudded into the deadwood that sheltered them. Then artillery began to fall, shaking the ground again and again. Every time the ground shook, Deborah stifled a cry and pressed herself against the flimsy shield of Proctor’s body. The only sounds that broke through the thunder of the guns were the cries of the wounded on the hillside below them.
Finally, the shelling stopped. Still Proctor shielded Deborah with his own body, and they didn’t move until the shelling resumed farther up the road. They stumbled to their feet, covered w
ith leaves and twigs. Deborah had dirt smeared across her face. Proctor took hold of her arm to lead her away from the battle. She pulled away and stood transfixed. A line of abandoned dead stretched along the road away from them. At the edge of their view, a small group of Americans no bigger than ants defended a wooded knoll.
“What we just went through,” she said, absently brushing twigs from her dress. “That’s what they …”
“They can shoot back,” Proctor said. “Which is more than we could do. Let’s go.”
“No,” Deborah whispered. “I need to see this.”
The Redcoats flanked the knoll and moved artillery into position. The monotony of the gun and cannon resumed, and soon dead men littered the hillside under the trees like pieces of fallen, broken fruit. Proctor could not bear to watch, and turned away.
“Was this what it was like for you?” she asked. “At Lexington, at Bunker Hill?”
Proctor remembered watching old Robert Munroe fall in the first volley on Lexington Green, and seeing his friend Amos Lathrop die at Bunker Hill. “A bit,” he said. His body ached as if he’d been reaping hay all day. “But this is twentyfold, thirtyfold larger.”
Deborah held her face in her hands. “No,” she said.
“We can’t do anything,” he said. “It’s too big.”
“No, I do not accept this.” The set of her mouth was angry, but tears ran down her cheeks. “I do not.”
She pulled her cap off her head and crawled on her hands and knees, sweeping aside leaves and grasses to form a circle. Then she found a damp spot in the ground and scooped up fresh mud, which she smeared on her cheeks and face.
Proctor thought maybe she had gone mad. “Deborah?”
“You stay right here beside me, all the way through this,” she said. “You promise me you’ll stay right here.”
“I’ll stay,” he said, shaken.
She knelt with her hands clasped in front of her for prayer and tilted her head to the sky. “Behold, waters rise up out of the north,” she said. “And shall be an overwhelming flood, and shall overflow the land, and all therein.”