Scattered Seeds (4 page)

Chapter 5

By morning, Henry counted twenty dead rats. Ten pence credit in three hours. More than stupid Mary Patterson earned in three days spinning her dumb old flax.

When she saw Henry’s success, Sarah squealed an odd mixture of disgust and delight through her hands. “Och, can ye take them away? I just canny. Och, the wretched things.”

“Nay bother.” He carried the dead animals—along with the ashes from her hearth—to the river and made it back before the sun rose.

He opened the outside door to the storeroom, and fresh air poured inside. As the dawn’s first light filtered through swirling dust, his father helped him roll the barrels away from the far corner.

He dipped a bucket into Sarah’s lye barrel and poured the caustic mixture down the ratholes while Father combed through the barrel and bucket parts.

“Next rat that goes doon there is gonny wish he’d worn thicker heels,” he said, as his father walked around a barrel pounding an iron hoop over the staves. He scooped the ash residue from the bottom of Sarah’s lye barrel with a stick and used the goo to plug up the ratholes.

“One thing I canny stand is a rat.” Father ran his hand over the top of the barrel to test it for levelness. “I do nae know how ye did it, lad. Two days ago, ye nearly shat your breeks in a graveyard. Seems ye turned into a man that night.”

Henry smiled and decided not to tell his father that he felt braver with the torc around his neck.

By the time Derry’s residents awoke, Sarah’s storeroom was organized and rat-free. Newly repaired barrels and buckets now joined the casks of drink neatly lining the walls. A pile of broken staves remained the only vestige of the room’s former chaos. They would use those to make more lye.

Father leaned against a barrel. “Go and get her. I’ll gi’ ye the pleasure of showing her the amount of work grateful men can do.”

Sarah was stirring a cauldron of broth at the hearth. When she saw Henry, she hung her spurtle on an iron hook and followed him to the storeroom. “Mercy!”

“If something’s not to your liking—”

“Not to my liking? It’s beyond my wildest hope. Ye worked too hard for two nights’ lodging. I am humbled, sirs, and grateful. Come, get ye a bowl of broth and sit wi’ me for a spell.” She winked at Father. “I think ye’ll find my benches and tables solid.”

Father grinned and rubbed his cheeks.

She bade them follow her to the bar where she poured water to wash their hands and faces. They sat at one of the tables, where she served them each a bowl of broth, a thick slice of bread, and two cups of small beer. She dropped onto the bench next to Henry, who bowed his head to give thanks.

“It is heartening to see a lad wi’ manners. I can tell he was raised well.” She handed each of them a spoon.

“I thought ye had no spoons.” Henry cupped his hands around the bowl of broth and thought it the best thing he’d ever smelled.

“I have none for the likes of Sorley McConnell.”

Father laughed a little too hard for a man who’d been up all night. His eyes twinkled, and he allowed his gaze to linger on Sarah long after she’d finished speaking.

Henry hid a smirk by staring at his broth.

“Ye’ve earned your two nights’ lodging and then some. My storeroom has ne’er been cleaner, and ye left my Randall’s tools sharp and Presbyterian in their box. I will nae ask anymore of ye.”

“I am grateful for your kindness . . . and your unwillingness to gi’ us o’er to my brother.”

“I’m glad for any man who wriggles oot of a tyrant’s clutch. Are ye heading to Amerikay? A boat leaves for there this morn’,
The Nancy,
I think. I’d bet my life Sorley McConnell will be standing quayside as the passengers embark, no doubt looking for ye and the lad.”

Father swallowed a sip of broth. “We sail on
The Charming Hannah
.”

“I thought as much. David Conyngham’s a Donegal man, ye know, raised in Philadelphia.
The Hannah
’s one of his newer boats, built to haul souls over and potash and staves back. Folk brag that her berth deck is special made for the trade.”

“What’s a berth deck?” Henry asked.

Father replied, “I think the berth deck is where we’ll sleep.”

“Well, whate’er it is, Sorley will be watching it. He might know ye’d choose a merchant wi’ ties to Donegal.”

Henry bit his lip. They should have considered that.

“Does it not frighten ye to go so far away?” she asked.

“A bit, but Henry already knows a lot about the place from a neighbor’s letters. Besides, we have kin in Pennsylvania already, so it will nae be as hard for us as it is for some.” He pulled a letter out of his waistcoat pocket and unfolded it on the table.

Henry leaned in closer to inspect it. He recognized the ornate “W” in his uncle’s signature.

“It’s from my brother, William. He wrote it to me last spring. He was then living in the backcountry in Pennsylvania, but pressing onward into the Ohio country. Says here he left a cabin uninhabited. If we can make our way to a place called Cumberland County, it’s ours for the taking.”

Henry tugged at a corner of the letter until his father noticed him and released his grip on the missive. His uncle’s words slanted uphill on the page.

Dearest Edward,

Forgive the quality of writing, as I do so in haste with a dying fire, a bad quill, and the last of my ink. I pray you are well, but if you are not—and judging by the number of Ulstermen alighting on these shores, I fear you may not be—I implore you to consider selling up and coming to Pennsylvania. There is much to gain here, including land!

I myself possess the most glorious 100 acres of land you have ever seen. It lies northwest of the Kittatinny. The mountain itself is a wall of forested rock, but if a man can elude the authorities and manage the arduous climb, he is rewarded with fertile valleys sprawling between an endless series of ridges. There are Ulstermen here now in every valley, living in secret, and if those tenacious souls can hang on but a year, I firmly believe they will have a chance to apply for ownership of the lands they now occupy.

I would be remiss if I did not warn of the impending violence here. Rumour has it that the French are building forts from New Orleans to Canada. Should they succeed, they will cut off British expansion to the west, and mayhap push us eastward until we have no choice but to board a ship and sail home. Take comfort, dear brother; I and my new countrymen—a rough and hardy lot—will not submit to a French yoke! I go to the Ohio Valley now, with others, to do my part. My cabin along the Cocolamus Creek, a humble abode, will be left unattended, and I fear it shall fall into disrepair or another man’s hands. You and Elizabeth would do me a great service by coming to inhabit it. Bring Henry and the rest of the countless brats you’ve no doubt sired since your last letter. You’ll need every one of their hands, but oh, Edward, what a feeling to close your eyes at night knowing you and yours will be the ones to reap the benefit of your own labour. I simply cannot describe to you the joy that accompanies the liberation found in Penn’s woods. You must come experience it for yourself.

Make your way from Philadelphia to Lancaster and from thence west to Harris’s and into Sherman’s Valley. I have drawn a map from there. Do not stray from it, no matter what advice folks give you along the way. Trust the traders whose names I have marked with X’s. Many will be away trading, and those who are at home will not only turn a blind eye to your trespassing, but give you succour also. They hate the English nearly as much as they hate the French.

You will think the Injuns scarce in these parts, but they are not. They are merely invisible. Thankfully, they are not soundless. Their milk-curdling shrieks are hard to miss, particularly since they are often uttered while running at you with a hatchet! If you see any, try not to shite your breeks. Just mention my name. (They like me well enough.) Do not come in winter. Chop wood straight away no matter what season you land—you’ll need every stick of it and probably more. Horses are worthless in the backcountry for now, and too hard to keep. An ox is much better, and you can eat him when he has served his purpose—if the Injuns do not get him first. (Here I jest, for the wild men have not yet developed a taste for beef. Can you believe they prefer bear meat and even dog?)

God willing, my forge and smokehouse will still be standing when you get here. I’m burying my cauldron, an anvil, and some bar iron dead center between the three giant buttonwood trees south of the cabin, ten strides away from the water at the big bend in the creek. Come before it rusts to nothing—and before the field grows up in saplings. One of the trees mentioned above has a hollow butt large enough to stand up in. I’ll grease up a rifle and lead and stuff it up into that tree, along with some tools, so don’t buy any before coming over the Kittatinny. At most, I would bring a hand axe, some ground seed, and a tinderbox. If Injuns find you, you’re better off unarmed anyway.

Sell your wig in Philadelphia. No one here wears them.

I’ll be back to the cabin in two years’ time, and I hope to see you and Elizabeth there with your brood. Tell Sorley to shove his rent straight up his arse, and get yourselves on the first boat out of Derry, even if you must indenture your wains for a time. There truly is no better way of securing an education and a trade for them.

One last thing. If you come in summer, watch for serpents in the rocks. Some of them will kill you dead. Also, there are turtles in the Juniata River and in the Cocolamus Creek that will happily remove your dangly bits. I did not know this when I came here, and I’m missing half a finger. That turtle was tasty.

God be with you, brother.

—W.

Henry realized as he refolded Uncle William’s letter that he missed an entire conversation between his father and Sarah.

“There’s naught for us here, Sarah, naught but suffering.” His father’s hand rested on the table, his smallest finger very close to touching hers.

She nodded her agreement. “My Randall often dreamt about living in Amerikay. Had his heart set on Boston, but I think your idea is better. Not many lobsterbacks among the trees.”

“Just panthers, snakes, and bears. Oh, and a few savages who would sooner take your scalp than look at it,” Father laughed. “And apparently turtles that bite off your dangly bits.”

“Ye will nae be using your dangly bits in the backcountry anyway.” Sarah rose and gathered up their empty bowls.

Father yawned. “I only hope we can get to that wilderness. We’re unlikely to get off the quay wi’oot Sorley seeing us.”

“I know a man who loads the water casks. He could see that ye get on.”

“Can ye trust him?”

“I hope so. He’s my brother.” She gestured toward the fire. “Use the water if ye want to get cleaned up. I refilled the pitcher upstairs. Ye’ve done your service to me and then some. Try to get some sleep afore the tavern opens.”

“We have a few broken staves to burn yet. Henry needs the ashes to start ye a new batch of lye. We used yours for the rats. Needed a goodly amount of water for washing up, as well. We’ll carry more in and fill up your barrels.”

She cocked her head and smiled. “Ye’re a good man, Edward McConnell. ’Tis a sorry widow I’ll be to see ye go.”

Chapter 6

The fire was hot on Edward’s face. He set down the peat sling, then stacked its contents next to the hearth. He’d be gone when Sarah tossed the last of the ancient turf into the fire, and he wondered, as he brushed up peat crumbs, if she would think of him. He pictured her there, leaning toward the flames with one hand on her hip and the other stirring the broth.

Henry slept in the loft, spent after two solid nights of labor. He’d worked hard for Sarah, and not just in exchange for lodging. It was plain that Henry liked her.

So did Edward. And it was clear by Sarah’s many lingering glances that she liked
him
.

She was a fine woman, sturdy and girlish yet, with fire in her belly. He saw through the roughness likely brought about by early widowhood. Beneath her tough façade lay the tenderness so crucial in a good wife . . . and a mother.

If a ship didn’t await him on the morrow, he would pursue her. The unfairness of it galled him. He squatted in front of the fire to poke at it for no reason. His natural hair, wet from an earlier barrel bath, steamed. It was thinning near the margins of his face from the constant wearing of his wig, and some gray hairs streaked through the brown near his temples, but he still had plenty to gather at his nape.

“Feel better?”

He stood, startled. He thought Sarah had gone to bed.

She wore nothing but her nightgown. Her auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders in the tight kinks of undone braids.

He averted his eyes, shocked at her undress, shocked at her boldness, shocked at his pleasure in it.

The ache plaguing his belly all night migrated to his groin. His shaft jumped to life and strained against the wool of his breeches. He faced the hearth to avoid embarrassment. No woman had ever made her desire for him so obvious, not even Elizabeth.

“
Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled
,” she used to say when Edward made his physical need known.

“Did ye hear me?”

Edward fiddled with the stack of peat. “Eh? Oh, aye, it is good to be clean.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair, nervous at being caught wigless and shamed by his lust.

“I suppose that’s the last bath ye’ll see for a while. Injuns’ll smell ye afore they see ye.” She walked to a cupboard. “Ye look good wi’oot your wig. Come, sit wi’ me. I canny sleep.” She pulled two delicate cups and a tea caddy out of the cupboard, then set them on a tray. The cups were porcelain, and if the roses painted on them turned from yellow to red, they would match Elizabeth’s tea set exactly. That set served tea in Sorley’s grand house now.

He joined her at a table, where she poured hot water into the cups from a dented and sooty pot. “Forgive the pot. I canny afford a porcelain one just yet.”

“Do nae fuss, woman.” He waited for the leaves to sink before sipping the mellow extravagance. It was smooth, pungent, delicious. “I assure ye, the king’s finest pot steeps no better tea.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Ye make a habit of taking tea wi’ the king, do ye?”

“Only on Tuesdays.” He grinned.

“Let me know the next time ye’re heading o’er to the palace.” She assumed a posh English accent. “I shall join you in my best court dress.”

He loved her quick wit.

How many years had passed since his last cup of tea? It had certainly been sipped in the house, which meant he had shared it with Elizabeth.

Guilt threatened to sap all pleasure from the night.

Sarah said, “Last man I shared a cup of tea wi’ was my husband.”

How inconsiderate of him to forget that she might also have one foot caught in a painful past.

“How long ago is it for ye now? Since he died, that is.”

“Three years.” She traced the rim of her cup with her finger. “Just fell in the street one day. Some days it feels as though it only happened yesterday, and then at other times . . .” Her chin quivered, and her voice became strained. “Other times, it feels like a lifetime ago.”

Edward squeezed her forearm, and she abandoned her cup to lace her fingers through his. They were hot from the teacup, and rough, the result of daily scrubbing with harsh soap.

“Lately, I struggle to remember the details of Elizabeth’s face.” Edward could not fathom why he confessed this private detail to Sarah. “I try to think of what she looked like, but her image is vague, like it’s shrouded behind scrim linen.”

“Her name was Elizabeth?”

“Aye.”

“She must have been wonderful. She would be pleased wi’ the job ye’ve done raising Henry. He is a son to be proud of.”

“But for his ears, I can claim no praise for him. He is his mother through and through, always has been. In the dark moments when I ask mysel’ if it really happened, if I really loved a woman and tried to build a life wi’ her, I need only look to Henry for the proof of it. The evidence of my former happiness is e’er present in his expressions and mannerisms.”

“I hope ye see that for the blessing it is. Being childless, for me, is the worst of it. I have naught to remind me of my Randall, naught but his tools and the cold spot in my bed.”

She was far too pretty and young to be a widow.

“Did ye ne’er consider taking another?” It was audacious of him to ask, but if she felt comfortable enough to sit with him wearing only her nightgown, then she wouldn’t mind.

“My character puts most men off, I think.”

“Ye canny be serious.” He squeezed her hand. “My good woman, it is your spirit that I find most charming.”

She blushed and laughed. “Och, ye find me charming, do ye?”

“I do, and if I was nae boarding a boat on the morrow, I would make it so ye would nae doubt it.”

Her cheeks blazed. “Been a long time since a man made sheep’s eyes at me.”

“Been a long time since I’ve made them.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “It is just my luck that I’d catch the eye of a man leaving at dawn.”

“I thought the same thing earlier. Ye’re the first woman I’ve noticed in five years.” He pushed away his teacup and stood. “Sarah?”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Aye?”

“Ye’re beautiful.”

She looked as if she’d suffered a terrible shock. “I . . . Really?”

He pulled her to her feet, no longer caring about the obvious bulge in his breeches, and plunged his fingers into her curls.

“Och, Edward.” Her eyes welled. “We have no time.”

“We have tonight.”

“Edward—”

He cut off her protest with a kiss. She was warm and soft, and he would have her.