Chapter 4
The next afternoon Sabine planted some bean seeds she had received from the trade. The sun beat on her neck just beneath the cap containing her coiled braid. She flinched at every sound the men made as they prepared to excavate dirt for the wretched walls they’d build. How could Papa be so welcoming to that Lieutenant Bennington, enough to include him on their special evening last night?
When she questioned him, he only shrugged her off, stating that he was wise enough to know a suitable match for his daughter. Moeder declared that the man proved worthy in his singing the psalm in a heartfelt way. Sabine refused to agree that he was anything more than a nuisance to them all. Today, with the ruckus of his garrison, her own words rang the truest among the Van Der Bergs.
“Sabine!” Moeder called in a shaky voice from the window. “It is coming on.”
The seeds fell from Sabine’s apron as she sprang up and ran to the window. “Moeder, you must catch your breath.” The tiny woman was fanning herself with the wicker trivet Father had made to protect the board table from hot dishes and pans. Her face was blanched, and she sucked in air in quick short breaths. Sabine reached through the window and grabbed her shoulders. During these episodes, Moeder calmed more quickly if she was held in place—instead of falling into the abyss of her dark world.
“I cannot manage with the noise. It is all changing, it is.” She whined like a child. Her mouth sagged in a defeated frown.
Sabine clenched her teeth. “Moeder, nothing has changed on our property. Do not be concerned by these men. I’ve saved our garden. There’s nothing else to be done.” A convulsion of shaking overcame her mother and she sank to the stool beneath the window. “Please, Moeder, all will be well.”
But Sabine feared it wouldn’t be. Over her shoulder, men crawled along the sweeping land, building a defense because of a different fear—one that involved greed and entitlement.
Lieutenant Bennington appeared from the riverbank, his shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows and a large spade slung across his shoulders. Wisps of his shoulder-length hair fell from the tied locks gathered at his neck. He did not look like a superior to these men, but a strapping hard worker, charging the ground with each powerful step.
Sabine captured her amazement of this creature and swallowed it back, allowing objection to coat her tongue instead. “I shall return shortly.” She stormed across the garden and flung open the gate. All the while, Lieutenant Bennington continued forward on the disturbed land with focus and strength.
“Excuse me, sir.” Sabine planted herself on higher ground.
The lieutenant plunged his spade into the earth beside a mound of loose soil, then glanced up at her, one eye closed against the bright sun and the other eye narrowed but gleaming. “Miss Van Der Berg, it looks like we are both hard at work this day.” He smiled and studied her face then her apron.
Aware that he was referring to her disheveled appearance, she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. A grainy film smeared across her skin. How might she appear to him? But a loud call from one of the men atop a batoe dissolved any insecurity about how she looked.
“Lieutenant Bennington, must your men be so loud and unruly as they work?”
“There is not much to be done about that, Miss Van Der Berg.”
“If I came beside your very home and made an ungodly ruckus, you would certainly not appreciate such inconsideration.” She ground her fists into her hips. “I expect you to have some sort of care during this upheaval of our peace.”
“Do you expect us to whisper?” His face beamed with jest.
“I … I …” A fire spread up her neck—a mix of humiliation and fury. “I believe you could try to … to take more care in your work … for the sake of—” Her lip began to quiver. All the anger puddled into sorrow for the poor blind woman whose darkness became darker with every unknown.
Lieutenant Bennington approached her square-on, dropping his tool from his hand and discarding his cheeky expression. “For the sake of?” His voice lowered. Sabine tugged at the turned-up wings of her cap, trying to calm the storm inside her—tears bubbling, throat burning. He lifted a hand and cupped Sabine’s elbow. “I apologize if I’ve upset you.”
“You do not realize the toll this takes on Moeder. She has lived in a place that is constant, untouched. The noise, the destruction—” She refused to weep in front of this man. She backed away.
“Miss Van Der Berg, I cannot—” He lunged and wrapped his arm around her, pushing her behind him.
“What is it?” She swiveled around and gripped his arm so as not to fall back by his force.
“Something flew from the wood.” He lifted his hand to his brow. Sabine peered over his shoulder, his soft shirt cool against her cheek. He glanced down at her. His mouth was so close to her forehead that she could feel his warm breath. She was lost in his bright brown eyes for but a second, until he turned his whole body toward her and took her by both arms. “You must stay here while I inspect what I saw.” His grasp was firm. She tried to squirm and demand he let her go, but she could only nod, derailed by the stampede unleashed in her chest.
He marched toward the patch of clover between her garden and the southern bend of the forest. “Hallo there!” he called into the thick of trees.
Everything became silent around Sabine. The men behind her, the beat of her heart, the trapped breath in her throat. Only the birdsong and the river current imposed themselves amid the alarmed crowd.
Lieutenant Bennington inspected the ground around him with his chin only slightly dipped. His shoulders were square and his posture upright. His hands were clenched by his thighs, as if he were at attention. He was a soldier, after all. And he maintained cautious surveillance as he investigated a disturbance he no doubt imagined.
Sabine’s senses came about, and she considered interrupting the search. Gathering her skirt, she stepped forward. The lieutenant broke his stance and crouched, grabbed at something, then swiftly rose again. She paused.
He turned around and barreled toward the work site with whatever he’d discovered held behind his back.
“Lieutenant Bennington, what is it?”
“It is exactly what I feared, and why we are called here.”
“I do wonder if you are reading into things.” Sabine could not think of one thing that would prove the need for a fortress. Not after years of peaceful trade with the Iroquois. Even the disputes with the French were said to be only heated in the form of handwritten aggression between the Kings’ men.
“But you see, Miss Van Der Berg.” The bright sunshine shone on his flinching jaw. “This is hardly something to read into.” He presented an arrow from behind his back. Hanging limp and ragged from beyond the flint head was a piece of the British flag. “What else might it declare except hostility?”
Sabine snatched it from him.
“Are you certain those Frenchmen hold no persuasion over your … friends?” His eyebrow hooked over a questioning countenance.
“Perhaps another tribe has found fault against you, but Apenimon’s tribe is nearly family to my own.”
The man tried to take the arrow away from her, but Sabine held her arm out to the side. “If you please, I shall seek answers about this … this signal.” She shoveled in a jagged breath. “I will get to the bottom of this myself.”
“I shall come with you, Sabine.”
Her breath caught as he spoke her name.
His bright eyes rounded with regret. “Forgive me, Miss Van—”
“Sir, I do not need your protection.”
Before he could say anything more, she edged around him and started toward home. “I shall return this to you once I find the truth of its story,” she called out, waving the arrow above her head.
Dread filled her with every step away from the handsome lieutenant. He’d caught her off guard with his casual use of her name, his obvious concern for her safety, and his towering presence among the other men. But mostly her anxiety ran deep
because this arrow was not strange or unfamiliar—it was indeed the same design of those arrows Sabine had been taught to shoot by her Iroquois friends.
The distant thumps of drums traveled through the birch, elm, and hickory stands, landing on Jacob’s ears like soft heartbeats. He took the last swig of his drink then tossed his wooden mug into the pail at the edge of their fire. Tonight the men did not eat on the shore with the Van Der Bergs. They had chosen to dine in a central gathering place within the walls of the fort. His men’s tents sat between the lake and the new construction.
Jacob stood up and stretched his arms above his head.
Lieutenant Wilson approached him. “Good evening, Bennington.” They’d barely spoken. The man was clear that although they were equal in rank, Jacob was to direct only his men. “It appears that your men work quickly. I fear for the quality of the job.”
“They are strong and capable, Lieutenant Wilson. The very best for efficiency.”
“I do wonder on the material. Clay?”
“Aye. I was concerned at first, but my mason is confident in his work. He promised it would save the colony money in the long run.” Michael was a trusted friend, one who’d seen him at his worst when his wife left. Even if the doubts from the older lieutenant resonated with Jacob’s own, his allegiance was to the head mason above all else.
“Surely five hundred pounds would have provided stone.” The old lieutenant strode alongside the newly dug trenches for the foundation. “We wonder if the trade is worth this. We’ve been here a long time. Our patience wanes. More and more, we discover the French edging in on our territory, compromising our good relations with the Iroquois. They bribe them and take advantage of the native people. We are aware of the well-equipped French forts to the north and west—a seemingly grand legion compared to our speck of British presence on this southern shore.”
“Ah, but you do receive our help now. We are here to grow that speck.” Jacob patted the man’s shoulder, trying to show some camaraderie. “And the Van Der Bergs are close to the nearby Iroquois. I believe that adds to our security.”
“You know little of that tribe. Although they are loyal traders with us, French blood has mixed with theirs. The daughter of a clan mother married one of the Frenchmen at Niagra. They do not care as much for French goods as they care to keep diplomacy with the French.” Lieutenant Wilson hung his head and kicked at a rock. “We use them for their furs, and they use us for our inexpensive goods. But can we be certain that they aren’t swayed by the giant?”
“That is not to be of concern, Lieutenant Wilson.” Sabine appeared in the dusk, the strawberry tint of her hair shining bright in the firelight. She bit her lip then gave a quick curtsy. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but we are their allies. As the whole confederacy of the Iroquois are ours.”
Jacob tipped his hat to the lady. “Miss Van Der Berg, I trust you have assuring news about the recent discovery we made this afternoon.”
She retrieved the piece of the British flag from her apron pocket. “Here you are, sir.”
He took the flimsy material and held it up between them. “Well?” The hair stood on the back of his neck. The desecrated flag, with a hole ripped in its center by an arrowhead, flapped in the breeze. The skepticism of the old lieutenant began to crawl into Jacob’s own senses.
Sabine pursed her lips, and her nostrils flared. “Of course, there is nothing to worry about. A young boy was practicing and accidently caught this piece that had been tangled in the branches of a tree from earlier expeditions.” She shook her head, a strand of hair brushing her nose.
“Is that so, Miss Van Der Berg?”
Why was she not looking directly at him, but at his shaven chin?
“Yes.” She crossed her arms, bouncing a look between both lieutenants. “Apenimon explained so himself.”
Lieutenant Wilson grunted and swatted his hand. “You and that Apenimon. He is but one man among thousands. I will be satisfied only when our walls are built up. Until then, I will prepare for the worst.” He trudged toward the fort.
“It seems that Lieutenant Wilson does not trust your friend.” Jacob sidestepped into Sabine’s line of sight.
Her eyes widened, taking him in with a curious look. “Apenimon means ‘worthy of trust’, and he has proven himself as such, always. The old lieutenant is getting his way, isn’t he? He wanted your walls.”
“My walls—the governor’s walls, more like it.” He rubbed his shoulder, the soreness from a day’s work pulsating beneath his coat. “We have started our work. When will you stand up to your end of the bargain?”
“Did I not already?” She snatched the piece of flag from his fingers and waved it about. “I am at your beck and call, it seems.” She gave a dramatic curtsy.
He chuckled. The laughter strained his aching muscles but lightened his mood. “Well, if I recall, the bargain was that you would help teach me the ways of this land, not act as my errand girl.”
“Errand girl? I should hope not.” Her mouth dropped open.
“When might you learn anything while working all day?”
He shrugged and began to walk toward her cabin. He paused, offering her his elbow.
She considered, then slipped her hand onto his arm. “I believe the first thing you must learn is not to listen to that old man. He will just scare you into building your walls even higher.”
He laughed again. “Very well. Have you any ideas for our first lesson?”
“Learning the language is a good place to start. ‘The words of a man’s mouth are as deep waters, and the wellspring of wisdom as a flowing brook.’ ”
“Proverbs. Yes, that is a wise place to start.” He slipped his hand over hers. Her fingers flinched. He pulled his hand away, and she spun toward him. “Forgive me.” He grimaced. She was a young woman, wise to this land, but lived a life secluded from flirtatious gestures, no doubt. He should not confuse her with such forwardness.
She studied him. “Will you have time to learn, Lieutenant? Your daughter waits for you, after all.”
“I hope to go to her, then bring her here.” He glanced around the place. “You’ve proven that a girl can grow to be a woman here.”
“I have. And there is no other place I would rather have spent my childhood.” Her chest lifted with a full breath. “This is home to me.”
Home? His was far away, in England. But the bad memories destroyed it.
“Well then, Miss Sabine Van Der Berg,” he said, holding his elbow out again. “I hope you do not mind teaching me the language of your old home—and my … new one.” He forced a smile, even though his throat was tight with the heartache of loss and distance from his daughter.
She smiled back and took his arm.
Even though this woman was unlike any other woman he’d met before, for the first time in a long while, he was content amid everything that remained unfinished.
Chapter 5
Summer 1741
Sabine wiped the back of her neck with a handkerchief, tempted to cast off her bonnet and dip her head in the cool shallows of the river. After Saturday’s midday meal, they’d journeyed south to their favorite fishing spot. With Lieutenant Bennington by her side for his fishing lesson, she knew best to attain a certain propriety, enduring the heat with her thin cap clinging to her sweaty hair. Moeder often said, “We might be far from the etiquette of a fine society, but we are still part of such, and you, Sabine, will remain a lady.”
Sabine discreetly glanced over at the wood, down the river, and back again. There was nothing to be afraid of—she knew that. But ever since Apenimon’s guarded response about the arrow and the flag, she wondered if the lieutenant’s concern held any validity. Of course she had relayed what Apenimon had guessed at what might have occurred—a young boy piercing the flag during archery practice—but she omitted that it had only been a guess.
However, a month passed without another incident, at least of the suspicious kind. Each Saturday Sabine sat with Lieutenant Be
nnington and taught him the native language, usually over a meal, with men about. And after each lesson, she found herself in an unsettling routine—a regrettable stroll home laced with a giddy eagerness for the next lesson to begin.
She was a misguided arrow now, scouting briefly for any foul play but plummeting gleefully to focus only on this sunny afternoon reserved for the lieutenant’s fishing lesson.
The strapping man standing beside her, his sleeves once again rolled up, possessed an unreserved demeanor, nothing like the gentlemen Moeder spoke about. The corner of his mouth inched upward into a lopsided grin as he admired the sharp stick her father had fashioned for him. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself.
She couldn’t restrain a snicker.
He turned to her, his eyes widened with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “Do you find me entertaining?”
Sabine straightened her shoulders and twirled her own stick between her fingers. “I find you—” She cocked her head. “Pleased with yourself.”
“I am.” He chuckled. “I’ve come from the hills of East Anglia to this wild countryside, using my bare hands to capture dinner.”
“Ha!” Sabine’s father blurted. “You might not be so pleased when you discover the skill it takes. If only the men had not left on their annual hunting trip. Apenimon would be your perfect teacher.”
“Papa, you are skilled as well.” Sabine waded through the water, her sopped hem weighted against the surface. The shimmering scales of a large trout caught her eye. Holding her breath, she leaned over, lifted her spear, and brought it down with controlled force as she’d been taught as a young girl. The fish sped away and her stick landed clumsily in the muddy bottom, thrusting her whole body forward.
Her father caught her by the elbow and helped her to stand upright. “Very close, Daughter.”
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