Scattered Seeds (16 page)

He had just enough pear to get the ox to the footpath.

“I say, get that filthy animal off the footpath,” a passerby said over her nose.

“Wind your neck in,” Edward replied.

She narrowed her eyes and stormed away.

The stubborn ox would make shopping for supplies difficult, and Edward had no more pears. If Henry and Donald didn’t make it back before the shops closed and the vendors packed up their goods, they would have to spend another day in Philadelphia. Henry would be fit for no man’s company, but Edward could not pass up an ox at such a low price.

A voice sounded behind him. “Of all the . . . No, it canny be. Edward? Edward McConnell?”

His real name.

He turned slowly to face a suntanned man of about five-and-twenty grinning on High Street. The man stood beside a mule loaded with packs and the longest firearm Edward ever saw. His natural hair was braided and decorated with colorful beads that matched the wide belt cinching his frock. A tomahawk hung by its neck from a loop there.

“I am at a loss, sir.” Edward stepped back against the ox, his heart in his throat. How did the well-armed Indian know his name?

The young man laughed. “Do ye not recognize your neighbor, man?” He strode onto the footpath, a powder horn and a leather pouch slapping at his chest.

Edward’s elation replaced his fear as he recognized the man.

“Dear God!” He raced forward, his hand outstretched. “Alexander MacFarlane, is that ye? I canny believe it. I canny believe it!”

Alexander gave Edward’s hand a hearty shake. “Do ye know how good it is to see someone from hame? I can scarcely take it in.”

“I thought ye an Injun!”

Alexander patted the hatchet at his thigh. “An Injun would nae introduce himsel’ so politely.”

“Ye’re a man now. How many years has it been?”

“Must be ten. Tell me, my folk . . . Are they well?”

“Aye, there was a drought this year, but your father’s lands lie low. He done well wi’ rye.”

“Good, good. I send letters, but nobody writes back.”

“They get them, and let me tell ye, sir, they are cherished. Henry used to read for them.”

“I wish they’d come. I keep telling them to, but ye know my father. Stubborn as the day is long. How long have ye been here, and what”—he glanced at the ox—“in the name of heaven are ye feeding yon ox? He’s ready to drop.”

Edward laughed. “Been here about a fortnight. And the ox would be dropping about now if I had nae saved him from the shambles. Got him for a pound. A bit of rest and grub will see him good as new. Where are ye set up, Alexander? Last we heard, ye were in the backcountry.”

“Still am, though French meddling forced me east, and then a terrible thing happened.”

“Aye?” Edward’s alarm grew.

“Aye, the worst.” Alexander’s eyes shimmered with devilment. “I took a wife, a right feisty one from Aberdeen. We’re expecting our first bairn.”

“Heavens, Alexander, this land has done well by ye, and it does me good to see it.”

“Aye, a man can live here, McConnell, truly live here. What luck to run into ye when I only came for a shipment of locks and springs and some seed for a neighbor.”

“Ye must know a lot of folk, Alexander.”

“Some.”

“I’m looking for a man from Lancaster County. Name’s George Gibson. Would ye know him?”

Alexander shook his head. “No, sorry, but Lancaster’s a big county. Dangerous these days, too. What business do ye have wi’ him?”

“It involves another neighbor of ours. Remember the Patterson girl?”

“James Patterson’s wee lassie?”

“Aye, God rest him. And she’s not so wee anymore.”

“He’s dead? James Patterson is dead?”

“Sailed as a redemptioner and died on the way o’er.”

“Surely no.”

“We spent o’er a week’s hard labor earning the money to pay for Mary’s fare, but we found oot today the merchant assigned her to another.”

“Gibson.”

“Aye.”

Alexander scratched his head “I know folk from Lancaster County, but none named George Gibson. I will ask around, though. Are ye staying in Philadelphia?”

Edward shook his head. “Heading to William’s.”

“I would rethink that. Any place past the Kittatinny is perilous these days. Rum and the French have the Injuns all fired up. They’ve been raiding the settlements and committing atrocities beyond a decent man’s understanding. More folk heading east these days than west. A first, I’d say.

“William’s cabin might already be burned, if not by the Injuns, then by the provincials themselves. They’ve been trying to make peace wi’ the Injuns by forcing men back from the frontier. Not an easy thing to do, since no man is willing to gi’ up the land he’s broken wi’ his own blood and sweat. There’s talk of forts being built near Harris’s, and a few more along the Juniata River. Not sure if that’ll help or hurt.

“Your William is unlikely to be at his cabin. I ran into him last spring at Shippen’s Burgh. He was heading west.”

Edward nodded. “He wrote and said he was moving on. Made no mention of the mess wi’ the Injuns, though. Said there were a few remaining near him, but they were friendly. He must have penned the letter before hell broke loose. What are we to do? We canny stay in Philadelphia when land awaits us, and I fear that further delay would only lead us to poverty and eventual indenture. I did nae force my son to leave his hame for that fate.” He rubbed his chin, worry gnawing at his belly.

Alexander said, “It is a difficulty shared by many. I hear Lancaster and Carlisle are teeming wi’ the displaced. They sleep in barns, wood sheds, anything wi’ a roof, and sometimes wi’ no roof at all. I shall nae stand for ye to suffer that fate. Ye must come wi’ me. My wife and I will happily take ye in.”

Edward shook his head. “I will nae burden ye wi’ the likes of us.”

“T’would be no burden, sir.”

“I am grateful for the offer, Alexander, but I feel in my bones that we should make our way to William’s cabin. The discord wi’ the Injuns canny last.” He changed the subject. “How’d he look when ye saw him? William, that is.”

“Well fed and healthy. He interprets for the government. Has a son now, William does, by a Munsee woman, I think.”

“The scoundrel! He’s ne’er once mentioned it.”

Alexander smirked. “Mayhap I was nae supposed to tell. Where is Henry, speaking of sons, and Elizabeth, your wife?”

“Henry is at the market hoose looking for Mary Patterson. We thought mayhap Gibson would stay in the city for market day. As for Elizabeth, she passed away five years ago.”

“Och, forgive me, I’m sorry. I did nae know.”

Edward held up his palm. “Do nae be troubled o’er it. I miss her, of course, but my grief is well sorted.”

“Have ye not taken another wife?” Alexander asked.

Sarah’s warm body entered Edward’s thoughts. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Mayhap ye’ll find yoursel’ a Munsee woman like William.”

“If it buys us peace, I will surely.” Edward grinned. “Are ye heading straight hame?”

Alexander nodded. “Planning to head oot by the light of the moon.”

“Is Lancaster along your way?”

“It’s a bit past my turnoff. What did ye have in mind?”

“Would it trouble ye much to accompany us to the town? There is much news to share, and I know Henry would love to see ye. He holds ye in high esteem.”

“Of course! Are ye supplied, or do ye need things afore we go?”

“We need just about e’erything, more now that ye’ve told me how bad things could get for us. We lost much time in earning Mary’s fare.”

“We’d better get going, then. Folk will pack up their stalls soon, and that half-dead ox of yours is gonny slow us up.”

Chapter 27

Mary sat on a log under a full moon, thankful for the roaring fire. The night was warmer than Ireland’s best summer day, but her petticoat remained damp from crossing creeks, and her legs felt like ice.

“You’ll wade across, like it or not,”
Gibson had said at each creek flowing across Lancaster Road. Canoes for hire bobbed at most of the crossings, but Gibson would pay no fees, adding,
“The Schuylkill crossing was the last I paid for. From here on out, you’ll wade through, same as me, same as the mule.”

There were four of them altogether—two boys who sat on the other side of the fire whispering in German, and an English girl named Alice Fletcher who trembled next to Mary. All of them wore the same expression, and by her own thoughts, Mary expected each was thinking of loved ones. She wondered where Henry was under the swath of infinite stars. She thought, too, of her father and hoped he somehow knew she escaped the cost of his fare.

Gibson tied the mule to a crooked roadside tree. “One of you stir that soup, or none of you will have any part of it.”

Mary’s belly rumbled. They had been given no food since sunrise, when Gibson served each of them a bowl of porridge outside a tavern. The benefit of those oats disappeared long ago.

Realizing that the German boys didn’t speak English, and seeing that Alice was too frightened to move, Mary picked up a rag Gibson had dropped beside a bucket and used it to lift the lid off a pot dangling over the flames.

“I knew you would be strong. Donegal girls always are. There’s a spoon in the bucket,” Gibson said, then addressed one of the boys. “You there. Come here.” He whirled a hand. “Come.”

The elder of the two rose and made his way to the mule, where Gibson handed him a hoof pick and pointed to the animal’s legs. “Pick.”

“Pick,” the boy repeated.

“Aye, pick.” Gibson lifted one of the mule’s hooves to expose the underside.

“
Ja
.” The boy nodded and set about the work.

Gibson unloaded the mule before tramping to the fire.

“Smells good.” He threw a stick onto the flames.

Mary leaned away from the upsurge of sparks and smoke and inspected her surroundings. Lancaster Road was nothing more than a rut cutting through a great fertile valley. The moon illumined the dewy veil that covered fields stretching into the distance, and for a moment, she considered dropping the spoon and fleeing into the night. The level terrain tempted her, but the blackness ringing the landscape at its outermost edges held her fast. Beyond every field, the forest stood sentinel, a shadow with deeper shadows within. She saw Gibson’s eyes dart to the perimeter often. More than once, his hand found the stock of his rifle.

Mary tucked an unruly strand of hair under her cap. “Sir,” she asked Gibson, who picked at seeds stuck in his stockings. “Are we free to speak our minds?”

“Of course, dear girl. You find yourself bound to a lenient master, if only for a time.”

“Are we in any danger here?” The road seemed too exposed for safety.

“We are always in danger.” Gibson walked to the mule and returned with a bag, which he tossed to Alice. “Some bread in there, girl. Fetch it out.” He looked at Mary, and she saw kindness in his eyes. “There’s strength in numbers. Look around you. There are as many fires along this road as there are stars in the sky.”

The road teemed with as many, if not more, travelers heading east, most carrying nothing but countenances of trouble and defeat.

“For now, we’re safe. It’s when the fires grow fewer and the trees more plentiful that we must be watchful. The Godless heathens inhabiting the woods hide better than a copperhead in a leaf pile and strike twice as fast. They would prize that pretty hair on your head, so if you sense something ain’t right, speak up.”

Mary pressed a hand upon her cap. “But surely they would nae harm a woman?”

Gibson laughed. “Oh, sweet innocent, Injuns have no honor, at least none you would recognize. They would bash in your brains and take your hair before you stopped kicking.”

Mary took some comfort in Gibson’s size and experience. A barrel of a man, he possessed a quick eye and a confident carriage.

“Have ye e’er seen one?” she asked.

“An Injun? Of course I have, and you will, too. Not all of them are bad, mind. Some are downright good Christian folk. The trouble is in telling the difference, and if you take too much time in reckoning which they are, you can end up dead. Don’t you worry none. I won’t let nothin’ happen to you.”

Mary stirred the soup and hoped Henry knew to be careful. He would look for her, she knew, once he discovered her release from the pesthouse. The letter in her pocket probably detailed his plans. It remained dry, thanks to her great care while crossing creeks.

“The soup is ready.”

Gibson kicked dirt at Alice. “Girl. Dig the bowls out of the bag, and the spoons.”

Mary ladled dinner into the wooden bowls held out to her.

Gibson scattered the coals of their fire. “No sense scorching your good soup to the bottom of the pot, now is there? Have a sit-down, girl,” he said to Mary. “Your skirts are still wet. Stay as close to the heat as you can tonight without catching yourself on fire.”

With the soup gone and the cooking implements back in Gibson’s bag, he handed each of them a scratchy blanket reeking of the mule’s sweat. “Best be getting some sleep.” He threw wood on the fire. “Dawn breaks early. The morrow will see us in Lancaster.”

Alice and Mary slipped off their shoes and stockings and hung them on sticks jabbed into the ground. Alice wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and stared at Gibson with her bare feet to the flames. She seemed intent on watching him through the night, but her full belly and warm toes got the best of her, and she fell asleep sitting up.

On the other side of the fire, the two boys snored softly.

An owl hooted, and the fire snapped and threw sparks that rose and faded into the night. Gibson sat with his wide-brimmed hat tipped forward, a hatchet at his side, and a longrifle resting across his lap.

Mary pulled Henry’s letter out of her pocket. She guessed the word scrawled across the front was her name, because it contained an M, a letter the reverend taught her to draw. The paper came from a Bible, probably Donald’s. She ran her thumb across an unclear word and wondered if Henry’s tears had smudged it.

“What do you have there?” Gibson asked. He pushed up his hat with a finger.

“A letter.”

“From who?”

“Someone I hope to see again.”

“What does it say?”

It seemed a forward thing to ask, and she resented the invasion. But George Gibson was her master, and she was bound to serve him.

When she didn’t answer quickly, Gibson said, “I did not mean to pry. I was trying to find out if you can read. It would make you more valuable. Can you? Read, that is.”

She shook her head and refolded the letter.

“Do you even know what that letter says?”

“I am sure it says that my beloved will come for me, that I am to stay strong until he does, and that time will see us together again.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“I do nae need to read it to know that that is what it says.”

“I can read it for you if you want.”

Mary unfolded the letter again and flattened it against her thigh. If she left the letter unread, she would always have the hope of fresh words. Yet if there was some instruction in the letter, she might be doing a terrible injustice to Henry, who could be awaiting a reply.

She handed it slowly to Gibson, who sat up and leaned closer to the firelight. She held her breath and watched his face as he scanned it, thinking it unfair that he should know Henry’s words before reading them aloud.

“Please. Tell me what it says.”

The fire reflected in Gibson’s eyes. He cleared his throat. “It, uh . . . well, it says here that he’s taken a position on board a snow brig.”

What?

Mary sat upright, panic fluttering in her belly. “Pray, read the whole thing, word for word.”

Gibson trailed a dirty finger over Henry’s words.

“‘Dearest Mary, I regret having to use the Lord’s paper, but there is no other. I write to tell you that I am heading to Boston where I am to be apprenticed as a navigator. I am not displeased by the prospect as I am told it may take me home, and should that be so, you may warrant I will never return to these Colonies. I wanted you to know so that you understand why it will appear that I have broken my promise to your father. I meant that promise when I said it, but I believe now that fulfilling it is well beyond my abilities. It would be unfair of me to let you live on in hope. Be well, Mary. Be a faithful servant and find happiness, as I hope to find mine. God watch over you. Forgive the smeared letters, as I write during a frightful storm.’”

Gibson handed her the letter, and she leaned forward to retrieve it. She stared at the words on the page, unable to believe what she had just heard.

“A navigator, aye?” Gibson said, cheerfully. “It’s a good trade. He could have done far worse.”

“Aye.” She trembled as she refolded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. She felt the rooster there, withdrew it, then tossed it into the flames. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she lay down near the fire, drew her feet inside her petticoat, and tried not to cry.

They weren’t coming for her. The most she could hope for now was a kind master and a warm bed.

She recalled Henry’s passionate declaration of love. What a fool she’d been to believe him. Her aunt once warned her of this very thing, warned her that men in lust became like the birds in spring, all colored up and contorting their wings in gaudy display.

“And where are they when the mating’s done and she’s sat on a nest of eggs? Guard your purity well, lass, for men are as changeable as the clouds. They’ll feather up and tell ye anything to get what they want.”

She never understood her aunt’s meaning.

Until now.