“It was the Paxton Boys,” Anna said quietly.
“We ken nae for certain,” Bairn said, but the look on his face said otherwise.
Betsy tipped her head. “Boys?”
“No, not boys. Not boys at all.” Anna’s shoulders sagged. “That’s just what they call themselves. They’re men from Paxton who believe that all Indians are dangerous and to be feared.”
“To be annihilated,” Bairn murmured. “That’s what they want.”
Betsy looked from one to the other. “Hans has mentioned Paxton.”
Bairn and Anna exchanged another glance. “He has become friendly with a preacher named John Elder, who fires everyone up with his rhetoric.”
“And you think John Elder led the Paxton Boys to commit this . . . atrocity?”
Bairn frowned. “I cannae and should nae say, nae without any evidence. But I pray truth will prevail. And at least the remaining Conestoga are safe in Lancaster Town in the workhouse until the offenders are caught. The sheriff said he would ask Governor Penn to issue bounties for arrests.”
Betsy jerked her head up. “What’s a workhouse?”
“’Tis a . . . gaol.”
She still didn’t know the meaning of the words so Anna stepped in to translate. “A jail.”
Betsy tried to imagine Indians confined in a jail, but all that came to her mind was a memory of Caleb at the central fire of the village, patiently burning the inside of a log to form a canoe. Of proud Nijlon, sitting cross-legged in the wigwam, quietly nursing her little wide-eyed baby. Of lighthearted Numees, laughing, always laughing, playing chase with little children through the village. “They can’t be locked up. Their spirit . . . Indians suffer when confined.”
Bairn gave her a kind, paternal smile. “I understand your worries, Betsy, but this is only for a short time. Only until the perpetrators are dealt with.” He folded his long frame in his chair and Betsy thought he was finally calming down, but then she saw that he had clasped his hands so tightly that the knuckles had bled white. “Christy brought the original treaty William Penn had made with the local Indians in 1701. Will Sock’s mother had kept it safe, all those years. A worn, thin paper of great value to them.” He rubbed his forehead. “A tragic irony.”
Betsy kept her eyes down. “I want Caleb to go to this workhouse. I fear he has put himself in needless danger today by going to Indiantown.”
“The sheriff and undertaker are heading out there this afternoon,” Bairn said. “Perhaps they will persuade him to return with them.”
Anna set a cup of hot tea in front of her husband. “Caleb struck me as a young man who feels an unusual sense of responsibility toward others.”
“He does,” Betsy said, startled by Anna’s keen insight. “He watches over others. It’s what his Indian name means. To the Indians, a person is meant to become the name.”
Anna tilted her head. “That’s true in the Bible too. God called Gideon a mighty hero when he was hiding out in a wine press. Christ called Simon Peter the Rock, though his temperament was mercurial.”
Betsy regarded Anna thoughtfully until Bairn broke into her thoughts. “She’s the real preacher in this household.”
The latch on the door opened and Tessa burst in, cheeks flushed with cold, spirits oozing with joy.
“Tessa, where have you been?” Anna said. “You said you’d only be out for a few hours. It’s nearly noon.”
“You’ll never believe it! I rode on the horse’s back. I really did! Not for long, but he let me climb on his back. He’s remarkably gentle, once he trusts you.” Abruptly, she stopped talking and looked, confused, from Bairn, to Anna, to Betsy and back to Bairn. “Is something wrong? You all look as if you’ve lost your best friend.”
In a strange way, Betsy realized with a start, without intending to, Tessa had just sized up exactly what she feared most.
When Tessa heard about Conestoga Indiantown, her delight over making such a significant stride forward in gaining the horse’s trust popped like a soap bubble. It had been such a wonderful morning—alone in the snowy woods with the black stallion for company—while just a few miles away, a tragic event had so recently occurred. Her father spared them details, but she could tell by the wilt of his shoulders that the carnage was horrific.
And then a new thought chilled her. It came out of the blue and there was no basis to it, no reason to think it, no purpose in believing it. Still, it was like a popcorn kernel stuck between her molars. She couldn’t dismiss it.
Earlier this morning, where had Hans been coming from?
20
Beacon Hollow
December 22, 1763
Anna was astounded by the conditions of the workhouse in Lancaster Town. The jail was in a stone building on North Prince Street, a cobblestoned road that ran through the center of the town. It was dirty and overcrowded and woefully lacking in simple provisions for the remaining Conestoga Indians who had willingly gone there under promise of safety by the sheriff. Anna and Betsy and Tessa went to town nearly every day, bringing food and blankets. Bairn supplied barrels of raw materials from the sawmill so the Conestogas could continue their work. To do something while they waited in the dimly lit, bone-chilling cold cells. Waiting and waiting for the perpetrators of the Indiantown massacre to be arrested.
The Indians seemed relatively content despite their troubling situation. During the days, they sat in small groups to make brooms and weave baskets. Anna was surprised to hear one or two of them tease and laugh as they worked; they seemed almost oblivious, as if they were unaware of their own troubles.
Caleb stayed nights in the workhouse despite Bairn’s standing invitation to sleep at Beacon Hollow. He spent his days hunting game for the Conestoga to eat, as the provisions by the government were appallingly paltry.
A few days before Christmas, Anna sought out Bairn in the barn and asked him to appeal again to Faxon Gingerich, to ask him to meet Caleb. “This is his sister’s son. Her son. Faxon may be strong minded, but he is a fair man.”
Bairn wagged his head. “’Tis not the right time. If Faxon were to take in Caleb as a relative, he could be targeted for attack. There are bloodlusters in town, Anna. They need no excuse to go after anyone who shows sympathy to the Indians. The atmosphere is highly charged right now. ’Tis best to wait until arrests are made.”
Their gazes collided, each thinking the same thought. If. If arrests were ever made. The provincial governor had created a warrant for the arrest of any and all assailants, but he offered no bounty. It had been a week since the attack on Indiantown, and no arrests had been made. No witnesses, no evidence, no leads came forth to identify the perpetrators.
Anna agreed that everyone was on edge after the attack. On edge . . . and on one side of the story or the other. The attack was strangely polarizing. It was disheartening to hear so many express a high regard for the attackers. She overheard the baker’s wife in Lancaster Town say the attackers should be thanked for “cleaning house.” “Bairn, could Caleb be putting himself in danger when he leaves the workhouse to hunt?”
“Aye, but it’s what he has chosen. He wants to help provide for the others.”
“To watch over them.”
“Aye. To watch over them.”
“The town will calm down. Surely tensions will ease soon.”
“I dinnae. There is growing anger toward Will Sock.” Bairn raked a hand through his hair. “I fear I am t’ blame.”
“You? How could that be?”
“I was the one who asked Will Sock t’ seek out information about Betsy Zook’s whereabouts. He was observed up north, speakin’ to hostile Indians, ones who bore weapons. A rumor took shape that he has collaborated with them.”
“Do you think that’s the reason the Conestogas were attacked? Because of that rumor?”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug and let them down with a sigh. “Ever since Pontiac’s Rebellion last spring, there has been a growing animosity toward the Indians. All Indians.”
“Stirred up by John Elder and his Paxton Boys.”
“’Tis not our place to judge,” he said, sounding more like a minister than a husband.
Anna had no trouble placing blame where it belonged—at the feet of the Paxton Boys. Annoyed, she spun around and left him in the barn to preach to the horses.
With Christmas coming, Anna planned to make it a special day for the Zooks. She had knitted mittens and scarves for Johnny and Willie, and stayed up late to make special cookies to surprise them. She hoped Tessa would do something nice for the Zooks—she seemed far more interested in that black stallion than in Betsy, Johnny, and Willie. She did her chores as quickly as she could, and slipped off to the woods to tame the horse at every possible opportunity. After Christmas, Anna would address Tessa’s remoteness. For now, there were enough other concerns to deal with.
But the following afternoon, Bairn and Felix returned from Lancaster Town with solemn looks on their faces. “Anna,” Bairn said. “Where are Betsy and Tessa?”
“Betsy went to get the boys at Not Faxon’s Farm. Tessa went to seek out the horse.”
Felix looked at Bairn. “I’ll be right back.”
Anna knew something distressing had happened. Felix had never come and left Beacon Hollow without a joke, a light word. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
She looked to Bairn for an explanation.
He read her mind. “He’s gone to fetch Hans at the forge.”
Something had happened. “Shall I leave you three alone?”
“Nae. You need to hear this.”
Not much later, Felix returned with Hans, still with his leather apron on. “Where’s the fire?” Hans said, smiling. Then his smile faded as he took in the grave look on Bairn’s face. “Something wrong?”
“Yes, there is,” Bairn said. “Sit down, Hans.”
They all sat around the table: Bairn, Anna, Felix, and Hans. Bairn cleared his throat before he began, steady gray eyes fixed on Hans. “We’ve just come from the workhouse in Lancaster Town. The sheriff told us disturbing news. It seems that John Elder has implicated you in the massacre on Indiantown.”
Implicated Hans in the massacre? Anna glanced sharply at Hans.
Hans’s lips pressed together in a tight line and a muscle ticked in his jaw, but he stared back at Bairn without flinching. “That’s rubbish. Elder is lying.” There was a protracted silence before he added, in a frosty voice, “But it appears you do not believe me.”
“I’m askin’ you for the truth, Hans,” Bairn said, his tone crisp. “I cannae help you if I dinnae ken the truth.”
There was a short silence before Hans said, “And that is what I’m giving you.”
Felix jumped in. “John Elder is telling others you have been an Indian hater for a long time. He said you were the one who delivered blankets infected with smallpox to the Conestogas last year. That you volunteered for the task because you’d had it.”
“He’s lying!” But his eyes widened in alarm. “I . . . I did deliver those blankets, but I did not know they were infected. I did not know.”
“Hans,” Felix said, “where were you during the night of the massacre? I know you weren’t at home.”
Hans reeled to his feet, as if he was suddenly in a hurry to leave. “I was caught in the storm. I took refuge.”
“Sit down!” Bairn barked, and Hans slowly sank to his chair. Anna could feel the tension rising in the room. “Have you any proof of where you spent the night?”
“Isn’t my word enough?”
“Not if the sheriff comes to arrest you.”
Hans eased himself back in the chair. “But that’s . . . they’ve got it all wrong! All wrong.”
Bairn crossed his arms against his chest. “Hans, I’m going to ask you again. Were you involved in any way with the massacre at Indiantown?”
“No.”
“But that’s not true.”
Everyone turned to see Tessa, halfway down the stairs.
Anna inhaled a sharp breath. “I thought you’d gone out.”
Tessa shook her head. “I was sewing in the loft.” She came down the stairs and stood on the bottom step, as if hesitating to come any closer. “I was out in the woods early on the morning of the massacre. I happened upon Hans as he rode through the woods toward Not Faxon’s Farm. He stopped when we met up, I gave his horse a carrot, we talked for a few minutes. He seemed . . . disoriented. Like he’d hit his head and was confused. He wasn’t making any sense. I thought, maybe he’d been drinking. Maybe he was drunk.”
Anna held a moan behind her pressed lips. What had become of this boy she once knew?
“He had a hatchet tied to his saddle.” Tessa blew out a puff of breath and looked at her feet. “The axe . . . it was covered with blood. Fresh blood.”
Hans slapped his hands down on the table so hard the dishes rattled. “You’d take the word of a silly girl over me? A girl with nothing more on her mind but chasing after a wild horse?” He glared at Bairn. “I did not do anything!”
The injured look on Tessa’s face when Hans called her a silly girl crushed Anna. She looked at Hans, mystified, as if she didn’t recognize him anymore. Images of him as a child filled her mind: running in and out of the house, trying to keep up with Felix. Hans had always been a charming rascal, with a lazy smile and teasing ways. Dorothea had certainly spoiled him, but Anna had seen such potential in him. What had soured him to this extent? Betsy’s captivity seemed to have caused greater harm to Hans than to her.
Hans stared coldly at Tessa, as if trying to impale her. Anna wondered if he was trying to intimidate her. If so, she was pleased to see that her daughter didn’t cower or back down. She returned his gaze, steady and confident. “I know what I saw,” she said in a quiet but firm tone.
“Then your vivid imagination has drawn a picture that isn’t accurate.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Hans. I’m just telling what I saw.”
Bairn leaned across the table to look straight into Hans’s face. “What did Tessa see, Hans? Where were you coming from? Where had you been that night?”
Hans swallowed and took his time answering, rubbing his finger over a dent in the tabletop. He shifted in his seat to face Bairn. “I admit I went to Paxton to speak with John Elder.” The words came out low and recalcitrant.
“Why did you need to speak to him on a bitter, snowy night? What was so urgent?”
“Because . . . of Betsy, of course. I couldn’t stop thinking of what they’d done to her. Each time I saw her face, that hideous scar—I couldn’t forget. That’s why he did it, that warrior. He sliced her face, her beautiful face, so we could never forget. And then I found her diary in my coat pocket—she described such terrible atrocities. Her mother’s scalp . . . Bairn, the savage played with the scalp right in front of Betsy, taunting her with it . . . like it was a toy! Her mother’s scalp! Someone had to pay for what they’d done. Someone had to do something.” His shoulders sagged. “So I decided to show the diary to John Elder.”
“You didn’t,” Tessa said in dull surprise. “Please tell me you didn’t do that.”
Anna felt anxiety begin at the back of her knees and crawl upward—sharp needles of creeping heat.
Hans ignored Tessa. “John Elder read the diary. He decided to send some men over to Indiantown to give them a warning. To send a warning. To all the Indians.”
Bairn’s brows knit together in a frown. “What was the warning?”
“That their rebellion would be subdued.”
“So you joined in on their rampage?”
Hans dipped his head.
“Why? Why would you have joined the Paxton Boys on a rampage?”
He looked at Bairn, and for a brief moment, Anna saw the boy within. “It was just meant to scare them. Just a strategy of fear, he said.” His voice broke. “But once we rode into Indiantown, things got carried away. Someone shot off his rifle, then another . . . and it quickly got out of hand. One thing led to another.
” He squeezed his fists. “I did not hurt anyone, Bairn. I didn’t kill anyone, I didn’t burn anything. I promise you that.”
“Nor did you stop it.”
“No. Nor did I stop it.” His voice grew hoarse. “I don’t even remember seeing Tessa when I came through the woods. My mind was like scattered buckshot.” He sighed, spent of words and emotion, and rubbed his face with both hands. “Should I go to the sheriff? Tell him what I know?”
“It can wait until after Christmas,” Bairn said. “Lancaster Town is a tinderbox right now, just waiting for a flint to hit the rock and set the fire.”
“The Paxton Boys are all over Lancaster Town,” Felix added. “Who knows what might happen if you showed your face in town. The mob might hang you. The sheriff can’t control them.”
Hans’s shoulders slumped down by degrees.
“Surely Christmas will remind everyone of peace,” Anna said, hoping it would be true. “The town will calm down after Christmas and second Christmas.”
Bairn leaned forward on the table. “Hans, so long as you’re telling the truth—”
Hans looked at him with a glimmer of hope. “And I am.”
“So long as you are, then you’ve nothing to fear. You’re not guilty of the crime John Elder accused you of. But you must not accuse the Paxton Boys of involvement.”
“Because you fear they’ll retaliate against me?”
Bairn looked at him in disbelief. “Because our church believes that no man has the right to accuse another.”
“But I know the names of the men who committed those crimes. I can identify them.”
“Even then. It’s the way of our church. How can we accuse another and stand before God? We are all sinners in his eyes.”
A silence covered the kitchen.
“Hans, did you not think to confess your involvement?” Bairn asked.
The Return Page 23
