And then one afternoon the convoy’s pace picked up. Some of the warriors ran ahead, up the hill, while others hurried the captive children along. When they reached the top of the hill, Betsy looked down and saw the junction of two rivers.
The warrior pointed. “Monongahela.” He moved his hand and pointed to the other river. “Allegheny.” Then he clasped his hands together. “O-hi-o.” He smiled at her in that peculiar way that made the hair on the back of her neck rise. “Bloody. O-hi-o. Bloody.”
She had heard of the great Ohio River, far west of the Schuylkill River. It was the first time since the attack that she had some kind of bearing of where she was, but she had little time to ponder, for in the next instant he shoved her roughly to keep moving.
They came to an open place where there were Indians milling around, talking to each other in their clickity-clack language. The ropes were taken off the captive children, their hands and their waists. Her captor grabbed Betsy’s forearm and pushed his way through the crowd. She looked behind her for Johnny’s whereabouts and saw him a few rods away, his gaze fixed on her as she was led away. The warrior stopped in front of a shelter covered with animal skins. He lifted a flap and gestured for her to go through the opening. Betsy did not move. She felt a rush of panic and stepped back, away from her captor, away from the shelter, and turned to look back at Johnny. She heard him yell out, “Don’t go in!” but then a warrior whipped out a knife and held it to her brother’s throat. The boy’s eyes widened in fear.
Betsy dipped her head, indicating that she would cooperate. She would not resist.
Her captor plucked off her prayer covering, sneering, and flicked it into the air. It landed on the ground and he stepped on it with his filthy moccasin, grinding it into the dirt. Laughing, he gave her a hard push and she stumbled through the opening. Behind her, the flap thumped back across the opening and the interior of the shelter went dark. Strong, musky odors overwhelmed her—smoke, grease, rotting fish. At first, she could see nothing, but as her eyes adjusted, she saw a small fire, sunk in a stone-lined pit. Curls of smoke rose straight up and disappeared through a small opening in the shelter’s roof.
And she realized she wasn’t alone.
7
Not Faxon’s Farm
May 2, 1763
Felix had been a deacon for ten years now, ordained right after he’d been married to his Rachel. And he meant right after. It was the same church service. Married one moment, deaconized the next. His life was radically altered on that one day.
Ten months later, he’d had another life-altering day. He’d become a father to Benjo and Dannie, and on that same day, he’d become a widower. It was an excruciatingly painful time of life, but it was not without joy too. His Rachel had left him with a precious gift: their twin sons.
Being a deacon was less of a gift. Much, much less. He didn’t know how Bairn stood the burden of being the church’s only ordained minister. Everything, good or bad, rested on his shoulders.
But anything in between good or bad sat at Felix’s door. Bairn felt free to pass plenty of tasks on to his deacon: collecting alms for the poor, paying calls on certain church members who did not live the straight and narrow life.
It wasn’t all drudgery and doom. It was Felix’s job to publish the news of a couple who sought to marry. That was his favorite part of deaconry. He was a romantic at heart—as long as it wasn’t his heart that was getting snared in a trap.
On this beautiful spring morning, Bairn had asked Felix to stop by Sam Weaver’s farm and prompt Sam to pay the cat whipper what was owed to him for making shoes for his seven children. The shoemaker had repaired or made new shoes for each family member, and Sam had promised to pay him for over eight months. An empty promise. It was time for Bairn to step in, so naturally, he sent Felix to handle it.
Felix had dropped by Sam Weaver’s house, and as he expected, Sam had made himself scarce. Sam had a knack for disappearing whenever anyone mentioned the settling of debts. One of Sam Weaver’s sons met Felix at the door, a guarded look on his face. “My father is out . . . hunting.”
Felix was not so easily fobbed off. “So, then, what of your mother?”
“Uh, she went shopping in Lancaster Town.”
Felix frowned. He rubbed his hands together. “Mind if I warm my hands by the fire for a few moments?”
Reluctantly, the boy opened the door and let Felix in. Out of nowhere, children started to slip into the kitchen, watching Felix with the same guarded look as the older boy. It was like they came out of the woodwork.
Felix turned in a circle to look at each child. All seven, ranging in age from five to thirteen. “Children, I’m worried about your mother.”
The children exchanged nervous looks.
“It’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard,” Felix said, in as loud a voice as he could manage. “The good woman went shopping and left her legs behind.”
Seven pairs of eyes shifted to the bed, tucked against the wall. There were two large feet sticking out under it.
His errand at the Weavers’ had finished up quite well, deacon-wise, and Felix felt pretty pleased with himself. His horse knew its way back to Not Faxon’s Farm, so he settled deep in the saddle and reviewed the day. Sam Weaver’s wife rolled out from under the bed, dusted herself off, went to a crock kept on the hearth’s mantel, and reached a hand into the crock to pull out money. Without a word, she counted out every shilling and pence owed to the poor cat whipper and handed it to Felix. The money was now in Felix’s coat pocket, soon to be delivered. Account settled.
He didn’t like to brag, but he thought he was a very effective deacon. Take the Tom the Tailor situation.
A few months ago, Bairn had been concerned that Tom Miller’s church attendance had become rather spotty. No Plain family ever missed a preaching if they could help it. So, naturally, Bairn sent Felix to deal with Tom.
Felix had knocked and knocked on Tom Miller’s door, to no avail. Tom’s horse was picketed in the front yard and Felix heard someone scurry upstairs. He knew the tailor was inside. So finally Felix left a note on the door: Revelation 3:20. If Tom bothered to look it up in his Bible, he would find the words: “I stand at the door and knock.”
The following Sunday, he was pleased to see Tom Miller arrive at church right on time and plunk himself down right next to Felix. In the middle of Bairn’s sermon, Tom Miller leaned to one side and passed the note that Felix had left on his door, the one with Revelation 3:20 on it. Below that verse was scrawled Genesis 3:10: “. . . and I was afraid because I was naked.”
Felix tried his best to hold himself together but his eyes started to water, his chest heaved, he could barely contain his laughter. Tom Miller struggled to tamp down his own mirth; his face was bright red, and tears streamed down his round cheeks. It was a fine moment.
And best of all, Tom the Tailor hadn’t missed church since. Not once.
Felix really was a very effective deacon. Possibly, the finest deacon in the New World, though he knew it was prideful to think such a vain thought. Plus, he was the only deacon in the New World.
After stopping by the cat whipper to settle the Sam Weavers’ sizable account and receiving profuse thank-yous from the cat whipper’s wife, he decided to drop by Beacon Hollow to share the good news of his completed task with his brother. He wasn’t always sure Bairn realized what a fine deacon he had, and it wouldn’t hurt for Anna to hear that Felix had actually finished something. She did not always appreciate Felix’s style of deaconry leadership. He still felt a burning sensation in his gut when he thought about the tutor who had been hired for his sons without his knowledge or permission. Catrina Müller. Of all people on this earth!
His horse turned up the lane to Beacon Hollow without any prodding, and Felix closed his eyes to enjoy the warm sun on his face. He took another deep breath, then opened his eyes as the horse abruptly stopped, then danced on his feet.
Galloping behind him on the lane, without even a nod as his ho
rse sailed past Felix, was his foster brother, Hans, the missing smithy.
Beacon Hollow
Tessa and Willie had been giving the henhouse a much-needed spring cleaning when they heard the sound of pounding hooves approach the house. She rushed to the door. And there was Hans! He looked a mess: scruffy whiskers, dirty clothes, mud-caked boots.
Her father hurried over from the carpentry shop, her mother flew out of the house, and they were soon both by his side, questions tumbling over each other. “Hans, where have you been?” “Why didn’t you send word?” “Did it not occur to you how you worried Dorothea?”
Hans slipped off his horse and turned to them. “I went to the Zook farm up the Schuylkill River. All that remained were the charred timbers of the barn. The house is completely gone.”
Her father folded his arms against his chest. “I could have told you as much.”
“I had to see for myself.”
Tessa’s mother turned and flashed her a warning look. Willie! Tessa took his hand and tugged him back into the henhouse. “Let’s go finish up the henhouse, Willie.” His eyes were on Hans; he wasn’t budging. “Let’s go.” As soon as they went back inside the small structure, Tessa sent Willie to the far end with a broom and she placed herself by the little opening. She wasn’t about to miss anything Hans had to say.
Her father’s voice was easy to hear. “Was there any word of where the warriors took the captives?”
“I spoke to some neighbors, but they had no information.”
“But they’re alive,” Tessa’s mother said, quietly. “If not, the neighbors would’ve known. Someone would’ve have known. It’s been over ten days now since the attack. Surely, someone would’ve come across . . .”
Come across what? Then a shudder spread over Tessa. Come across dead bodies was what her mother was about to say.
Hans nodded. “Betsy’s alive. I’m sure of it. I’m going to keep looking.”
Her father put a hand on Hans’s shoulder. “No you’re not. I’m sorry, Hans. You’re a member of this church and we need you here. Many parts of the wagon are waiting for your help. It’s a project that belongs to the entire church. We need you here. You’re going to have to leave Betsy’s fate in God’s hands.”
Hans was shocked. “You’re saying that I can’t go?”
He nodded. “You can’t go.”
Hans jerked his hand off his shoulder and stepped back a few feet. He mounted his horse, turned it around, and galloped off in the direction of Not Faxon’s Farm, passing right by her startled uncle Felix.
Later that afternoon, Anna opened the knock at the door to find Hans, clean shaven, freshly clothed, and less angry. He said he had come to speak to Bairn, that he wanted his blessing to head out and seek for Betsy.
Anna’s first thought was that she was pleased Hans wanted his minister’s approval. But as soon as Bairn and Hans sat at the table, facing each other grimly, Anna could see this was going to be a contentious meeting. Swiftly, she sent Tessa and Willie out to the barn to feed the animals. Tessa was openly disappointed to be sent out the door, but there was no need for Willie to hear anything more that Hans had to say. How much could a little boy bear?
“Hans, you’re needed here,” Bairn said. “You’re the only smithy in all of Stoney Ridge. Horses need shodding, tools need fixing. Even Tom the Tailor can’t do his work because his scissors need mending. And I’ve already told you that the wagon is on hold, waiting for your hardware.”
“Then let us make a compromise,” Hans said, eyes pleading. “I’ll finish up the wagon, take care of the horses, get caught up on the tools. But then I want to head out again. One more search for her.”
“I’ve told you no.”
Hans opened his mouth to object and Bairn cut him off. “That’s the end of it, Hans. I’m sorry, but you’re needed here. You’ve done all you can for Betsy Zook. She belongs to God.”
Hans slammed his palms on the table. “Why can’t I go look for her?”
“For more reasons than I can count. You don’t know where she is. You’re alone. What’s driving your search is vengeance—” Bairn lifted a hand to silence Hans’s indignation—“don’t think I don’t know what’s fueling your heart right now. Vengeance is a dangerous master to feed. Its appetite has no end.”
Hans was visibly outraged. “I am seeking clues to Betsy’s whereabouts.”
“I don’t know what you were thinking—running off to the Zook farm as if it would provide those answers.”
Hans lifted in his chair and thumped his chest. “At least I did something!” He pointed at Bairn. “You just sit here, fussing over your wagon. You don’t even care about what goes on up north. You moved the church down here and act like an ostrich with your head in the sand.”
Bairn’s jaw stiffened. Anna was surprised he let Hans talk to him like that. He took his time answering. “I have done something. I have gone to Will Sock and asked him to see what he can find out.”
Hans settled back into chair. “So what did he say?”
“He hasn’t brought word yet.”
Hans shook his head in disgust. “You’d trust an Indian to bring you the truth.”
“I do. I trust Will Sock.” Bairn sighed. “Hans, we have no business going up north. The frontier is getting more dangerous. I won’t be traveling on circuit for a while.”
Quietly Anna added, “There aren’t many Amish left up there. Not any more.”
“Not any more,” Bairn repeated.
Hans covered his face with his hands and leaned his elbows on the table. He was silent for such a long time that Anna thought he might be trying not to cry. “She’s never coming back, is she?”
Bairn exchanged a look with Anna. “We don’t know what the future holds. For whatever reason Betsy has had to endure this terrible thing, we trust that God is sovereign over all things. All things, Hans. Even over these bleak circumstances. His presence will never leave Betsy. His purposes for her life will endure. It’s time to give Betsy’s fate over to God.”
Hans did not protest. He picked up his hat and walked to the door. Anna stopped him as he put a hand on the door’s latch. “He is with you too. God has not gone missing, even in this.”
He stared at her with an odd expression in his eyes, a look she couldn’t read, then he shoved his hat on his head and slammed the door behind him.
Junction of the Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio Rivers
Betsy’s legs wobbled beneath her. There seemed to be people in the shelter—squaws—who had been waiting for her. The squaws advanced upon her, circling her, crowding around, jabbering in their strange tongues, plucking at her clothes to pull them off. She resisted, thrashing and grappling, trying to break free. An older squaw grabbed a handful of Betsy’s tangled, matted hair, then let loose a stream of angry Indian words. Her meaning was clear—Betsy must remove her soiled clothes and wash in a pot of water warmed by the fire. Shaking, Betsy obliged, peeling the layers away one after another. A chunk of bristly moss was thrust into her hand by the old squaw. The old squaw put her hand on Betsy’s shoulder and pressed her down until she crouched near the fire. Then she dipped the moss into the water and started to scrub the grime off her body.
She didn’t notice her clothes and shoes had been taken away until she finished washing. She looked for them, panicking, but the squaws handed her an Indian dress and moccasins, both new, made of white deerskin. The dress slipped on easily and draped over her, surprisingly soft and comfortable against her skin. The moccasins felt like slippers.
A girl dipped a bowl into a clay pot simmering over the fire and handed the bowl to Betsy. She would never have dreamed she would eat something that smelled rancid, or put something in her mouth without any idea what it was, but consuming hunger drove her. It was some kind of boiled fish in a putrid broth, and she scooped the flesh into her mouth with her fingers, then drank the greasy liquid. Exhausted, she sank to the ground near the fire. They must have walked hundreds of miles to get to
this place.
But where was this place? And why was she here? She still didn’t know what was going to happen to Johnny or to her, or to the other children.
Betsy sensed someone come up behind her. She tensed, drew up her shoulders, stiffening them as if to protect her neck from a blow. Desperate thoughts flitted through her mind, desperate but shockingly clear minded: Why would they feed her, bathe her, only to kill her?
But with the gentlest of touches, the same Indian girl who handed her a bowl of food now combed the tangles out of her hair, then braided it into a plait, Indian style. She came around to the front of Betsy and peered at her with a serious look on her face. She took the lid off a wooden container and dipped her finger into a powder of red ochre. Gently, with her finger, she spread the powder over Betsy’s face, taking care over the oozing cut on her cheek made by the warrior’s knife, and rubbed the powder into her hair.
Betsy’s mind was filled with questions, but what could she say? Nothing. How could she make herself understood, or try to understand anything these squaws could tell her? And so her questions fluttered away, like moths in the night, and she felt herself relax ever so slightly with the girl’s calm touch.
She wasn’t aware of how much time had passed when the flap opened and her captor appeared, shouting angry words. The young Indian girl pointed to the door, indicating Betsy should leave. When she walked outside, her eyes blinked from the bright afternoon sunlight. Her heart caught in her throat—there was no sign of the other white children. None of them. She looked in vain for Johnny.
Where was he?
Betsy began to shake. “Where is my brother? What have you done with him?”
Her captor lifted his fingers and made a gesture like a bird flying away. “All gone.”
“Please, tell me what’s happened to him!” In despair, she fell to her knees and begged, but the warrior only tilted his head back and laughed.
The Return Page 8
