found some of her old toys, which she gave to the children to play with in the main room. Sarah’s eyes went wide when she saw the baby doll Elizabeth had made out of scraps from her needlework.
“Go on, take it,” Enid urged. Ezekiel had no such compunctions taking the wooden top and blocks she handed him.
While the fat rendered in a big pot on the fire, Enid baked bread, and the sound of the children playing in the next room brought a smile to her lips for the first time in days.
The more distasteful and strenuous chores her father usually attended to fell to Bess and Aggie: she’d sent them to the west field to muck out the pigpen. The kitchen window was wide open in order to air out the overpowering smell of rendered fat. Enid looked outside, surprised to see a thick column of smoke rising from where the village was situated. It was no ordinary bonfire; that was clear from the size of it. A building must have caught fire. She rushed into the main room and hushed the children so she could listen. Faint pops and booms echoed through the chill afternoon air. Gunfire – and too much of it to attribute to someone out hunting in the area.
Frightened, she said, “Children, get your coat and shawl, quickly!”
She went back into the kitchen and taking the bucket of water from the corner, put out the fires in the hearth and the oven, filling the room with steam. She fanned the air with her apron until it cleared. After closing the window, she shoved the still warm loaves of bread into a sack and slipped a small knife into her pocket. Looking around, she hoped it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who came into the house that the occupants had recently left. She picked Ezekiel up and set him against her hip; he obligingly clung to her, his thin body weighing nearly nothing. She shooed Sarah out the front door and then grabbed her hand and ran, practically dragging the little girl along with her, to the west field.
Aggie and Bess had finished with the pigpen, and were on their way back to the house. Enid didn’t have to say a word; they’d seen the smoke and heard the gunfire and knew what it probably meant. Bess lifted Sarah into her arms and they all hurried towards the woods.
When Enid was twelve years old, her father brought her out here to a stand of mature trees. It was not long after the village had gotten news of what would one day be called The Boston Massacre.
“See this tree?” he’d asked. It was a stout oak near the middle of the grove.
“Yes, father.”
“Here be a good place ta hide should anyone come round the house ye’d need ta get away from, ye ken?”
She looked up, thinking he meant her to climb it and hide among the branches, but he walked around to the far side of the trunk, revealing a deep black hollow.
“It smells like a skunk den,” Enid said.
“Aye, it were. But I kilt the critters and plan to fix a door here so’s no one can tell it’s not part o’ the tree.”
Her father may not have been tender and caring, but he loved her in his way, and his solution to the practical matter of where to go should the enemy come knocking was inspired.
Enid wrestled with the door her father had fashioned from an old log. The iron hinges had rusted from years of being out in the elements, but it finally opened on the cobwebby darkness within. She hustled the children and servants into the crevasse, but Bess’ bulk took too much space and there wasn’t enough room for Enid.
“No, Miss, I’s the one should stay outside,” Bess said, but Enid would have none of it.
“Don’t fret, I’ll be fine. Stay hidden until I come for you.” She handed Aggie the sack of bread. “With luck they won’t come past the house anyway.”
Once she’d shut the door on them, she knelt to brush her hand over the dirt to obliterate their footsteps. For good measure, she gathered an armful of fallen leaves and scattered it over the dirt.
She decided to head for the creek, which would take her past the
“Go on, take it,” Enid urged. Ezekiel had no such compunctions taking the wooden top and blocks she handed him.
While the fat rendered in a big pot on the fire, Enid baked bread, and the sound of the children playing in the next room brought a smile to her lips for the first time in days.
The more distasteful and strenuous chores her father usually attended to fell to Bess and Aggie: she’d sent them to the west field to muck out the pigpen. The kitchen window was wide open in order to air out the overpowering smell of rendered fat. Enid looked outside, surprised to see a thick column of smoke rising from where the village was situated. It was no ordinary bonfire; that was clear from the size of it. A building must have caught fire. She rushed into the main room and hushed the children so she could listen. Faint pops and booms echoed through the chill afternoon air. Gunfire – and too much of it to attribute to someone out hunting in the area.
Frightened, she said, “Children, get your coat and shawl, quickly!”
She went back into the kitchen and taking the bucket of water from the corner, put out the fires in the hearth and the oven, filling the room with steam. She fanned the air with her apron until it cleared. After closing the window, she shoved the still warm loaves of bread into a sack and slipped a small knife into her pocket. Looking around, she hoped it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who came into the house that the occupants had recently left. She picked Ezekiel up and set him against her hip; he obligingly clung to her, his thin body weighing nearly nothing. She shooed Sarah out the front door and then grabbed her hand and ran, practically dragging the little girl along with her, to the west field.
Aggie and Bess had finished with the pigpen, and were on their way back to the house. Enid didn’t have to say a word; they’d seen the smoke and heard the gunfire and knew what it probably meant. Bess lifted Sarah into her arms and they all hurried towards the woods.
When Enid was twelve years old, her father brought her out here to a stand of mature trees. It was not long after the village had gotten news of what would one day be called The Boston Massacre.
“See this tree?” he’d asked. It was a stout oak near the middle of the grove.
“Yes, father.”
“Here be a good place ta hide should anyone come round the house ye’d need ta get away from, ye ken?”
She looked up, thinking he meant her to climb it and hide among the branches, but he walked around to the far side of the trunk, revealing a deep black hollow.
“It smells like a skunk den,” Enid said.
“Aye, it were. But I kilt the critters and plan to fix a door here so’s no one can tell it’s not part o’ the tree.”
Her father may not have been tender and caring, but he loved her in his way, and his solution to the practical matter of where to go should the enemy come knocking was inspired.
Enid wrestled with the door her father had fashioned from an old log. The iron hinges had rusted from years of being out in the elements, but it finally opened on the cobwebby darkness within. She hustled the children and servants into the crevasse, but Bess’ bulk took too much space and there wasn’t enough room for Enid.
“No, Miss, I’s the one should stay outside,” Bess said, but Enid would have none of it.
“Don’t fret, I’ll be fine. Stay hidden until I come for you.” She handed Aggie the sack of bread. “With luck they won’t come past the house anyway.”
Once she’d shut the door on them, she knelt to brush her hand over the dirt to obliterate their footsteps. For good measure, she gathered an armful of fallen leaves and scattered it over the dirt.
She decided to head for the creek, which would take her past the
Similar Books
