by Vicki Delany
“Thank you so much for your concern.” I pulled my arm away. I might have heard the female cop swallow a chuckle.
“Constable Kowalski,” Sergeant McNeil said, “will you see this lady safely home, please. Tell Joanne Manning that no one is to come this way until further notice. Watch where you put your feet. Thank you for calling this in so promptly, Ms. Manning. I’m afraid we’ll be bringing our equipment in over your sister’s fields. Can’t be helped but we’ll try to diminish the damage.”
I let the young cop lead me away. As we left the cool of the woods, more police passed us. A big German shepherd, ears like satellite dishes, hips low to the ground, walked with them. Buddy, who’d been left behind tied to the tree, barked. The humans grunted a greeting to my escort, and he said something in return. The pain in my head was building and I could barely see, but as long as I kept my eyes fixed on the ground I could walk without assistance, picking my way slowly and carefully. We came out of the woods to the northeast of the house, passed through neat rows of burgeoning peas and tomato plants of all sizes, dwarfed by the six foot high iron stakes that were used to hold the string that would soon bear the weight of the growing vegetation. We skirted the greenhouse. Being market day, the yard was unnaturally quiet.
As my feet touched the gravel of the driveway, I smelled woodsmoke and heard the creak of a wagon’s wheels. The tall poplar trees that lined the drive shrunk to roughly cut stumps. The shot of a rifle came from the far distance. I dared to look up, and glanced toward the young police officer beside me. The skin on his face was pure white, and the edges of his body softened and faded. He gave me a friendly smile and through him I could see the outline of massive trees, far larger than I’d seen here before. I dared to glance at the back of the shop. Through the clouds of my vision I could make out a shadow standing at the entrance to the root cellar. A strong wind came out of nowhere and blew toward us and brought with it the scent of clothes worn too long without washing. The shadow moved and I heard fabric rustle. Mist shifted in the wind and a hand reached for me. The fingers were long and thin, the nails broken. An ugly burn was fresh on the wrist, and a healing cut crossed the pad of the thumb.
“Thank you, Constable,” I said. “I’ll be okay now. It was the shock, you know. You go on ahead and deliver your message to my sister. She’ll want to know what‘s happening. I remembered something I have to get from the shop.”
“Are you sure?” His voice sounded as if he were speaking from the bottom of a swimming pool. “You seemed a bit wobbly back there.”
I did not reply and began to walk toward the clump of bushes and the door that led down to the root cellar. The hand fell and the shadow turned and was swallowed up by the deeper shadows of the old building.
I followed.
***
January 6, 1780
Maggie was in the parlor, Flora cuddled on her lap turning the pages of a book, when Mrs. MacDonald knocked on the door. To Maggie’s surprise the woman was dressed in coat and hat and outdoor shoes, as though she were venturing out to church or to market. But it was not the day for either of those things.
The house was cold and Maggie had dressed Flora in one of her new sweaters, delighted at the perfect fit, and had wrapped herself in the shawl that came from her mother.
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” Mrs. MacDonald said. “I’m right sorry, but I’m taking my leave.”
“What?” Flora tugged at a ringlet and Maggie pried the hand away. The little girl had been restless in the night, saying her throat hurt, and Maggie feared she was coming down with a cold. Not enough good food, a cold damp house.
“I can’t work here no more, Mrs. Macgregor. This is a tory house and I don’t dare stay no longer.”
“But, but…that has nothing to do with me.”
“Janie what used to be the kitchen girl told me yesterday I daren’t be seen in this house any longer. She’s a bit simple, is Janie, but she knows things sometimes, ’cause people talk around her. It ain’t safe, Janie said. And I believe her. A word to the wise, Mrs. Macgregor, ’cause you’ve been a good mistress. It ain’t safe for you here no more either.”
“Not safe! In my own home. My husband’s parents built this house. Cleared the land. He joined Sir John’s regiment because he felt it was the right thing to do, but what have I, a woman, got to do with this political foolishness?”
“Mrs. Macgregor, you’d do well to leave here. Now. You must not stay.” And with that she left.
“Mamma?” Flora said, her sweet face crunched in concern at the words she did not understand, although the tone had been plain enough.
Maggie ignored her daughter. She looked out the window. Snow was falling, drifting in fat flakes onto the calm, silent woods. A knot of anger threatened to choke her. She tried and tried to convince herself that this war was men’s business and she and Flora wanted no part of it. Mrs. MacDonald was obviously mistaken.
“Why don’t we have tea, shall we?” she said brightly to Flora. “We might have some of that sugar left.”
Flora sneezed.
They came in the night.
They would have known the servants had quit or run off, the master of the house had left to join the British, that the woman and child were alone.
She was woken by a yell. Followed by another and then another until the house almost shook with the force of them. Heart pounding, she sat up in bed. Her room was full of red and yellow light as firelight poured through the windows.
A rock came crashing through the bedroom window. Downstairs, wood groaned and splintered and glass broke.
Flora had moved into Maggie’s bed at the beginning of winter. Easier and cheaper to heat just the one bedroom. She scooped her child up, wrapped her tightly in a blanket against the cold of the January night. As she ran for the door, she grabbed a small box off her dresser and stuffed it beneath the girl’s blanket. Flora woke and, sensing her mother’s fear, started to cry.
By the time they reached the top of the stairs, men were pouring through the shattered door. Maggie clutched her child to her chest, scarcely believing what she was seeing. She recognized some of them. Men from town, from the surrounding farms. Mr. Harper who owned the dry goods shop. Mr. Richardson the farrier. Mr. Stone who owned a farm almost as prosperous as theirs had once been.
“Stop. Stop. What are you doing?” she cried. Men were snatching pictures off the walls and carrying small bits of furniture outside. A fellow came out of the dining room, bearing the box of silver, now almost empty as the bigger pieces had been sold for food. She saw young John Wilson, who used to lift his cap politely when she passed and inquire after her health. “Johnny, tell them to stop.”
He looked up at her. His eyes were red in the light cast by his torch. “Tory bitch,” he said in a voice more like a snake than a man. Men climbed the stairs. She was shoved aside. She fell, hard, not able to use her hands to soften the fall. A jolt of pain ran up her back and spread through her body. A boot lashed out and kicked her in the shoulder. Flora screamed in terror. Maggie huddled on the step and clutched her child.
The house was soon full, and not only with men. Women ran through the upstairs rooms, grabbing hats and dresses, candlesticks and ornaments, even the lovely infant things she was saving in hope of Hamish’s return and a new baby some day. Mrs. O’Reilly, who often sat near Maggie in church, approached her. Maggie raised a hand. “Mrs. O’Reilly. Help me.” The woman pulled back her head and spat. Minutes later she ran past, Maggie’s best scarlet gown in her arms.
Firelight glowed at the far end of the hall. At first Maggie thought it was light from the torches, shining through the windows. Then to her horror she understood that her house was on fire. They were burning down her house. She pushed herself to her feet, her arms wrapped around the screaming bundle of her child. She staggered down the stairs. Men and women pushed her out of the
way. Someone yelled, “Traitor,” and punched her, hard, in the back. She staggered and fell. Fortunately she had reached the bottom step. Flora flew out of her arms but didn’t have far to fall. Maggie scooped the hysterical child up and staggered outside. Fire threw sparks high into the night sky. The carriage house and the barn, as well as the back of the house, were on fire. As Maggie watched, the barn roof collapsed in a roar of flame.
Maggie carried Flora into the grove of trees on the far side of the wide curving drive. There must have been fifty people in her yard. People she’d sat in church with, exchanged gossip with, whose babies she’d admired and whose shops she’d frequented. Men and women danced in the light of the flames as if they’d gone mad and carried what was left of Maggie’s worldly possessions away into the night.
Red streaks were crossing the sky in the east and the snow changed to an unforgiving icy rain. The fires died down and eventually went out, leaving a scorched and stinking ruin. The barn was a lump of blackened cinders, the back of the house not much better. Parts of the front of the house still stood. The porch, the entrance hall, the parlor. The heavy maple dining room table that could seat twelve lay in the drive, legs sticking up into the air. Too heavy, perhaps, for someone to carry off in the night. No doubt they’d be back, soon enough, to pick over the carcass.
Maggie was dressed in a white cotton nightgown. Her feet were bare. Fortunately, she’d wrapped Flora in a heavy blanket. She would not go back into the house, not even to search for clothes. She could not bear it.
She shifted Flora and realized the little wooden box was still in place.
Maggie and Flora met up with other Loyalist families on the road. Some had escaped with a horse, a wagon if they were very lucky, a scattering of belongings. A woman rushed to offer Maggie a dress and an apron to replace the dirty, torn, white nightgown and ill-fitting boots to offer her feet some protection from the frozen ground. Maggie smelled smoke, but she didn’t know if it was from the dress—a plain brown homespun she would once have torn up for rags—or from herself. She didn’t care. She hugged Flora and walked on. The apron had a large pocket, and she slipped the box into it.
Overhead clouds were thick and the rain was mixed with ice and snow. The band of refugees slept at the side of the road, huddled under cloaks or shawls or blankets, and didn’t have much to eat, although one or two of the men had rifles and were able to shoot the occasional rabbit or goose.
As the ragged group approached Albany, Flora began to cough in earnest. By the time they reached New York City, the little girl was dead. They buried her in a quickly dug shallow grave, while an old man said words over her and his wife bound two sticks of wood into a make-shift grave marker, and a wolf howled in the distance.
Chapter Eighteen
A dog barked and a man shouted. All was dark. For a moment I didn’t know if my eyes were open or closed. I moved my eyelids and a crack of weak light began to appear. I felt around inside my head. No sign of Omar, and so I dared to open my eyes. A shaft of light, as thin as a razor blade, outlined the door. I was sitting down, and the floor was hard and cold beneath my bottom. No headache but the rest of my body hurt. I touched the damp stone of the walls and struggled to stand, and it took all the energy I could muster to find my wobbly feet. Getting myself upright took a long time. At last I made it, and I leaned against the wall, concentrating on taking time to breathe.
The door flew open and sunlight poured in and I yelped in pain as the harsh rays hit my face. A hand grabbed me and a man said, “Take it easy.” With my eyes tightly closed, I allowed him to lead me out of the root cellar. When I was outside, I blinked and tried to focus. A group of people were watching me. The parking area was full of marked and unmarked police cars. A dog was being loaded into the back of a black SUV.
Joanne ran forward and wrapped me in a fierce hug. “Oh, Hannah, you’ve given us such a fright.”
My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Omar was there, smirking, but I had no pain. Just confusion. I’d gone down to the root cellar, but I wasn’t sure why. To get potatoes? The horseback ride must have tired me out more than I realized, and I closed my eyes for a moment in that dark place. Then I remembered Hila and the scrap end of her scarf. Why were the police all standing around the farmyard, not out searching for her?
I pushed my sister away. “What’s going on? Why is everyone looking at me like that? Have you found something?”
Rick Brecken broke from the crowd. “I suggest you people get back to work,” he said. “It’ll be dark soon enough.”
It was only then I looked at the sky and realized the sun was hanging above the trees to the west.
People began to move away. Joanne, Brecken, and McNeil did not. “You think we have nothing more important to do today?” Rick Brecken asked me.
“What?”
“Hannah needs to come inside,” Joanne said.
“Perhaps we’ll all come inside.” McNeil’s arms were crossed over her chest, and she did not smile at me. She was in her late thirties, tall and lean, a runner’s body, with blond hair cut short and almond-shaped brown eyes that seemed to want to penetrate my soul. I looked away and said to Joanne. “I don’t understand.”
“You…”
“Thank you, Ms. Manning,” McNeil said. “We’d like to talk to your sister privately.”
Joanne stared into my face, searching for something, and then she said, “Okay. Use my office.”
“I think my office would be a better place.” McNeil put her hand on my arm.
“What! You can’t be arresting her,” Joanne shouted.
They were arresting me? For napping in the root cellar?
“You are not under arrest, Ms. Manning,” the cop said to me. “We have some questions for you, and this place is too public.”
“You must be aware that my sister has suffered a serious brain injury,” Joanne said, puffing up with indignation. “I won’t allow you to take her away. Her doctors will not allow her to be interrogated.”
“We’re not going to interrogate anyone, “Brecken said. “Just a few questions. Not a problem; we can talk to her inside.”
Before they could change their minds, Joanne grabbed my arm and almost dragged me into the house. Without even bothering to take off her muddy boots, she led the way into the dining room. The house was strangely quiet.
“Lily?” I said. “Oh, Joanne, you have to go and get Lily. I left her with Buddy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lily’s still in the woods, guarding the cloth. Hila’s scarf. I’m so sorry, I forgot her. I shouldn’t have left her.” Panic rose in my chest.
Joanne let out a long puff of air. She stroked my cheek. “Oh, my dear. You’re confused. Don’t you remember? You sent Lily and Ashley to get me. You did the right thing.”
“I did?”
“She told me to call the police. Ashley’s father came and got them. Lily went home with Ashley.”
“Oh. That’s good, right?” I tried to stay calm, not to show panic. How could I possibly have thought I’d left Ashley and Lily alone in the woods? I tried to remember, to call up the scene. It was all just a jumble of sound and images.
I’ll call and let them know you’re okay.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?”
She didn’t answer. Brecken and McNeil came in. I hoped they hadn’t heard any of our conversation.
We took seats at the long wooden table, scratched and scarred with years of use, piled high with books, newspapers, mail. Joanne began to pull out a chair for herself, and McNeil said, “Thank you, Ms. Manning. You can leave us now.”
My sister looked at me. She turned and went into the kitchen.
No one said anything for a long time. I studied the front page of the local paper—the MP was giving a check to some organization or another. I al
ways wondered if these low-level backbenchers knew how smarmy they looked with their fake smiles and bored eyes. I heard Joanne’s low voice and knew she was on the phone.
“Where did you put her, Hannah?” Brecken asked at last.
I was genuinely confused. “Put who?”
“I don’t have time to waste running around in circles, and I don’t like being led on a merry chase. The Harrisons’ dog found the scarf, brought it to you. You couldn’t just bury it, because your niece and her friend saw it. You knew you had to report it, and then you nipped back out and moved her. Checked for any more evidence that might point to you, maybe.”
I blinked. I must have looked like the village idiot.
“Where is she?” Sergeant McNeil asked.
Silence stretched out again. The only sounds came from outside, as police and police cars came and went. Jake should have been back from market by now. Where was Charlie, anyway? I would have expected a seven-year-old boy to be eager to watch the police activity.
“I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions. If you think I know where Hila is, I assure you I don’t. She was my friend, and I’m concerned about what’s happened to her.”
“What have you been doing for the past two hours, then?” Brecken asked. “Since Constable Kowalski left you outside?”
Two hours? I’d lost two hours?
I must have fallen asleep in the root cellar. The muscles in my lower back, butt, and thighs ached. I shifted in my seat and rolled my shoulders. Sleeping on the damp earth floor wouldn’t have helped much, not after the unaccustomed ride. How could I have been asleep, out there, for two hours? The clouds in my brain parted and I could see the woman standing in front of me. The woman in the many-times mended dress that fell all the way to her feet. I shuddered.
Was I going mad?
They’d said I might have hallucinations. That was all it was.
