Sarah Bishop

  I got to my feet. I felt like screaming, but I read the verse again. The words were dead, cold as the stars in the heavens above.

  I held the book open and carefully ripped the page from Matthew and laid it in the fire. The words stood out for a moment, black against the embers. The paper was thin. It made a small blue flame. The flame flickered and died away.

  17

  IN THE MORNING I took to the road again and reached the Connecticut ferry as the sun came up. The ferryman was a knobby little man with a broad smile and few teeth, dressed in a cast-off British jacket. He remembered me from the year before, when Chad and Father and I had gone across the sound to buy a brood sow. He wanted to know how my folk were. I told him that they were dead and how they had died. It made me feel better to talk. Not much, but some.

  "Where're you going?" he asked as he pushed the boat away from the shore. "To White Plains?"

  "Beyond."

  "Beyond's a big place."

  "Beyond," I said.

  He glanced at me as if he thought I was not right in the head.

  "Well," he said, "wherever you go, you shouldn't go alone. These are bad times." He brought me a cup of tea and a bun and disappeared, leaving me to tend the rudder. When he came back he carried a musket. "Of course, a girl like you shouldn't be traveling at all, but since you are, here's a good companion to take along."

  He held out the musket.

  "I got this off a British deserter. She's a little old; had her barrel trimmed off a bit at the muzzle where she wore thin. But she shoots straight. I've tried her. Good up to eighty paces and better, depending on who's shooting. Please note the butt and stock; made of the purest maple heartwood. And the wooden ramrod tipped with brass. Pretty as a plum. She's called a Brown Bess. All the British soldiers carry her into battle."

  He took aim at a seagull that was hovering overhead.

  "Comes with a nice brass chain, prickers, and brush for cleaning touchhole and pan."

  He handed the musket over. "Take care she's primed."

  I held the gun to my shoulder and sighted away at nothing. It felt heavy at first. Then I thought of how if I pressed the curled-up trigger a ball would go flying out faster than ever the eye could see. Suddenly the musket felt light in my hands.

  "Everything," the ferryman said. "Brown Bess, prickers and brush, flint and patches, all for the small sum of two pounds, six. And I'll throw in a bag of powder to boot."

  "I have one pound and five shillings in English money. The rest's in Continental paper."

  "Let's see the paper."

  I took it out and laid it in his hand.

  "This five-dollar certificate for the support of the Continental troops issued in Georgia is worthless. I have a pailful of them. But I'll take the one printed in August of this year by the convention of New York, to be paid in ten Spanish-milled dollars. At some discount, of course. If you'll kindly give over the English pound, we have struck a bargain."

  I had little left now of the money I'd saved at the Lion and Lamb, but I would be able to earn more as I went along. The ferryman had called the Brown Bess a "good companion." That was the way I looked at the musket now—as a companion.

  "Have you ever shot a gun?" the ferryman asked.

  "No."

  "I'll teach you. I'll set the tiller. The breeze is light. We still have an hour before we reach shore. I'll empty her and we'll start from the beginning, one step at a time."

  He glanced around for the gull. It was out of sight, so he fired into the air. He showed me how to hold the musket under my arm, pour the powder into the barrel and tamp it down.

  "Gently but firm," he cautioned me. "Now you put in a patch, like this. Now place the butt against your foot. Press down with the ramrod. Now comes the ball. Good. Now a little powder in the pan. Good. You're ready to shoot."

  I aimed at another log we were passing.

  "Squint," he said. "You see better if you squint. And hold your breath as you pull the trigger."

  To my surprise the powder exploded. It set me back on my heels. My ears rang. I had missed the log by a mile, but the ferryman patted me on the shoulder anyway.

  "You'll be a sharpshooter before the year's out," he said.

  We nosed up to the Connecticut shore at noon. We had passed boats going over to Long Island, but I had seen none sailing in our direction.

  "If anyone comes asking for me," I said. "If they come here or over on Long Island, will you tell them that you haven't seen me?"

  "Who would this be?"

  "Two men. A sergeant named McCall and a Hessian. Two King's men. Sergeant McCall is wearing a green uniform."

  I told him what had happened to me.

  "I wouldn't worry," he said. "The British have a bloody war on their hands. They're far too busy to be running around looking for a girl."

  "But you'll say you haven't seen me, if they do come?"

  "I'll watch for them," the ferryman said. "Where will you be, in case?"

  "I don't know where," I said and took the road that led northward in the direction of White Plains. The musket I carried on my shoulder.

  18

  THE GOLDEN ARROW was about fifteen miles north of the ferry. There was a lot of travel on the road, especially from Long Island and the Sound. Whenever I heard horsemen approaching from that direction, I got off the road and hid in the trees until they passed.

  The tavern was owned by a Mr. Cochran. I looked for him to turn me down when I walked into the tavern and asked for work. He was playing billiards with a man in a brown wig.

  "I've had experience," I told Mr. Cochran. "Over on Long Island at the Lion and Lamb."

  "What kind?"

  "In the kitchen. I make bread and other things."

  "How are you as a table wench?"

  "I do that, too. But I'd prefer to work in the kitchen."

  Mr. Cochran examined me from head to toe.

  "Do you wish to live on the premises?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Do you plan to stay? The last serving wench was here but a week."

  "Longer," I said, but I didn't say how much longer because I didn't know.

  Mr. Cochran picked up a cue and rubbed chalk on the end of it. "You can start now. Bring my friend a punch, strong on the rum. You'll find the wherewithal in the bar, which is out the door and down the hall."

  I made his friend a rum punch. In fact, I made him four. Thereupon he got red in the face. He put his cue away and sat down to do a good bit of talking about how the British had driven the rebels out of New York City.

  "Now they're getting ready to drive them clean out of Connecticut," he said.

  He was drinking from a tall glass. In the bottom was an image of a fish. When his glass was empty, he would shout, "Fish out of water." Then I was supposed to run and fetch him another drink. I fetched him six altogether.

  "I saw General Washington riding around this morning over in White Plains," he said. "The general's getting ready to defend the town. He's got a lot of troops over there, but they're green as grass and poorly armed. The British will run them and the general out across the North River, those of them they don't kill."

  White Plains was less than three miles from the tavern. That night I couldn't go to sleep, thinking about the coming battle, hearing the sounds of cannon fire and musketry and men dying. The next day I left. Mr. Cochran wanted me to stay, but I left anyway, even though he refused to give me all of what he owed.

  It was now late in October. Winter was not far off. I didn't have enough money to keep me for long.

  There was a wig shop in the village that had a sign in the window asking for ladies' hair, blond hair preferred. I went in and had my hair cut off. It was of a fine texture, the proprietor said, and very long, so he gave me eleven shillings besides a white mob cap trimmed with pink lace to cover my shorn head.

  The day was clear and cold when I left the wig-maker's shop. The road northward was crammed with horsemen and carts and driven stock. Everyo
ne seemed to be in a hurry.

  19

  THAT NIGHT I stayed in a run-down tavern. I shared a room with three ladies who slept together in the one bed. It cost six shillings, but mine, a pallet on the floor, cost only sixpence.

  In the morning I started out at sunrise and was fortunate enough to find a ride on a cart going northward. The driver's name was Sam Goshen. He was a spare man who talked through his nose, which was very large and purplish. He wore a fringed hunting shirt belted with a rattlesnake skin.

  He was driving two oxen and a wagon heaped up with odds and ends of furniture and a bundle of furs. Tied behind were two cows and a piebald horse. He overtook me not far from the tavern. He pushed aside the shaggy, blue-eyed dog that sat beside him, and motioned for me to jump in.

  He said with a grin, "Where you bound?"

  If I had been truthful I would have answered, "I don't know where I'm going." Instead, I told him that I was on my way to Ridgeford.

  "Friends up there?" he asked. "Relatives?"

  "Some," I answered, untruthfully.

  "It's a lot safer farther up than hereabouts. There'll be a battle at White Plains, sure enough. A big one. Washington's got three thousand troops all forted up behind barricades, ready to fight. And the British have more. Twice as many, I hear. Lot of them Hessians."

  He took a swig of something from a jug. I guess it was Madeira because his false teeth had a darkish color, which men get from drinking that kind of wine, or that's what Mr. Pennywell told me once.

  "You seem fearful," Mr. Goshen said. "You keep lookin' backward all the time. The battle won't start right off. Maybe in a day or two. By then you won't be around anywhere."

  I did keep looking over my shoulder. It was silly, but I couldn't help myself.

  "How far away is Ridgeford?" I asked him.

  "A far piece. We could make it after nightfall if we pressed, however."

  "Does it have a tavern?"

  "Yes, but it costs. Two shillings a night just to sleep on the floor. Better to camp by the road and save."

  The oxen were slow and the road wound upward through hills. At sunset Mr. Goshen pulled off into a clump of sycamores. I gathered my belongings and got down from the wagon. He kindled a fire, then milked one of the cows.

  "Pleased to have you stay for a bite of supper," he said. "Ridgeford is most of two miles north of here."

  "I'll be going," I said. "Thank you for the ride. I'll be glad to pay you what it's worth."

  "Wouldn't think of takin' money, especially from a pretty girl like you." Mr. Goshen brought out a slab of bacon and cut two big slices and put them in a skillet over the fire. "You're more than welcome to stay," he said.

  I thanked him again. I put the bundle on my back, the Brown Bess under my arm, and set off for the road. As I circled the fire, Mr. Goshen suddenly reached out and took hold of my arm. At first I thought it was a friendly gesture. Then I saw his eyes. In the fading light they were pink like a rabbit's.

  "Sorry to see you go," he said. "It would be nice if you stayed to eat. A man hates to eat alone."

  I tried to pull away.

  "No use kickin' up a fuss," he said. "I don't aim to do you no harm."

  I felt limp and helpless.

  "No harm at all."

  I tried to wrench myself free, but he grasped my other arm and pressed me hard against the wagon. I felt the steel rim of a wheel in my back. The bundle and my musket fell on the ground.

  "Now, now," he whispered in a dovelike voice. His breath smelled of wine. "Calm yourself, miss."

  The little blue-eyed dog began to bark.

  "What's a girl doin' on the road if she don't have ideas?" Sam Goshen asked.

  I tried to answer, but he interrupted me.

  "Ain't right for a girl to go paradin' herself around the country," he said.

  Two horsemen were riding up the road toward Ridgeford.

  "Ain't right."

  The little dog began to snap at my legs. Goshen gave it a kick.

  The musket lay on the ground in back of him, one short step away.

  "Ain't right at all," Goshen said and started to fumble with my bodice.

  By chance, in doing so, he knocked my cap off. A look of surprise came over his face as he caught sight of my shaven head. He gasped.

  During the brief moment he took to overcome what he saw, I lunged for the musket and grasped it by the stock. I pointed it at him. The trigger was at half-cock and I put it at full-cock. The sound came loud in the quiet dusk.

  His piebald horse was tethered nearby. I untied it and put my bundle across its back and mounted. I kept the musket pointed at Goshen all the time.

  "I'll leave your horse at the tavern," I said to him and rode away.

  The little dog came after me, barking, but Sam Goshen stayed by the fire. There was still light far down in the west. I made good time toward Ridgeford village.

  20

  AFTER I HAD put Goshen's horse in the stable, I found a room in the tavern. The floor was occupied by four women, so I had to sleep in bed with two others, which cost me a shilling extra. I woke up at daylight, not knowing where I was. I had the feeling that I was unable to do anything. I couldn't make up my mind about anything, even getting out of bed.

  Finally, I wandered outside to the kitchen, where a fire was burning and a young Negro woman was making cookies. She had rolled out a slab of yellow dough, enough to cover the top of a table, and was stamping it out with a tin cutter—click, click, click.

  She didn't look up when I came in but went on stamping the dough. I asked her what sort of country lay to the west.

  "There's a big river over there," she said. "I crossed it two weeks ago."

  "How far?"

  "Twenty miles. Twenty-five. I don't know."

  "What's between us and the river?"

  "Between? Nothing but what's wild."

  "Do people live there?"

  "None that 'mounts to much, I'd say. A red Indian or two. Maybe more, but that's all I saw."

  The woman put the cookies on a tray and stuffed them into the oven.

  "They bake quick. Please remind me," she said. "I'll get you a breakfast."

  She looked at me for the first time. She was standing on one side of the hearth and the firelight shone full on her. She was young, younger than I had taken her for, thin with light-colored eyes and a small mouth that seemed to smile without smiling.

  A description I had read before in the Lion and Lamb tavern flashed into my mind. It read:

  Negress wanted! Five feet, six inches in height, or slightly more. Twenty-two years old. Slender, two of front teeth crooked, hazel eyes, soft voice. Generous offer of 50 pounds for return of this runaway. John Clinton, Brandon Plantation, Edenton, North Carolina.

  The description fit the young woman who stood looking at me. Should I tell her what I had seen or keep quiet? If I were she, would I want to know? It was possible that she did know. I thought I saw a fearful look in her eyes, and then decided that it was the firelight casting a shadow. I kept silent.

  "Where you from?" she asked.

  "Long Island," I said.

  "You been traveling in a hurry or anything?"

  "In a hurry, yes."

  "I don't ask why. That's your business. Everybody's traveling these days, one reason or another. In a hurry."

  I reminded her that the cookies were ready to take out of the oven. She gave me some and poured me a mug of wintergreen tea. The cookies had hickory nuts hidden in them.

  She said, "Have you seen me before? You act that way."

  "Never."

  Her gold earrings glittered in the firelight.

  "Ever read about me? You know, the notices they put up on the wall sometimes. About soldiers deserting and slaves running."

  "Yes. In a tavern."

  "Where?"

  "The Lion and Lamb on Long Island."

  "That's how far?"

  "A day and more by horseback and the ferry."

  "Th
at's close." She had a soft voice and a slow way of speaking. "I guess I had better be moving. From what you say. I been moving since last spring, before the cotton bloomed. I'm tired. Do you ever get tired?"

  "Yes."

  "So tired you could sit down and weep?"

  "No, not sit down and weep," I said, thinking of Quarme and Ben Birdsall and Captain Cunningham and Sergeant McCall, the black-faced Hessian, and Sam Goshen. "I want to stand up and shoot somebody."

  The woman glanced at my musket leaning against the table.

  "I never was that mad," she said. "Never was."

  She put the cookies in a jar, except for two, which she wrapped in a cloth. She went to a cubbyhole next to the kitchen and came out with a bundle the size of mine.

  "I'll trade places," I said.

  "I never felt that way," she answered. "I don't feel like trading with nobody."

  I thought about the wild country she had seen. "That wilderness land, was it pretty?"

  "Prettiest I ever looked at. Lakes and water running. Wild, though."

  "It sounds like a place you could sit down and not be bothered."

  "You wouldn't sit much, with all the work you'd need to do. But from what I saw, you won't be bothered none. Not much."

  At this moment, as I stood talking to the black girl, I made my mind up. I was sick and confused and weary of fleeing. But I was afraid to stay in the village because of the British soldiers. And I really didn't want to stay here, whether they came looking for me or not. I wanted to be by myself. I would go into the land we were talking about, the wilderness land that lay between the village and the big river. I had fled far enough.

  21

  ACROSS THE ROAD was a two-storied sundry shop, painted white, with a sign over the door—THOMAS MORTON & SON. With the money I had left, I purchased a long-hafted ax, a scoop of flour, some sweetening, enough salt to last, two thick blankets, and gunpowder and shot.