by Janet Cooper
How strange to see a white man at Long Meadow. Her thought surprised her. Was she no longer regarding herself as white? The two men kept looking at her.
"I didn't mean to disturb thy meeting," Sarah said, embarrassed at the long silence. She showed the basket. "I'm on my way to the kitchen."
"Sarah, come in," Wolf said. Walking around the table, he held out his hand to her.
She searched his face, trying to read his mood, but again failed to decipher this inscrutable man.
"Let me introduce you to Jeremiah Low." He kept his arm extended, waiting for her to slide her fingers over his.
Ignoring his hand, Sarah barely placed her palm on the sleeve of his buckskin shirt. Although no longer annoyed with him, she had not forgotten his sharp words and had resolved not to totally forgive him. As he drew her near, not even her internal reservation nor the layer of leather covering his arm decreased her desire for him. When only inches separated them, a pulse of electricity shot through her; the swift current warred with her recent displeasure. The sensation vexed her. Why did her body constantly betray her? She glanced at Wolf hoping to see his reaction, but the wall he had built around himself remained solid. Turning her attention to the newcomer, she smiled
"Sarah, may I present Jeremiah Low? He's a neighbor and helped organize people to come here after the soldiers had devastated Long Meadows," Wolf said, in a neutral tone. "Jeremiah, this is Sarah Stone. Her father owns the tavern off Dilworthtown Road. She is staying with us until the British scavengers leave the area."
She considered offering her hand, but chose a brief curtsey. As she rose she said, “I’m sure everyone on the plantation appreciated the aid they received.
The short, stocky man blushed and responded with a slight bow to her comment. He wore tight leather leggings topped by an ash-colored rifle shirt, similar to those worn by the militia. A pleasant expression covered his face, clearly showing the freckles that matched his carrot-red hair. "I am delighted to meet you." He extended his hand.
Sarah placed her fingertips on his palm and bent her head slightly. He squeezed her fingers gently and bowed again. When he released her, his pale blue eyes twinkled with pleasure. "I have met Benjamin Stone and heard about his difficulties. He's a fine and honorable man."
From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw that his gallant gesture received a less-than pleased reaction from Wolf. Did she sense jealousy? If so, it gladdened her heart. Responding to Jeremiah's earlier statement, she said, "I will tell my father of thy high regard." Then she added, "Has thou lived here long?"
"My farm runs along the northern border of Long Meadow Plantation. Luke and I have been friends since I grew out of dresses, and he began to wear clothes." The fringe running down the front of Jeremiah's rifle shirt swayed as he chuckled.
She joined in, partly from what he had said, partly from the picture created, but mostly because his laugh was contagious. When she glanced at Wolf, he appeared less than ecstatic at Jeremiah's comment. Having seen the village's toddlers and very young children, Sarah had noted their bare bottoms, thinking it saved on diapers. Could Wolf be embarrassed? Of course, his features gave nothing away. She recalled the impartial tone Wolf had used when he introduced Jeremiah. Was it only their different personalities that caused this? She eyed one then the other but discovered no answer.
Realizing she was holding them from their discussion, she said, "I mustn't intrude any longer."
"What we are planning will interest you," Wolf said.
Sarah stared at him, surprised at his comment. What could they be discussing? Suddenly, she knew. "Thou found the British patrol." She divided her attention between the two men.
"Possibly," Jeremiah replied.
"As you may have observed from his uniform, Jeremiah is a member of the local militia," Wolf said. "He has news about a British provisioning patrol gathering supplies in the western part of the county."
She examined Jeremiah, keenly. "Thou believeth they are the same men who attacked the plantation and our tavern?" Her heart pounded with excitement, and a measure of fear, perhaps apprehension. Sarah wanted them caught and punished. Yet, a small voice reminded her that, with their demise, she would have no reason to stay at Long Meadow with Wolf. She pushed this thought aside.
"The description of the leader appears to match," Jeremiah added.
"Where are they?" A flutter of trepidation flowed over her. She would prefer never to see the fat corporal again and hoped he and his men were not too close.
"I'll show you. According to our sources," Jeremiah said, as he returned to his original position, "they loaded goods on rafts here and are floating them down Doe Run."
Sarah moved to the opposite side of the table and watched as Jeremiah's finger traced a path across the paper. Instead of Wolf taking his place next to his friend, where he had stood before, he followed her. Only a few inches separated them. From his attitude, one might suspect he had a special interest in her. One glance at his face dispelled that notion. The diverse signals he constantly sent confused and depressed her. Would she ever understand him?
"Doe Run joins the west branch of the Brandywine Creek, here; a mile south the east and west forks of the Brandywine come together. I believe they will either continue south to the Christiana River, then on to the Delaware before heading north and landing in Philadelphia, or have wagons met them where the river crosses the road to Nottingham and drive to Philadelphia."
Sarah retraced the route Jeremiah had outlined and frowned.
"Since we are not sure, I suggest we arrange a warm reception for them at the main intersection of the two creeks." Jeremiah tapped the spot, looked up and grinned.
"The river runs fast at that spot and is sixty or seventy paces wide," Wolf said. "We will need to have a patrol on both sides, so that they don't escape."
"Since a large segment of Washington's soldiers has left for the harvest and will not return until after spring planting, I have less than one patrol, and whatever men you can muster," Jeremiah said, unhappily.
Wolf's brow wrinkled. "My braves are hunting. By the time I find them, the British will have left the area. Only young boys remain on the plantation. Even if I would consider taking them, we need them here. We must make do with whomever you can summon."
"I like not the numbers." Jeremiah rubbed his smooth chin with his short, freckled fingers. "If the British stick to the center of the creek, we will have difficulty apprehending them." Jeremiah's voice had lost a measure of its enthusiasm.
Sarah frowned at the map. She etched the lines of the river with her nail several times. The drawing reminded her of the she’d found at the garage sale, the one that contained the mistake. "Where on Doe Run did they launch the rafts?"
Jeremiah pointed to the area.
"Thy map is wrong," she said quietly.
"Impossible," said Jeremiah.
Sarah glanced from him to Wolf and back again. "The map is wrong," she repeated.
"I don't like to disagree with a lady, but our surveyors completed this last spring," Jeremiah said.
Instead of looking at him, Sarah centered her attention on the paper. "After the snow melts or when we have had rain for several days, the Doe has enough water to carry canoes or rafts all the way to the Brandywine. At other times, the lower section of the creek, just above the juncture, can barely float a stick. This fall has been very dry. With little rain, a portage of a half a mile or so, right about here is necessary." She placed her finger on the spot.
"How do you know this?" Wolf interrupted.
Sarah wondered how she should answer. "We canoed there."
"Why?" Jeremiah asked.
"Canoeing is faster than walking," she said.
He eyed her curiously, nodded, as if satisfied. Wolf remained stone-faced.
"Wolf, are you familiar with the area?"
Jeremiah's question should have annoyed Sarah, but she understood his doubts.
"It has been many seasons since I passed that way. What
Sarah says is logical."
Although she knew she was right, his comment buoyed her spirits, for his words showed his faith and trust in her.
Jeremiah glanced from the map to Sarah. "If you are right …"
"I am. Believe me," she said.
"Sarah has knowledge about many things," Wolf said. "I have confidence in what she has told us." His ebony eyes focused on her.
Wolf's words, if not his unreadable expression, warmed her further, even if his first sentence started alarm bells ringing. Did he suspect she was not what she appeared? She swallowed her misgiving and smiled at him. The look in his eyes had softened and pleased her.
"All right," said Jeremiah, his tone sounded more confident. He slammed his palm down on the table. "Let's plan to attack right after they complete their portage, and before they start down the west branch of the Brandywine. They should be tired and easy pickings."
"When will thee leave?" Sarah asked Wolf.
"As soon as I can gather my rifle and bedroll. Will you tell White Owl where I have gone?"
"Yes." Her heart tightened. She had helped plan the battle, but she wished others could carry out the operation, leaving Wolf safe at home.
"Thank you." His words said little, but his unsheltered eyes spoke to her.
She wanted to throw her arms around him and hug him to her breast. Instead, she grabbed both sides of her apron to prevent her from doing so and bobbed her head.
"Thanks for your help, ma'am." Jeremiah inclined his head toward Sarah. "It was a real pleasure meeting you, ma'am." He began rolling up the map. "Luke, my men and I will see you on the far side of the Brandywine. We will strike at daybreak."
Wolf nodded before escorting Jeremiah to the front step.
"Luke, I will see you at the river."
Sarah followed close behind, watched Wolf's neighbor mount, salute, and ride away.
Wolf spoke over his shoulder. "How did you know about the portage?"
Color burned her cheeks.
He turned around slowly and waited.
"I told thee. We canoed there."
"Why?" His pitch black eyes focused on her face.
"Why?" she repeated his word, trying to find a believable answer.
"Yes, why?" He folded his arms across his chest, leaned back so that the rail supported his hips, but never diverted his gaze from hers.
She sought a reply, unable to find one, she replied truthfully, "For fun."
"Fun? Quakers work, but seldom spend a whole day having 'fun.'" He crossed one foot over the other.
The position should have looked relaxed, yet he reminded Sarah of a cat ready to pounce. Clearing her throat, she said, "Well, we did."
"Why so far away? Why not closer to home?" He shifted his arms so his palms rested against the wooden rail.
Shrugging her shoulders, she said, "Someone planned the trip. I went along."
"Many things about you are strange." Slowly, he moved until again he stood straight and tall.
She forced a laugh. "I keep telling thee I am different."
"Truly you are." He started to leave. "I will look for Little Turtle to tell him my plans, but, if I do not find him, will you explain where I have gone?"
Sarah nodded, put out her arm to halt his steps, but hesitated before touching him. "Thee will be careful?" she asked. Her eyes lingered on his face.
"I will be fine." He raised his hand and skimmed across her cheek with his knuckle.
She shivered from the pleasure. Sarah wanted to kiss his slightly parted lips and share her joy with him. Doing so where others might see them made her timid, so she placed her fingers on his sleeve. Even this light touch increased the wonderful sensations within her. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head and enjoyed the moment, while waiting for his lips to cover hers. When his hand ceased to move across her face, she blinked and stared. He had stepped away without kissing her.
"I will miss thee," she whispered.
His face softened. She hoped to hear him repeat her words. Instead, he whirled around. Without another word, he trotted toward the barn.
Sarah leaned against the wooden post, keeping her attention on him. Even when he had disappeared inside the building, she lingered, longing for one last glimpse of him. While she lingered, a thought recurred. If he knew the truth about her life before the inn, what would he say? She should tell him, but when and how? Did her old life make a difference? A sense of dishonesty entered her mind, as it had each time she recalled her previous existence, for her present life was based on a lie.
When he rode out of the barn, he glanced in her direction and waved. The weight of how he would react to her undisclosed past added to her depression.
Although he was too far away to see her smile, she plastered one on her face just in case. She stood erect, whipped out her handkerchief and signaled back. When he had ridden out of sight, she wiped a tear and fought back the rest. She must stop this crying. She had never cried so much in her own century.
* * * *
As Wolf rode in search of Little Turtle, he thought about Sarah and the inconsistencies in her life, her knowledge about Europe, her reaction to stitching Daniel's wound, her non-Quaker-like attitudes toward fighting, and now her information about Doe Run. None of these fit his picture of a person who upheld the rules of the Society of Friends. One or two might be excused, for Wolf had met successful Quaker businessmen traveling in Europe. He had heard some had volunteered for the army, although their joining would cause them to be 'Read Out'. Sarah had too many differences. Her father, although not allowed to attend meeting, epitomized their beliefs. Why didn't his daughter? Simply rebellion? She reminded him of a puzzle with pieces missing.
Upon reaching a small clearing near the stream, Wolf spied Little Turtle. The child held a knife in his hand and appeared to be concentrating. Wolf watched in silence. His son flicked his wrist. The knife rotated one full turn. The handle struck the ground.
"E-e!" the boy screamed in frustration.
Wolf rode closer and dismounted. He saw his son survey him, taking in the bow and quiver of arrows draped over his chest. The child's gaze moved over the horse, and he obviously noticed the bedroll and the rifle. Little Turtle sighed, picked up his blade, and began wiping the handle off on his shirt.
The coolness of his son's greeting recalled the discussion he had with his grandfather. Wolf resolved to spend more time with his only child when this task was completed. "Jeremiah Low has brought news of the patrol that raided our plantation."
Little Turtle stopped fingering his knife and looked interested.
Wolf told him the plans. "When I return, we will practice throwing our knives." He lifted the boy and squeezed him. "I will return soon after sunrise tomorrow."
His son grabbed Wolf's neck in a vise. "Kitanito wet go with you and keep you safe."
"I thank you for your prayers." Wolf lowered the child to the ground. Before releasing the boy, he hunkered down, struck by an idea. "While I am gone, you must take care of Sarah." The child's body tightened, but Wolf ignored the reaction. "She is our guest."
He pouted. "How long is she staying?"
Gently, Wolf cupped the lad's chin. "You remember that the men who invaded our farm also looted the Stone's property."
He nodded.
"These soldiers want to harm Sarah. While she remains with us, she is safe. If she returns home before the men responsible are caught, she will be hurt."
His lip no longer stuck out, but his eyes showed his confusion. "She is a white woman. Why would the British do that?"
"Do the Susquehannas war on the Lenape?"
"Yes, but we are enemies," the boy stated firmly.
"The Americans and the British are fighting one another; so the two are also enemies."
"Sarah is a woman," the child protested. "They have no place in battle."
"Lenape believe that, others do not."
Little Turtle shook his head. "White ways are strange."
"Tribes raid vill
ages for hostages, both male and female. Not all of those taken are treated kindly, even by our own people," Wolf said, wanting to give his son a fairer picture.
"If you capture the men responsible, will Sarah go home?"
While the child's face beamed at the possibility, the same words caused a knife to penetrate Wolf's heart. With a solemn voice, he said, "She will have no reason to stay here."
His son squeezed him then stepped back. "I will do as you ask. When you return we will feast, then she can leave."
Wolf rose with difficulty. His body and soul ached as if they had seen as many seasons as his grandfather. After bidding a last goodbye to the boy, he mounted his horse and started off. As he rode, he thought about the joy and the sorrow Sarah's leaving would cause him. Still, he could see no way to change the inevitable.
* * * *
After controlling her emotions, Sarah decided to revisit Quick Rabbit. She dashed to her room to pick up a few items. On her way out the door, she saw her cap lying on a chair. Bowl Woman or Nu Hum had washed and pressed it for her. The remaining string caught her attention. This will do nicely. With a determined stride, she set off.
As she drew near the cabin, she scrutinized the lone woman. From her vantage point nothing appeared to have changed. A long, thick lock of Quick Rabbit's hair still obscured her face, although it no longer hung straight. The wind must have tangled her hair, for she looked un-groomed, but her position looked much the same.
A brick dropped off the wall of confidence Sarah had erected yesterday. Can I break through? Thou will never know unless thou keeps trying, she thought, responding to her own question.
"I decided to come back and see thee." Sarah crouched down in front of Quick Rabbit, wanting to brush the hair away from the woman's face.
"I didn't bring any food." An idea suddenly occurred to her. Pulling out her hairbrush from her pocket, Sarah said, "May I brush thy hair?" Knowing there would be no response she knelt beside Quick Rabbit and prepared to start.
What if she flinches as she did the first time I touched her? 'He who hesitates', she thought.
