The Return

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  She smiled. This felt right. It was the first deep-down-done-something-right feeling she’d had in weeks and weeks. Months, perhaps. “Yes. Or maybe you could say, we tamed each other.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully, while sliding a hand down the horse’s long neck. “You have heard of the massacre?”

  Her gaze snapped to his face. “Heard what?”

  “In Lancaster Town. In the workhouse. White men burst in and started a rampage.”

  Tessa struggled to absorb his words. “You were not there?”

  “I was there.” Caleb kept his eyes on the horse. “But someone pushed me out the door just as the fighting began.”

  “You escaped.” Thank God.

  A gust of wind circled them. Caleb’s long coal-black hair flickered through the air, slapping his shoulders and partially covering his face. He was not looking at Tessa, but at the horse. “I did. Others did not, I fear. I do not know.”

  Tessa pressed her hand over her mouth and stared at Caleb as he told her what he had seen; she tried to absorb this information, what it meant. Will Sock. Betty and Molly. Had they been killed? She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to get home.

  “Caleb, this horse, he’s meant for you. And you for him. You need each other.” She handed him the lead and he accepted it willingly, which made her glad.

  “I will treat him well.”

  “I know you will. But . . . won’t you consider staying in Stoney Ridge? You’re welcomed here. You’re wanted here.”

  He made a grunting sound that could have meant anything. “Not by everyone.”

  “But if you leave, Betsy might marry Hans.”

  “She will definitely marry Hans.”

  “Why would you let that happen? She loves you.”

  Caleb crossed his arms and stood spraddle-footed. “Hans loves her. She will forgive him, and learn to love him again.”

  “Hans doesn’t deserve her. You do.”

  “Life is not that simple.” He looked at her with such intensity in his blue eyes that they almost burned Tessa. “Hans Bauer was the one who pushed me out of the workhouse. He tried to dissuade the attackers. He was not successful, but he did try.”

  Caleb mounted the black stallion, and when he sat on top of that horse, Tessa knew she had done the best thing she could have done by bringing the two together. He looked . . . regal . . . on that black stallion. They belonged together, those two lonely beings.

  “Farewell, Little Girl with Big Feelings. May your God bless you for helping me. May He grant you a happy life.”

  She didn’t mind the name so much, not the way he said it. “Goodbye, Caleb. God be with you.”

  Confess. Repent. Make it right.

  All morning, as Betsy pounded and kneaded bread, she stood at the far end of the table so she could keep an eye on the east-facing window, watching for Felix to return with more news from Lancaster Town.

  Anna sat near the window, carding wool with two hand carders. She, too, kept nervously glancing outside. At one point, she stopped carding and gave Betsy a sad smile. “That bread is getting such a pounding, I think it will be the lightest, airiest bread we have yet to eat.” She looked down at her lap. “And I suspect there will never be finer yarn.” She had been carding the same bundle of sheep’s wool, over and over.

  Betsy sighed and lifted the bread. It was smooth and elastic, silky to the touch. She set it in the dough box for one more rise before baking it. “Waiting for news to arrive . . . it’s awful.”

  Another hour passed before she heard the galloping hooves of a horse come up the lane to Beacon Hollow. She ran to the window and saw Felix picket his horse and march straight down to the sawmill to seek out Bairn. She wanted to run outside, to stop Felix and ask him—beg him—to tell her what he knew of Caleb, but her feet didn’t move. Couldn’t move. She didn’t want the answer.

  Anna came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Betsy,” she said softly. “God is sovereign over everything.”

  “Even this?” Betsy said, leaning her forehead on the cold windowpane. “Even this kind of evil?”

  Anna didn’t answer for a long moment. “He promises to bring good out of all things to those who love Him. All things. Even this.”

  Not much later, Felix and Bairn came out of the sawmill, somber looks on their faces. Felix mounted his horse and slowly headed, shoulders slumped and head ducked, to the shortcut in the woods that led to Not Faxon’s Farm.

  Betsy and Anna sat at the table to hear what news Felix had brought of the workhouse massacre. “Felix has just come from town,” Bairn started, then stopped and swallowed. “Most of the news, you’ve already heard. All the Conestoga Indians were slaughtered. Not one survived. Not one.” Bairn exchanged a look with Anna—a look that was terribly discomfiting to Betsy. She braced herself, waiting to hear news of Caleb.

  The door latch opened and Tessa came in. Her cheeks were bright pink from the cold. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. The puppy bounded out of its basket and over to her. “I heard,” she said, bending down to pick up the puppy and hold it close to her. “I heard about the workhouse.”

  “How did you hear?” Anna asked.

  “I met Caleb in the woods.”

  “Oh, thank God!” Betsy clapped her hands over her mouth and started crying. Her heart felt full to bursting. Caleb was alive! “Thank God he wasn’t in the workhouse.” She felt overwhelming relief, quickly followed by a sweep of shame. While she did not know these Indians, she empathized with the Bauers’ sorrow.

  “Caleb had been there.” Tears slid down Tessa’s face. “He escaped from the massacre. He’s gone now, heading to the Ohio Valley. On the black stallion.”

  “Tessa, sit down, please, there’s more . . . ,” Bairn started, then stopped. “Hans . . . our Hans . . . he was in the workhouse.”

  Tessa saw the shock that riffled across Betsy’s face. “It’s not what you think,” she quickly said.

  But Betsy wasn’t sure what to think. Thoughts went spinning out of control and her heart thundered. Hans was in the workhouse, part of the mob. How could it be possible? Feelings collided within her—she felt incensed at Hans, she felt guilty that the contents of her journal might have driven him to this. This.

  Bairn broke into her thoughts. “Tessa, how did you know Hans was there?”

  She sat at the table, the puppy on her lap. “Caleb told me.”

  “What did he say?”

  She wiped away tears, swallowed once, then twice. “Caleb said that Hans pushed him out of the workhouse and told him to run for his life. To leave town and not turn back. He said that Hans was trying to stop the mob.” She looked around at each person. “Where is Hans?”

  Bairn took a deep breath and reached out to cover Anna’s hand. “Felix said Hans was found dead in the workhouse. Not mutilated, not like the Indians were. A stray bullet, most likely.” He swiped at his eyes with a sleeve. “Felix has gone to tell Dorothea the news.”

  For several long seconds, no one moved, no one breathed. They just stared at Bairn, whose eyes were fixed on his hand covering his wife’s. An odd feeling came over Betsy as she sat very still. She became aware of the hiss of the fire in the hearth and the sweet yeasty smell of the bread as it baked in the kettle. A kettle Hans had made in his forge. Anna had told her so this very morning as she hooked it on the trammel. A gust of wind shuddered against the windows. The puppy licked at a spot on the table where some food must have been missed. Anna reached across the table to clasp her hand, Tessa put an arm around Betsy’s shoulder, but she was barely conscious of them.

  Hans was dead. Caleb was alive. Both were gone.

  The sound of bells ringing in the air broke the silence, then the earth started rumbling, ever so slightly, just enough to rattle the salt crock on the mantel. Anna crossed the room to peer out the window. Her breath fogged the glass and she had to wipe it clear. She turned back to them with wide eyes. “Oh my. You should all see this.” They crowded around her to see
Martin Gingerich walk alongside the Conestoga wagon, reins in hand, leading six enormous horses to Beacon Hollow. When he reached the house, he called to the horses to halt.

  Bairn went outside to speak to Martin. When he returned to the house, he had an odd look on his face, as if he was trying very hard not to cry. “Martin thought this large a wagon would be needed to bring the bodies back from Lancaster Town. To bury them properly, Martin said—” his voice breaking—“he thought using the Conestoga wagon would be a way to honor them.” He drew in a deep breath of air. “Evil will not have the last word. It will not.”

  22

  Beacon Hollow

  January 10, 1764

  Early one morning, a messenger arrived at Beacon Hollow with a note for Bairn. Anna heard the rider gallop up the lane and was the first to meet him. The young boy was dressed like the English, he and his lathered-up horse looked like they’d ridden all night. “I was told this was where Bairn Bauer lived.”

  Anna spun toward the barn and saw Bairn already striding over, Felix beside him. “Here he comes now.” She turned back to the rider. “Would you come in to get warm? Take some nourishment?”

  “Not until I give this letter to Bairn Bauer.”

  “What news are y’ bringin’, laddie?”

  Bairn’s eyebrows drew together in a slight frown as he opened the envelope and read the letter, but Anna felt the seriousness of its contents deep in the pit of her belly. He glanced up at her. “The Paxton Boys are gatherin’ t’ march on Philadelphia. Over 250 of them. They want t’ overthrow the provincial government. Benjamin Franklin has asked me to come to Germantown and try to reason with them. He’s agreed to listen to their grievances.”

  Felix’s eyes narrowed. “What grievances could they possibly have?”

  “The same grievances that have spurred them on to do evil. They believe the government has not protected the settlers from Indians.”

  Felix snorted. “The government has not protected the Indians from the Paxton Boys.”

  “Mr. Franklin told me to wait for a message from you,” the boy said.

  “Y’ can tell him that I will nae come to Germantown,” Bairn said. “I dinnae think my role is t’ interfere with the government.”

  Anna spoke up. “Your role is to strive for peace, Bairn. They will listen to you.”

  “You think me t’ have too much influence, Anna.”

  “John Elder will listen to you. Use your strongest brogue, roll your r’s like you were born in Edinburgh, and he will listen.”

  “I’ll go with you, Bairn,” Felix said. “We’ll both go.”

  “You’ll both go, and you’ll take the Conestoga wagon,” Anna said, surprising them all with the force of her words. The wagon was still at Beacon Hollow after being used to carry the bodies of the Conestoga to Indiantown to be buried. “Ride in on the wagon. Ride in with Felix’s big horses. They will notice. They will listen.”

  Beacon Hollow

  February 2, 1764

  Bairn and Felix had been gone to Germantown for over three weeks. Catrina stayed at Not Faxon’s Farm to care for Benjo and Dannie and Dorothea. Without being asked, Martin Gingerich stepped in and managed the daily upkeep of Felix’s horses. His father was annoyed with him, but Martin didn’t shirk his own responsibilities, and as he often said, his father didn’t do his thinking for him. “He’d like to, though,” Martin said, grinning.

  Anna found herself growing very fond of Martin Gingerich. She had a hunch that Tessa’s opinion was softening too. Her eyes sparkled whenever Martin stopped by Beacon Hollow, which was becoming quite a regular thing. This friendship, Anna could see, had substance to it. Something to grow on.

  She looked over at Betsy, spinning flax in the corner of the room, head bent down as she examined the distaff. The sun was streaming down on her head, giving her an almost angelic appearance. Her delicate features gave the impression that she was as fragile as a porcelain teacup, yet her spirit was remarkably solid. Sturdy. Resilient. There was a strength to Betsy that had emerged out of the losses she had faced. It was not apparent to others, but Anna saw it and felt it, especially evident after Hans’s tragic death.

  In a way, Hans gave Betsy a great gift in his sacrificial death. She was free to be her.

  Surely, God is sovereign over all things. All things.

  Bells pealed in the air. Anna dropped the bread dough she was kneading in the bowl and rushed to the door, not even stopping to grab her shawl. There, coming up the lane, was the enormous Conestoga wagon, with Bairn walking alongside the team of horses. Felix sat on the lazy board, waving to her. She ran down the lane and right into her husband’s open arms, not even caring of witnesses. She had felt more frightened about this encounter with the Paxton Boys than even she had realized.

  She pulled back and looked at Bairn’s gray eyes. “How did it go?”

  “Violence was averted,” he said, eyes smiling.

  “Just by a cat’s whisker,” Felix said. “Hundreds, some say thousands—”

  “A gross exaggeration by my wee brother.”

  “—of Paxton Boys were there, coming from north, east, south, west, all riled up. To quote John Elder”—and here Felix lowered his voice to a baritone and added a horrible Scottish accent—“‘The storm that has been so long gatherin’ has finally exploded.’” Felix jumped off the lazy board. “Anna, you should have been there. Our Bairn, alongside Benjamin Franklin—”

  “And many others.”

  “—patiently responding to those hotheaded Scots. Could’ve gone down a different path, a very violent one, were it not for the forbearance of your husband.”

  “Again,” Bairn said, “credit goes to many others.” He pushed the lazy board back against the wagon. “The corner was turned when Benjamin Franklin agreed to read the Paxton Boys’ long list of grievances to the government. That seemed to satisfy them and cool their tempers. And it was agreed that those who caused such harm in the Lancaster workhouse would be sought out.”

  “Sought, yes,” Felix said, disgust on his face, “but no bounty on heads was offered.”

  “It’s a start,” Anna said.

  “Aye, lassie, ’tis a start,” Bairn said, turning his gray eyes directly on her. “So what is new in our little town of Stoney Ridge?”

  “Well, for one thing, some youth have been waiting for you and Felix to return. For baptisms.”

  Bairn laughed. “Truly? Well, that is fine news. And just who will be bending at the knee?”

  “Your daughter, for one. Betsy Zook for another. And . . . believe it or not, a fine young man named Martin Gingerich.”

  Bairn and Felix exchanged a glance. “Faxon will be outraged,” Felix said, looking much too pleased.

  “We will fill you in over dinner,” Anna said. “You both must be famished.”

  “That we are. Cold, too. The warmth of the kitchen beckons.” Bairn snapped the reins and started the horses toward the barn. First things first. He and Felix would care for the horses before they cared for themselves. That was the way of the farmer.

  Anna went back to the house to finish kneading the bread, stopping by the door to examine her rose. Soon, spring would come and the rose would bloom again. That rose. How she loved it. Brought all the way from Ixheim, Germany. How many times had it been dug up? Twice in Germany, twice in the New World. And somehow, it pushed roots down deep into the ground and sent its branches and leaves upward, and it kept on growing, year after year after year. As if it refused to give up.

  She knew Maria would call it blasphemous, but she held a belief that the rose’s ability to survive despite the unlikeliest of circumstances—not just survive, but thrive—was a sign from Above that all would be well.

  She put the bread in the bake kettle, the one that Hans had forged. Soon the house would be filled with a heavenly smell. As she set the table for supper, a new thought occurred to her and her heart was suddenly too full for words. Their table was full. It was full.

  Surely God�
��s providence knew no bounds.

  Beacon Hollow

  March 26, 1764

  On a sunny Monday morning in March, Betsy, Anna, and Tessa began the weeklong process of serious-minded spring cleaning. Church would be held at Beacon Hollow on Sunday, as well as Felix and Catrina’s wedding, and everything was to be scrubbed spotless. Not a single spider was to be left on the property, Anna insisted, not when a wedding was going to be held in her home. Betsy laughed and rolled up her sleeves.

  Before the boys left for school at Not Faxon’s Farm, they helped Bairn carry the furniture outside and sweep out the ashes in the fireplace. Bairn filled the barrel in the yard with hot water, and the three women spent the morning washing linens and hanging them on a clothesline to dry in the sun. As Anna and Tessa wiped down the inside walls for a new layer of whitewash, Betsy scrubbed the floor with sand until it shone. As she scrubbed, she thought of all the feet that had walked through this kitchen in the six months since she had first come to Beacon Hollow and were now gone—Hans and his stiff leather boots, Caleb in his soft, silent moccasins. Christy, the Conestoga Indian boy, who had arrived bloody and barefoot in the middle of December, bearing news of the Indiantown massacre. She knew it seemed silly, but she was a little sorry to scrub away all evidence that they had once been here.

  But they weren’t forgotten. She would never forget them. This had been the most important year of her life. She had come to think of it as her pivoting point, in which everything else shifted. She was only seventeen years old, but she had discovered that she could endure much more than she had ever imagined. She knew who she was, and who she wanted to be for the rest of her life. She knew whom she belonged to.

  As she went out to the stoop to dump the bucket of dirty water under Anna’s rose, she heard a horse gallop out of the woods and into the yard.

  “Tessa!” Felix shouted. “Tessa! I saw him! The stallion!”

  Tessa ran outside as Felix pulled his galloping horse up hard. “Just a short time ago, I saw him leap over the gate to my broodmare’s pasture, like it was nothing more than a log in the road.” He was beaming, positively beaming. “Tessa, you were absolutely right. He is a magnificent beast.”