The Courage of Sarah Noble

by Alice Dalgliesh

  “The Indians are by the Great River,” her father said. “And I have told you, Sarah, they are good Indians.”

  “But Lemuel said . . .”

  John Noble took Sarah’s small, cold hand in his.

  “Mistress Robinson should teach her children to watch their words. She should watch her own. And there are people in this world who do not help others along the way, Sarah, while there are those who do. In our home all will be treated with kindness—always, Sarah. The Indians, too, and they will not harm us.”

  Now Sarah held her courage a little more firmly. She also held tightly to her father’s hand. And so they came, with Thomas, down the long hill into the place that would be their home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Night in the Cave

  It was a fair piece of land with the trees already cleared. Men had come over from Milford, on the coast, to buy the land from the Indians. They had cleared it and divided it into plots for the houses. The land sloped down to the Great River, and beyond the river were the Indian fields.

  It was in the hill across the river that Sarah and her father found a place hollowed out, that would do for the night.

  “And tomorrow I will make it larger and build a shed and a fence,” John Noble said.

  They took from Thomas the heavy load he had been carrying—bedding and pots, seeds for planting, tools, and warm clothes for the weather that would be coming.

  “Tonight we do not need to eat that dry johnny-cake,” Sarah said.

  It was easy to make a fire outdoors and to stir up a big pot of bean porridge. They ate there by the fire, with the only sound the evening talk of the birds.

  Later, when they had gone to bed, Sarah lay looking out at the fire which still glowed in the darkness. It was cold in the cave but Sarah was comfortable. Under the quilt she had wrapped herself in her warm cloak.

  Now the night sounds began. Sarah lay and listened. Was she keeping up her courage or was she being afraid?

  A branch snapped in the darkness.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  “Do not be afraid, Father, I think an owl . . . f-fell off a branch!”

  There was the sound of small footsteps.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, Sarah.”

  “That is perhaps a woodchuck. It cannot be Indians. . .”

  “No, of course not.” John Noble smiled in the darkness.

  Then there came a strange odor that made Sarah choke.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, Sarah.”

  “It is a SKUNK!”

  John Noble laughed out loud. “Indeed it is. And a good thing I have you here, Sarah, to keep me from being afraid of all these strange visitors.”

  Sarah was as proud as could be. She was keeping up her courage, then, and her father’s, too. That would please her mother.

  The night sounds wove themselves into a pleasant, comforting pattern. Sarah tried to keep her eyes open but they kept closing.

  The wind in the trees seemed to put words to her thoughts. What was it saying? Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble. Keep up—keep—keep—keep. . .

  Then suddenly, in no time at all, it was morning and the sun was very bright.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Indians!

  For some days John Noble was busy making the cave a good place to live. He built a shed with a strong fence around it. He made, too, rough beds of logs, and a table and stools. Sarah took delight in it all.

  But after it was done, he said to her, “I must begin the work on the house. It should be finished before winter. You will not mind staying here, Sarah, while Thomas and I work?”

  Sarah did mind, but she did not say so. There was still the question of Indians. On the hill and along the river they could see the bark-covered houses. People moved about among the houses, but no Indians had come near the cave. She knew, though, that her father had spoken with some of the men.

  She did not want her father to go, but the house must be built. So she looked at him steadily and said, “I will stay here, Father.” But to herself she was saying, “Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble. Keep up your courage!”

  Then John Noble and Thomas went across the river at a place where it was not deep. They went on up the hill, and Sarah was alone. For a little while she did not know what to do. Then she took out the Bible they had brought with them. It was a book full of wonderful stories. Which should she read? She liked the story of Sarah, whose namesake she was. Sarah had a son named Isaac. That was a scary story, but it came out all right in the end.

  Then there was the story of David and how he killed the giant. . . . Oh, it was hard to choose.

  Sarah sat on a stool at the entrance to the shed, the Bible on her lap. So she had often sat and read to her doll, Arabella, and to her little sister, who never would listen. Here there was not anyone to listen—not anyone, not even Arabella, for there had been no room to bring her.

  The early June air was mild, but Sarah felt suddenly that she needed her cloak. So she got it, and sat down again.

  No one to listen—but she would read to herself. She opened the Bible and there was one of the stories she loved best of all.

  It was the story of the boy Samuel and of how the Lord called to him in the night. Sarah thought of the Lord as a kind old man like her grandfather. Her mother said no one knew how He looked, but Sarah was sure she knew. She wished He would speak to her as He had to Samuel. That would be exciting. What in the world would she answer?

  Sarah read on and on. And then the sounds began. There was a rustling and a sound of feet coming quietly nearer and nearer. . . .

  Sarah held tightly to the book and pulled her cloak around her. Rustle—rustle— — — Suddenly Sarah saw a bright eye peering at her through a clink in the log fence.

  INDIANS!

  They were all around her, some of them crowded in the opening of the palisade. But they were young Indians, not any older than she was. Still, there were many of them. . . . Sarah kept as still as a rabbit in danger. The children came in, creeping nearer, creeping nearer, like small brown field mice, until they were all around Sarah, looking at her.

  Sarah closed the book and sat very still. Then she remembered what her father had said as they stood on the hill.

  “Good morning,” she said politely, “you are welcome to our house.”

  The Indian children stared at her. Then they came nearer. Soon Sarah found that all around her was a ring of children, standing and sitting, staring, staring with their dark eyes. The spring sun shone on their brown bodies, and Sarah realized with a shock that they were not wearing clothes—unless you could call that one small piece of cloth “clothing.” Sarah, secure in dress and cloak and petticoats, felt very well dressed indeed.

  The children stared, Sarah began to feel as if their eyes were going all the way through her.

  Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble. She thought the words to herself. Here she was in the wilderness with all these Indians around her. She wished the Lord would speak to her as He had to young Samuel. He would tell her what to do.

  The Lord did not speak out loud, or at least Sarah did not hear Him. But all at once she knew what to do. She opened the book and began to read to the children. They came nearer and nearer.

  They like the story, Sarah thought. They will not hurt me because they like the story.

  She read and read, and the children listened, because the sound of her voice was strange and pleasant.

  Then the story was over and Sarah closed the Bible. Still the children sat and stared and said not a word.

  “My name,” said Sarah clearly, “is Sarah Noble.”

  One of the boys said something, then another spoke. Sarah did not understand a word of their strange talk.

  “How foolish,” she said aloud, “why can’t you speak English?”

  Perhaps some of her impatience crept into her voice, for the spell was broken. Like the deer when her father lifted the gun, the children wer
e off and away.

  Sarah sat there by herself and now she really felt alone.

  “Oh,” she said to herself. “I wish they would come again!” And she shook her head. “For shame, Sarah Noble, I fear you were not polite. Perhaps they will never come back.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friends

  The Indian children did come, again and again. Sarah soon lost all fear of them, and they of her. At first the children all looked alike to Sarah, then she began to know each one. Two of them she liked better than all the others. They were brother and sister, a tall serious boy and a little girl with lively black eyes.

  Sometimes Sarah tried to read to them but after the first time they did not listen. So Sarah tried teaching them words. Pointing to the table, stool, fire, she would say the name slowly and clearly. Then the Indian children said—or tried to say—the words, shouting with laughter when their tongues could not find a way around the strange sounds.

  They, in turn, showed her where the wild strawberries grew. So she went out and filled a basket with the berries, which were like red jewels in the grass. When John Noble came home with a duck he had shot, or a fish caught in the river, he would find ripe berries waiting, too.

  They traded with the Indians for corn, and ground it with the small mortar and pestle Thomas had brought in one of the saddle bags. Sarah made corn cakes with it, cooking them in the ashes, and all the time she thought of her mother’s good bread, baked in the oven. If she had an oven . . .

  “I need help to raise the logs for the house,” John Noble said. “There is a tall Indian who has said he will help me. I cannot say his name so I will call him Tall John. He speaks a few words of English.”

  “Father,” Sarah said, “the Indian children point to their houses and want me to visit them. Should I go?”

  John Noble did not answer at once. He sat with his head in his hands saying not a word. This was his daughter, and he had brought her to this wild place. Often and often he had wondered if he had done right. And what, after all, did he know about these strange people?

  Sarah waited for her father to speak.

  At last he said, “Tall John has two children, Sarah. I think they are among those who come here. I would trust you to go to the house of Tall John.”

  “Oh!” said Sarah. “It is Tall John’s children that I like!”

  So Sarah went often to the house of Tall John and his wife. She could not say the long, long names of the children, so she called the boy Small John and the girl Mary, after her mother.

  The Indian children called her Sarah, for that was a name easy to say.

  “Sar—ah, Sar—ah, Sar—ah!” Their high, clear voices echoed up and down the valley as she played with them and learned their games.

  “Sar—ah, Sar—ah, Sar—ah!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Keep up Your Courage . . .

  In the fall of the year the house was almost finished. A little house, very small in the wilderness, and small, too, beside the great maple trees that looked down on it. The house was brown and the trees had put on their finest scarlet and yellow.

  Sarah and her father, Tall John and Thomas all stood and looked at the house. The big chimney promised warm winter days and nights. Outside there was a woodpile, neatly cut and stacked.

  “It is a good house,” said John Noble.

  “Good,” said Tall John, who never used two words where one would do—even if he spoke in his own language.

  “It is a beautiful house,” said Sarah. “When can we live in it? And when will my mother come—and Stephen—and Hannah?”

  Her father did not answer her at once. He looked at Tall John. Tall John nodded.

  Then Sarah’s father took both her hands in his and looked down into her eyes.

  “Sarah,” he said. “You have been brave, and now you will have to be braver. I must go to fetch your mother and the children. It is too far for you to go and it will be better if you stay here.”

  “Stay here? Alone? I am afraid.”

  She heard herself say “afraid” and it was the first time she had said the word out loud.

  “I have lost my courage,” said Sarah Noble.

  “To be afraid and to be brave is the best courage of all,” said her father. “But you need not be afraid and you will not be alone. Dry your tears, Sarah. Tall John and his squaw will take care of you.”

  “You mean,” said Sarah not quite believing the words, “You mean I am to live with the Indians?”

  “That is what I mean,” her father said. “Does it seem very hard to you?”

  Sarah thought it over. The Indian children were her friends. She loved Tall John and his squaw. But to stay with them, to live in their house, while her father was away—that was quite another matter. And again, Sarah was afraid. But she knew that Thomas would be needed to carry goods when her father brought the family back—Thomas and other horses. Of course there would be no place for Sarah to ride.

  The next morning Sarah was very quiet as she stirred the mush for breakfast.

  “Sarah,” said her father. “You will be safe with Tall John and his family.”

  “But,” said Sarah, “what if the Indians from the North come? Tall John is afraid of them.”

  “The Indians have not come from the North for a long time,” her father said. “You know the Indians on Guarding Hill keep watch all the time. I would not leave you, Sarah, if I did not think it was safe.”

  But to himself he said, “Am I doing right to leave her?” There was worry in his mind.

  The frost was on the ground when Sarah stood, holding Tall John’s hand, to watch her father start on his journey. Her cloak was wrapped tightly around her. She was not saying anything, but her mind, always busy, was making pictures. Trees . . . trees . . . dark trees . . . narrow paths through the forest . . . wolves . . . bears. Suppose her father never came back and she had to live with the Indians all her life?

  Now her father was mounting Thomas. Sarah patted the horse’s nose. His long, solemn face seemed suddenly very dear to her.

  John Noble rode quickly away—turning once, twice, three times to wave to a very small girl in a red-brown cloak.

  Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble.

  Now he was far away—farther away. The trees hid him and he was out of sight.

  Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble.

  Sarah’s fingers were cold in Tall John’s hand and the tears she had been holding back splashed on her cloak. Tall John swung her up on his shoulder. Then they went, with long strides, down the hill, across the river, to Tall John’s house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the Indian House

  The first night was the strangest. All day Sarah had played with the children. They did not speak in the same words but somehow they understood each other. When they couldn’t understand it did not seem to matter. Friends have ways of speaking without words.

  But darkness came early, and Sarah found herself in the house with Tall John and his family. How she longed for her own family! The evening meal was not what Sarah was used to. The Indians ate with their hands and they had no plates. Still, the meat tasted good, and Tall John’s wife had cooked it. Sarah liked cooking, but there were times when she tired of it. So she ate the food and enjoyed it.

  When bedtime came, Sarah opened the bag she had packed so neatly—the bag that had come all the way from home on the willing back of Thomas. The children watched eagerly. What magic was Sarah going to take out of the bag? But there was no magic, only a long warm nightgown and a comb. The children watched, interested but puzzled, as Sarah put on the nightgown. Their eyes never left her as she combed out her long hair. That long, brown hair of Sarah’s—it was like the silk on the corn in late summer. The children came near and touched it.

  Then Sarah knelt by the side of the low bed covered with furs, to say her prayers as she always did. She said them aloud as she had done when her father was there to listen. The tears came again, for it was a lonely busine
ss.

  “God bless my father and my mother and my brothers and sisters. Make the baby strong and well. Keep—keep my father—safe—and bring him back to me. . .”

  She stopped for a minute, partly because her voice was choked, but partly because she did not know if it was right to pray for a horse. Then she went on:

  “And keep Thomas safe on the way. And keep me safe . . . and . . .”

  Now she really had to stop and think. Was it right to pray for Indians? Did the Lord take care of Indians? She could only ask Him and see. . .

  “Please, God, if you take care of the Indians, too, bless Tall John, and his wife and Small John and Mary. For ever and ever. Amen.”

  The children heard their names and looked at their father with a question in their eyes.

  “She speaks with her Great Spirit,” their father said. “As we speak with our Great Spirit.”

  “Good,” said Small John, who was like his father in not wasting words.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Night of Fear

  October days were warm and sunny. The Indian women spread the corn out to dry. At night Sarah helped them to cover it carefully, so the heavy dew would not wet it.

  There were many things to do. Tall John’s wife taught Sarah how to weave a basket. And because Sarah’s clothes were stiff and heavy, the Indian woman made her clothes of deerskin, such as the Indians wore when the days grew colder. She also made a pair of deerskin moccasins. Sarah’s feet felt light and free; she walked softly as the Indian children did.

  Often she thought of her family. Were they on the way? Would Hannah and Margaret be afraid of wolves? Stephen would not be. And the baby was too young to know about the danger. . .

  There was nothing, she thought, to be afraid of here with Tall John and his family. But there was.