The Return

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

“I think he’s right.”

  Everyone turned to see Hans, standing at the open door. “John Elder is right.” He looked directly at the Paxton preacher. “This is a holy struggle that God has ordained.”

  John Elder was delighted. “Perhaps we could talk outside, Hans Bauer. I cannae see any point in continuin’ the discussion with yer brother. His mind is closed.” He put an arm around Hans’s shoulder and led him outside.

  Bairn and Anna looked at each other. She crossed her arms against her middle. “You neglected to tell me those details about the Zooks.”

  Bairn glanced away. “I wanted t’ spare y’.”

  “Why was it so . . . especially brutal?”

  His voice was crisp. “To inflict maximum terror on settlers who might intrude on Indian land.”

  Anna covered her face with her hands. “Oh Bairn, no wonder our Willie won’t speak. He can’t.”

  “Aye,” he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close against him. “Aye, our poor wee laddie.”

  Tessa and Willie were deep in the woods behind Beacon Hollow. She’d found the horse eating the spring carrots she’d pulled from her mother’s garden and left in a place she knew he had slept in—she’d seen him there twice. This afternoon, she had Willie stay far away, hidden behind a tree, as she slowly approached the stallion. In her hands were more carrots. The horse saw her, watched her, yet he kept munching on the carrots and didn’t seem at all skittish.

  She was in awe. This horse was majestic—unusually large yet well proportioned, with a glossy black coat; bright, intelligent eyes.

  Slowly, slowly, she moved closer to him, holding the carrots out to him. The horse sniffed the air around her, then sniffed her. She froze, letting his velvety nose take in her scent. Inside, she wanted to jump in the air for joy. The horse took a carrot from her outstretched hand and chewed. A victory!

  All of a sudden, the horse pricked his ears, huffed, and vanished. Then she realized what had startled him—off in the distance, she heard men’s voices approach. She hurried to join Willie behind the thick trunk of an old poplar tree, feeling foolish when she realized one of the voices belonged to Hans. She nearly revealed herself, but as soon as she saw that John Elder was with him, she stayed hidden and put her hands on Willie’s shoulders. She couldn’t abide John Elder.

  John Elder stopped his horse, not more than a few rods from where Tessa and Willie remained hidden behind the poplar tree. For once, she was grateful for Willie’s silent tongue. If John Elder saw her, he would no doubt offer to serenade her with his horrible bagpipes.

  “You’ve been beneficial in the past, Hans,” she heard John Elder say. “We could sorely use your help again.”

  Hans made a jerking movement in such a way that Tessa thought he must have spotted her, but then she realized he had merely bowed his head. “I did not know the extent of the errand I was sent on.”

  “Hans, do y’ happen t’ ken an Indian named Will Sock?”

  “Yes, of course. Everyone knows him. He’s got a lot of influence.”

  “He’s under particular suspicion.”

  “Will Sock? Most of his time is spent going from farm to farm, selling his brooms and baskets. How credible are these accusations?”

  “He was recently observed while visitin’ Seneca Indians . . . and y’ ken how they lean toward the French.”

  “Bairn had asked Will Sock to seek out information about Betsy Zook. She was captured in the recent attack.” He rubbed his forehead, chin to his chest. “We were to be married.”

  “Ah, Hans. I dinnae ken. My heart goes out t’ y. But y’ see now, dinnae y’, why our efforts are so vitally important?”

  Hans lifted his head. “I do. I see exactly why.”

  “Will Sock has also been found t’ plan and participate in attacks on local settlers. Watch him carefully, m’boy. He’s a marked man. Send word t’ me o’ anything suspicious.” As he mounted his horse, he added one last thing. “Soon, y’ will hear word from me with more plans.”

  Tessa held her breath until Hans finally turned and walked back down the narrow path that led to Beacon Hollow. She waited until he was out of sight before she came out from behind the tree. She gave Willie a reassuring smile. Hans and John Elder had been speaking in English, which Willie did not understand. Even still, he seemed troubled.

  As was Tessa.

  What did John Elder mean when he said that Hans had been beneficial to him in the past? And what errand had he sent Hans on? Probably nothing, she decided. She wondered if John Elder had gone mad. Crazier than a loon, she considered him to be.

  But she was suddenly afraid and could not fathom why.

  Not Faxon’s Farm

  May 6, 1763

  Crows and blackbirds had become such a nuisance to the farmers that the Lancaster Town sheriff put a bounty on them: three pence apiece for a single crow or for a dozen blackbirds. When Felix’s sons, Benjo and Dannie, learned of the bounty, they implored him to let them borrow his shooting rifles. Felix was sorely tempted, especially after he carried a bucket of water to his garden this morning and discovered that the crows had made a mess of his just-planted corn seeds. Something had to be done. Felix’s mother, Dorothea, pitched a fit at the thought of Benjo and Dannie using rifles, convinced the boys would kill them all.

  There was some truth in that worry—the boys used ammunition like it was popcorn and had recently blown out two windows in the house. So Felix and his mother arrived on a compromise: a slingshot and rocks, of which there were plenty. The boys went straight to work.

  Felix sat on the farmhouse steps to watch the boys practice slinging rocks. They had yet to hit a bird but were starting to get the hang of the slinging part. Rocks went sailing all over the yard, and Dorothea stayed inside, far from the front of the house, to stay safe.

  Unfortunately, Felix and the boys were so engrossed with slinging rocks that they didn’t notice Maria Müller’s pony cart turn up the lane. One errant rock flew too close to the pony and caused him to bolt. Felix jumped off the steps and ran to grab the pony’s reins to catch him. He hung on to the pony’s reins with all his might, despite thinking his arms might get yanked out of their sockets. The pony settled down and Felix let out a deep breath of relief.

  “Crisis averted,” he said cheerfully.

  “Crisis averted, my eye,” Maria spit back. “You and your boys create crises.”

  The boys, Felix noticed, had vanished. Disappeared into thin air. They had a knack for that.

  He turned back to Maria and suddenly realized she wasn’t alone in the cart. Beside her on the seat was her daughter, Catrina, an inquisitive look on her face. Imperious as always, was his first thought.

  Maria climbed down from the cart and gave Felix an appraising look, up and down, her eyes resting on the patches on his knees. He’d sewn them himself and was rather proud of his efforts. “Is Dorothea home?”

  “Yes. She’s in the house. She’s having a good day. It’ll be a treat for her to see you.” As Maria bustled past him and into the house, an awkward silence remained as Felix offered a hand to help Catrina down from the cart. He wiped sweat off his forehead with his wrist. “Welcome, Catrina. Your mother said you’re returning to Stoney Ridge.”

  “Yes.” She looked him right in the eye and he noticed that her wandering eye didn’t wander anymore. Not so much, anyway.

  “Apparently you’ve been employed to teach my sons to read and write and do sums.”

  “Yes. Exactly that. And English. Plus more, I hope, assuming their minds are nimble.” Her brows knit in a frown. “Are they?”

  “Of course! Of course they’re nimble minded. Who said they weren’t?” Who would give the impression that his boys were feebleminded? Maria, most likely. How dare she!

  “No one said they weren’t. I was just concerned, after I heard that they’re already ten years old—”

  “Just turned nine. Barely nine.”

  “—and they aren’t able to read. I hoped the
y would be . . . teachable. That it isn’t too late.” Her lips curved up a little on one side, as if she found him amusing. Like he was a silly child—that kind of amusing.

  What a ridiculous notion. Too late? How could it be too late for two nine-year-old boys to learn to read?

  For a long moment, Felix considered Catrina, trying hard to discern her motives. Was she sizing him up? Estimating the value of his farm? Already planning her next wedding? Felix couldn’t tell. It would be naïve of him to think Catrina had anything but her own self-interests at heart.

  She lifted her eyebrows as if she were reading his thoughts. “Pay no mind to my mother’s attempts at matchmaking, Felix. I’m not at all interested in you.” And she strode past him into the house to visit with Dorothea and Maria.

  Good, Felix thought. Excellent. Then, And why not?

  10

  Monongahela River, Shawnee Village

  May 7, 1763

  Betsy woke in the night to realize that she was warm. For the first time since the attack, she had not woken shivering, numb with cold and fear. It was dark, some time had passed since she fell asleep, but she couldn’t tell if it was minutes or hours.

  She heard the heavy, steady breathing of the two Indian women who had adopted her. The older one was called Nijlon, meaning “mistress.” The younger one was Numees, or “sister.” On the first day they had arrived at the village, Numees had made a compress of wild tansy for Betsy’s face wound, which had started to throb with pain. Numees applied the compress with tenderness, reapplying it several times that day. Betsy put a hand to her face. It felt less swollen, less tender to the touch.

  Outside the wigwam, Betsy heard the hum of voices. With one large central fire continually burning, family groups would feed their fires off the main one, and Nijlon’s wigwam was closest to the fire.

  Betsy assumed the proximity of Nijlon’s wigwam had something to do with status; the squaw was treated with unusual respect. When they arrived at the village yesterday, most everyone in the village—men, women, and children alike—stopped what they were doing and stood at attention, waiting and watching quietly as Nijlon walked up from the river and disappeared into her wigwam. Then they resumed their activities.

  Betsy had seen such a sign of reverence only once before. It was in Port Philadelphia when her family had newly arrived, and they happened upon General George Washington on horseback. Shop owners and customers came out of the shops to quietly watch the general as he went along the cobblestone road.

  Burrowed deeper under the skins given to her by Nijlon and Numees, Betsy tried to shut out the sounds, to shut off her mind. She couldn’t stop worrying about Johnny, wondering if he were being treated well, and she grieved over Willie, sure he had been killed alongside her parents. Grief was a sin. Her father had warned continually against it when they left Europe because her mother had felt such sorrow over leaving behind her parents and sisters, knowing she would never see them again. She could hear her father’s voice as clearly as if she were on the ship that brought them to Port Philadelphia, with her mother’s head bowed low to take his scolding. “Do not attach yourself to the things of this earth,” he told her nearly every day, “but to heaven alone.”

  It was a sin to grieve, and yet Betsy couldn’t help it, just as her mother couldn’t help her great sadness as she left Europe. Her thoughts traveled to Hans. Would he forget her and find someone else to love? Perhaps he already had.

  She quietly wept, swallowing her sobs so she wouldn’t awaken Nijlon, Numees, or the infant. Finally she drifted off to sleep, moving away from her sadness, sliding into a blessed darkness.

  Not Faxon’s Farm

  May 11, 1763

  On Wednesday morning, Anna made a point of stopping by Hans’s forge after dropping poor Willie off at Not Faxon’s Farm. She watched Hans at work for a long while, noticing his intense concentration on his task. She could see how young women, girls like her own Tessa, easily gave their hearts to Hans. The entire church had waited to see which girl might catch the elusive Hans Bauer. A year ago, when Anna first learned that Hans was courting Betsy Zook, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had known Tessa would be crushed, but she was so young. Much too young for Hans to notice her, thank goodness.

  Anna caught herself. Why did she feel such a catch in her spirit about Hans? She couldn’t say. He had been a beautiful boy and was now a strikingly handsome man, charming and winsome. But Dorothea had pampered him and he was accustomed to getting his way.

  Long ago, when Hans was only a boy, he had captured a beautiful monarch butterfly and asked Anna for a crock to keep it. She warned him the butterfly could not survive without air and light. But Hans insisted, convinced that if he wanted something enough, it would happen. Within a day, the butterfly died. Furious, he threw the crock against the kitchen wall, shattering it, and ran off when Anna asked him to sweep it up. He was only a boy, but Anna had never forgotten that incident. It seemed to portend something, though she had no idea what.

  On this rainy morning, Hans was focused on finishing the iron tongue to fit on Bairn’s wagon, which would please her husband to hear about. Bairn was spending long days on that wagon, eager to complete it but equally compelled to make it perfect in every way.

  Hans finished hammering the handle of the tongue and thrust it in a kettle of water with his tongs. Clouds of steam billowed up from the kettle. He looked up and noticed Anna, standing a few feet away. “Anna! I didn’t realize you were standing there. You should have said something.”

  She smiled. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  He set the tongs down and put his hands on his hips. “You can tell Bairn that I will bring the wagon tongue over tonight.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear it.” More than glad.

  “I thought you’d left long ago.”

  “I dropped Willie off for school and then I tarried. I wanted to see how Dorothea is faring.”

  “She’s better, don’t you think?”

  Actually, no. The opposite, in fact. Anna had noticed that the whites of Dorothea’s eyes had a slight yellow hue, and she didn’t want to get out of bed. She started to say as much to Hans, then hesitated as she caught the hopeful look in his eyes. He had enough woes and worries to deal with lately. “She seemed quite cheerful.”

  He gave her a slight grin. “I think she’s doing much better too.”

  She took one step closer to his workbench but backed away again, startled by the intense heat of the fire. How did he stand it? And this was only May. “Hans, I thought of one way you could help Betsy Zook.”

  His grin faded and he leaned toward her. “Tell me. What news have you?” In his voice was a quiet desperation.

  “Nothing, I’m sorry to say. But I thought you might consider befriending Betsy’s brother, Willie Zook. He, too, is suffering.”

  “Of course.” He nodded slightly, then more vigorously. “Of course. It hadn’t occurred to me. Certainly, Willie is suffering too. Thank you, Anna.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be sure to let Bairn know he can expect the hardware this afternoon.”

  But Hans wasn’t listening. He had stopped hammering and was staring at her, his eyes wide, as if he was looking through her, as if she were not there.

  Oh no. Oh dear. She had an uneasy feeling that she had just stopped him from finishing the tongue for Bairn’s wagon.

  Stoney Ridge

  Tessa was late heading home and came bursting out of the woods, clattering down a steep embankment, sending rocks and mud tumbling to the road below, startling a horse so much it reared and nearly overturned its wagon.

  “Whoa!” Rumpled Martin took a while to get his horse until control.

  She halted a rod away, facing him, appraising his horse management skills solemnly, while he appeared pleased at having run into her. Or rather, she nearly ran into him.

  “Tessa Bauer! What are you doing, storming out of the woods like that? Is there a fire?”

  “No. No fire. I’m in a
hurry.”

  “What’s your big hurry?”

  “I dropped off canvas cloth for the wagon to Maria. She’s sewing the seams together to cover the hoops. And she talked so long she’s made me late for—” She stopped herself. “For supper.” No, not just supper. She had overheard Hans promise her father that he’d be stopping by about now to deliver an important piece of wagon hardware. She couldn’t believe Maria had kept her so long. And why? Just so Tessa could hear complaints that her father was consumed by the Conestoga wagon and in dire danger of neglecting the church, which, Tessa knew, translated to her father not giving Maria enough attention.

  There was some truth to Maria’s gripes—her father was working eighteen or more hours a day on the wagon, stopping only to sleep and eat. His temper was short, especially when Hans made him wait on needed hardware. Some church duties, other than Sunday church, had been put off until the wagon was completed. But the church was not neglected.

  Maria couldn’t see that, though. She could only see that her woodpile was growing small—something her father normally kept a close eye on and resupplied as needed. Tessa wasn’t going to trouble her father with Maria’s complaints. Instead, she would tell Uncle Felix. He could chop wood for Maria.

  “Why don’t you just cut through the cornfields? I can see your house from here.”

  He was right about that. The steep roof of the stone house was visible from the road, and the cornfield was the shortest route, but there was a problem. “Can’t.”

  “Why not? As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been taking shortcuts.”

  What did that mean? She studied him warily. “Snakes.” She was fairly brave about most creatures, even spiders didn’t bother her, but she took exception to snakes.

  He raised his chin and nodded wisely. “They do come out after a rain.”

  Exactly. In droves. And there had been a heavy downpour this morning. She crossed her arms behind her back, rocked left to right. If Martin would offer her a ride, it would save her quite a bit of time. She could just jump on the back of the wagon, so no one would misunderstand and think they were spending time together. She waited patiently for him to make the offer, keeping her eyes leveled at him. My, he was a scruffy-looking fellow, always in need of a haircut. And where was his hat? Unlike Hans, rumpled Martin did not seem to care a whit about how he looked.