walked fast along the road toward the farm, but when I neared it I cut off through the stubble field and came back at the stream so that I wouldn't see where our house had been.
Quarme was standing in the doorway of Purdy's mill. He was looking up at the stormy sky, his scrawny neck stretched out and his bony head raised up. He glanced at me with his wild, forest-cat eyes, but didn't let on that he saw me. Nor did I let on that I saw him.
Yet seeing him there in the doorway brought back all the bitter memories of my father's death. I couldn't get them out of my mind. Even after the mill was far behind,
I kept thinking of the night that Ben Birdsall had descended upon us.
The sky cleared toward dusk. I came to some oak trees and went far back in the grove and made a small fire, using the tinder Mrs. Jessop, unbeknownst to me, had put in my bundle. I was well off the traveled road to the ferry, so I didn't worry about being seen. I ate the last of the loaf I had taken from the tavern.
Afterward I got out the Bible. By firelight I read from Matthew. I came to Chapter 5, verse 44, and read, "But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you."
I read aloud. The words sounded strange in the darkening grove. They hung above me and drifted away. I heard an owl speak softly. I read the verse again, leaning down to see by the dying fire.
"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you," I read.
The words sounded strange to my ears, stranger than they had before. I looked at the fire and saw my father standing at the doorway. Birdsall was holding a light, and his mob behind him was tossing a flaming torch into the dry hayloft. I saw Quarme standing beside me, tying my hands behind me.
Through the trees the stars were shining now. They looked cold and far away. I threw a stick on the fire. I said aloud from memory, "And pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you." But I saw before me David Whitlock leaning over the rail of the
Scorpion,
calling down to me the word of my brother's death. I heard the shot from the Hessian's musket and Sergeant McCall shouting, and his footsteps above me as I crouched in the cellar.
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
I N 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
Quarme was standing in the doorway of Purdy's mill. He was looking up at the stormy sky, his scrawny neck stretched out and his bony head raised up. He glanced at me with his wild, forest-cat eyes, but didn't let on that he saw me. Nor did I let on that I saw him.
Yet seeing him there in the doorway brought back all the bitter memories of my father's death. I couldn't get them out of my mind. Even after the mill was far behind,
I kept thinking of the night that Ben Birdsall had descended upon us.
The sky cleared toward dusk. I came to some oak trees and went far back in the grove and made a small fire, using the tinder Mrs. Jessop, unbeknownst to me, had put in my bundle. I was well off the traveled road to the ferry, so I didn't worry about being seen. I ate the last of the loaf I had taken from the tavern.
Afterward I got out the Bible. By firelight I read from Matthew. I came to Chapter 5, verse 44, and read, "But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you."
I read aloud. The words sounded strange in the darkening grove. They hung above me and drifted away. I heard an owl speak softly. I read the verse again, leaning down to see by the dying fire.
"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you," I read.
The words sounded strange to my ears, stranger than they had before. I looked at the fire and saw my father standing at the doorway. Birdsall was holding a light, and his mob behind him was tossing a flaming torch into the dry hayloft. I saw Quarme standing beside me, tying my hands behind me.
Through the trees the stars were shining now. They looked cold and far away. I threw a stick on the fire. I said aloud from memory, "And pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you." But I saw before me David Whitlock leaning over the rail of the
Scorpion,
calling down to me the word of my brother's death. I heard the shot from the Hessian's musket and Sergeant McCall shouting, and his footsteps above me as I crouched in the cellar.
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
I N 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
Similar Books
