The Newcomer

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  But naturally he paid no mind to Anna; he was already halfway down the path to greet the printer. She sounded more bothered than she was. That boy had a mile-wide smile and it did her heart good to have him home. She picked up her pace and hurried to join them.

  “How did you ever find me?” Felix said.

  The printer looked just as surprised as Felix and Anna. “I smelled something delicious and my stomach steered me here.” He climbed down from his horse and shook Felix’s hand. “Young boy! I did not expect to see you again. Certainly not for many more months. What are you doing back from your sea adventure?”

  By this time, Bairn had walked down to join them. “It’s a long story,” he said, pumping Benjamin Franklin’s outstretched hand. “In the meantime, won’t you come in and get out of the cold? We’re havin’ a bit of a celebration, and we’d be pleased if you’d join us.” He turned to Felix. “Take the printer’s horse to the pen and give him food and water.”

  Benjamin Franklin was delighted to sit down to sup with them. He was very impressed with the choice of land, the cabin, the improvements that were under way. As was Anna, for she knew credit belonged to Bairn’s leadership.

  While she felt strong reservations about Bairn, she’d been learning new things about him these last few weeks. He showed a surprisingly strong drive for harmony and unity. He could not bear if someone was upset, even a child. Or to know that another was chafing under some offense. Though he could be quick with his commands—sounding as if he were ordering sailors about the ship—he would catch himself and apologize to make amends.

  “So what brings you up this way?” Bairn asked the printer, after they sat down to eat.

  Anna asked Felix to act as interpreter to the group, which made him preen with pride. His language skills had improved in the last few months. Another credit due to Bairn, no doubt.

  “It’s a bit embarrassing,” Benjamin Franklin said. “I was attending to some printing business at the Ephrata Cloister and thought I was on my way back to Philadelphia, but I seem to have gotten a little lost.”

  Amusement filled Bairn’s eyes. “Yer a long way northwest of Philadelphia.”

  “Well, you see, I’ve never had a stellar sense of direction. My Deborah won’t travel with me any longer. Once I took her to see her niece in New Jersey and we ended up in Maryland.” He filled his plate with roasted rabbit, a large turkey leg, and potatoes. “This is a feast I never would have imagined to partake in while wandering the frontier.”

  “I met a man from the Ephrata Cloister,” Anna said. “Brother Agrippa. But he called it Ephrata Community. Not Cloister.”

  “Brother Agrippa? Yes, Peter Miller, a learned man.” Ben Franklin winked at her. “As for calling it the Cloister, that’s done only behind the brotherhood’s back. It’s something like a monastery, and the construction that’s going on is quite significant, though Father Friedsam would say they are only there temporarily.”

  “Where are they going?” Felix asked.

  “To their eternal glory. They’re waiting for the Second Coming of Christ.”

  Anna could see Felix struggle to grasp that thought. He chewed and swallowed hastily, squirming in his chair as another question worked its way to the surface. He wasn’t going to quit, she could see. Bairn must have had the same thought, because he reached past Felix for the plate of biscuits and offered them to the printer, asking if he’d like more to eat.

  Benjamin Franklin was an appreciative guest. And a hungry one. He filled his plate with biscuits and gravy, and reached for another turkey leg. “Come to think of it, I should ask you people if you might know anything about this. Father Friedsam asked me to run an advertisement in the Pennsylvania Gazette about a group of Germans who had gotten separated from other immigrants. He’s hoping there might be someone who could connect them to their people.”

  “How large is the group?” Bairn asked.

  “Let me get my notes.” Ben Franklin reached for his saddlebag by his feet and riffled through it to pull out a paper. “A woman, late forties, early fifties. A man, same age. Quite ill, from what I heard. The man, that is. Near death’s door.” He squinted through his smoky spectacles to read his writing. “And a baby. Aged five months.”

  Anna and Bairn locked eyes. Her heart pounded so hard in her ears she feared she would faint. “It’s them,” she said.

  Jacob’s Cabin

  February 1, 1738

  By the time the first kiss of sunrise lit the eastern treetops, the matter had been settled. Bairn set out on horseback at first light, as did Benjamin Franklin. But the printer was on his way to Philadelphia and Bairn planned to reach Ephrata Cloister by day’s end—if the horse could endure the forty-mile journey through rugged wilderness, including a few inches of fresh snow. He had his sharpened ax by his side, at the ready to clear a path in the bush.

  Felix begged to go with him, but Bairn squashed the laddie’s pleading. The boy would only slow him down. Same with the printer, who had offered to show him the way to Ephrata—but Bairn had more faith in his own ability to navigate correctly than the kindly printer’s.

  Bairn left clear instructions for the group to carry on work in his absence. He had no idea how long he would be away, nor had he any idea what he would find when he arrived at Ephrata Cloister. Benjamin Franklin said he was under the impression that his father was nearing death. He hoped, he prayed, that his father would hang on until he arrived. They had things to settle, he and his father.

  The sun was nearly gone by the time he arrived at Ephrata Cloister—he must remember not to call it that moniker. Ephrata Community. It was not unlike the sailors referring to the Amish people as “Peculiars.” A bad habit. He patted the neck of the bay, a fine horse, who handled the day’s long journey in stride.

  He saw a group of hooded people walk slowly, ghostlike in the gloaming, heading into a large clapboard building. He called out to them before they disappeared, and one robed figure turned and waited as Bairn hurried over to him. “I was told there was a German woman staying here, along with her ill husband. And a babe.”

  The robed figure, a man, it turned out, nodded impassively, as if he’d been expecting Bairn. “Follow me.”

  Ephrata Community

  Dorothea liked watching the sunset from the window in her room, holding the baby against her chest. It had become a daily routine for her, watching that large orb drop behind the ridge of trees. There was something about a sunset that made her feel closer to God, though it would seem as if a sunrise would hold more promise.

  But the sunset seemed a reminder that God had carried her through another twenty-four hours. He had been faithful; a day was completed. All was well.

  She heard a knock on the door and set the baby in his cradle—soon, it would be too small for him—and went to open the door, expecting to see Sister Alice with a supper tray. She could identify most of the sisters now, and many of the brothers, just by sight or mannerisms.

  Brother Andrew stood at the door, and behind him was a tall man, so tall he had to bend his head in the hallway.

  Tall, so tall.

  Her breath caught. Could it be?

  “Mem,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “It’s me. Your son. I’ve come to get you. I’ve come to take you home. You and Papa.”

  Dorothea stood at the threshold, trying to absorb the news. “Hans? My Hans? My son? You’ve come for us!” In her voice was relief and joy, and then an anguish barely expressible. “Oh Hans, you’ve come just in time. Your papa . . . he is not at all well.” She moved away from the door so he could enter the room. She could see the shock on her son’s face, the way his jaw sagged open, as he took in the sight of Jacob lying in that bed, a wisp of his former self.

  Her tall son knelt by his father’s side. “What is wrong?”

  Brother Andrew stood by the door. “Consumption.”

  Her son picked up Jacob’s hand, then turned it over. His skinny arm was riddled with bruises. “What’s happene
d to him?”

  Dorothea sat on the chair next to Jacob’s bed. “That bruising—I noticed the bruises in Port Philadelphia, when we first arrived. He had bruising all over his arms and legs. And he’d lost so much weight. He wore extra coats so no one would notice. And then—”

  Her son looked up. “Then what?”

  “He had the swoons a few times while we were in Port Philadelphia. He made me promise not to tell anyone. But that was the reason he wanted to leave and return to the settlement. He was feeling weak.”

  “What other symptoms has he had?”

  “He complained of bone pain. Shortness of breath. You can see the yellowing of his skin.”

  “Moodiness?”

  “Oh my, yes. But that’s not so unusual. And he’s been under such stress.”

  “What’s he been eating?”

  “His teeth have been hurting him, so the sisters have ground up his chicken and beef. That has seemed to help him eat.”

  He glanced up at her. “No vegetables? No fruits?”

  “The sisters thought he needed meat for strength.”

  Over his shoulder, her son directed a question to Brother Andrew. “Have you any oranges here? Any lemons or limes?”

  Brother Andrew looked startled. “It’s winter.”

  “Then, vegetables? Broccoli? Peppers? Mayhap, winter kale?”

  Brother Andrew approached the bed. “The Householders keep us supplied with vegetables. I’ll go see what I can find in the kitchen. I think I saw broccoli earlier today.”

  “Why broccoli?” Dorothea asked.

  “There is an illness I’ve seen on ships that looks similar to this. It’s caused by a poor diet.”

  “But your father has had good food to eat. An abundance of meat.”

  “Aye, but probably very little vegetables or fruit. This illness is called scurvy.” He rose to his feet. “If it is scurvy, we’ll soon know.”

  Dorothea reached up and gripped his coat sleeve. “Have you ever seen someone get well again?”

  “I have. It takes a bit of time, but the condition can be reversed. On the ship, citrus juice is added to the grog that sailors drink to prevent this scurvy.”

  “You think he caught this disease on the ship?”

  “Not caught. ’Tis not something you catch. But the disease started on the ship. A seaboard diet has little variety.”

  “But that was well over a year ago.”

  “Most likely he arrived in the wilderness and subsisted only on hunted game, as most pioneers do. The disease would have progressed. Scurvy takes two years to kill.” Her son’s eyes were glued to his father. “But, God willing, it does not take that long to recover.”

  Dorothea felt a great peace well up, filling her inside until it was nearly spilling over. Not only had her son come for her, but he had given her a glimmer of hope that Jacob might not die. Perhaps it was hoping for a miracle, but then . . . did she not just witness a miracle when she opened the door and found her son standing there?

  And then it dawned on her that her son had been speaking the dialect nearly like a native Palatinate. Wonders never ceased.

  February 3, 1738

  A day passed at Ephrata Community, then another, without any significant change in Jacob’s condition. It was difficult to get him to eat—when he was conscious, he was confused and refused food. Bairn mashed the vegetables into a puree and spoon-fed him. He was able to get him to swallow by rubbing his throat. It was a slow, tedious process.

  Bairn was leaning toward the notion that his father might indeed be suffering from consumption. His breaths were so labored, short and shallow, the way consumption wormed its way into a man’s lungs, slowly suffocating him. But the racking cough that was the telltale sign of consumptives—that was missing. He stayed close by his father’s bed, standing vigil. By the afternoon of the second day, a hooded sister shooed him and his mother, and the little babe, outside to get some fresh air.

  “The air is sweet today and the sun is shining,” the sister said. “Please, go outside. I will watch over Jacob.”

  As they walked to the garden bench, his mother’s favorite place, she told him the background story of that particular sister, known to all as Sister Marcella, an immigrant named Maria Saur who was married to Christoph Saur of Germantown, and then deserted him to live here as a celibate. “A strange thing, to hear of a wife deserting her husband.”

  Her son turned in a circle and stopped when he saw the robed figures walking cautiously on top of the new building, up the hill a short distance. “’Tis a strange place, this Ephrata Cloister.”

  “That it is. Very.” Calm and tranquil, yet buzzing with industry. Sounds of building filled each day, music filled each night. She closed her eyes and listened to the drumbeat of hammers as the brothers shingled the roof of the new building. Tap tap tap BANG! Tap tap tap BANG!

  She opened her eyes. “What I find most puzzling is that they seem to take delight in suffering. They even sleep on wooden planks, when, in fact, they do actually sleep. They rise in the night to sing, then they sleep only until dawn. They eat one meal a day.”

  “Ah. ’Tis no wonder they all look so thin and pale.”

  She smiled. “They put more weight in a spiritual reality beyond the physical. I have felt . . . intrigued by their desire to join with a sacred power so alive in this world. Their joy is conveyed in their faith. I’ve missed that joy, somehow, despite a lifetime in church. Being here, it may sound odd, but I’ve come to know God in a way I never knew was possible. I can’t explain it, but . . . all fear is gone. I can face the future, whatever comes to me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way before.” She laughed. “Does that sound crazy? Your father would say so.”

  “Nae, I think I understand. Certainly the part about fear being gone. And I can see the change in you. Yer not afraid, as you used to be.” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “It must have been a rather frightening thing, to have your husband take sick in the middle of the wilderness, with no one to help.”

  “That time was . . . terrifying. But that night began this spiritual journey. I found I wasn’t alone. God sent someone to help us, and that man brought us here.”

  “I believe that. I have seen God work in mighty ways lately.”

  Her eyes searched her son’s handsome face, looking for changes in him since she had last seen him in October. What did she see when she looked at him now? A new confidence animated his features, a gentleness she had not seen in Philadelphia had come over his chiseled face. He looked very young, she thought, and . . . surprisingly, the words that came to her mind were at peace. He looked at peace. His face was no longer the one of a wounded man—and she knew that he had suffered greatly—but the calm countenance of one who walked with God.

  The baby let out a yawn and Bairn reached over to put a finger out for him to cling to. “He seems a sweet babe.”

  “Oh, he is. He never cries. Well, hardly ever. And he’s always smiling, this one.”

  “What have you named him?”

  “Do you know, I haven’t given him a name yet? I suppose I was waiting for your father’s input. I just call him . . . baby.”

  “That will only go so far in a man’s life.”

  She smiled.

  “I think you should call him Hans. Hans Johann. After the boys who are no more.”

  It was a tradition from the Old World—to name a new baby after one who had preceded him on to death. She looked up at him. “This is your roundabout way of telling me that you want to be known by Bairn.”

  He smiled. “I do. I truly do. That’s who I am.” He looked down at his clasped hands. “Bairn Bauer. I am still my father’s son. I returned to finish his work.”

  She looked around her at the Three Sisters’ Garden, with the loamy beds waiting for spring planting. “Then, Hans Johann it shall be.” In a thick voice that betrayed her emotions, she added, “Or do you think we should call him Jacob?”

  “Jacob Bauer is not gone yet.” Bairn d
ipped his chin to his chest, then lifted it again. “If you are willing, I’d like to take us back to the settlement.”

  “If you need to return, don’t hesitate. I will send word of his passing.” She looked over at God’s Acres, the cemetery. “They told me Jacob could be buried here.”

  Bairn gave a slight shake of his head. “I don’t want to wait. I think he is lingering for a reason. I think he wants to go home.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, clumsy and yet tender. “We all do. We need to be together again. All of us.”

  Her chest tightened with a bittersweet ache when she thought how proud of him his father would be.

  Jacob’s Cabin

  February 4, 1738

  Felix tore into the cabin where Anna and Maria were weaving hay for the Gerbers’ roof, shouted that there was someone coming up the path, then blew out again, leaving the door wide open. Roar in, roar out, that was his style. And Anna loved it. She grabbed her shawl and went outside. Maria followed behind.

  There was a shift in the wind. Huge clouds the color of fire ash had piled up on the far horizon. The smell of rain, cold rain, was in the air.

  “Are you sure, Felix?” Anna shielded her eyes to see down the path. “Who could it be?”

  “Hopefully not another of Henrik Newman’s wives,” Maria said.

  Anna cast her a dark look. Her hope was that it was Bairn who was coming up the path, returning with his parents. But then she saw them—two men, clearly English by their cloaks and their hats—well-worn and flat-crowned—on horseback.

  One of them asked if he could speak to their husbands.

  “The men are working an hour’s walk from here,” Anna said. “Shall I send the boy to fetch them?”

  The one who spoke shook his head. “No time. We need to keep going.” He swung a leg over the saddle, slid down, and handed Anna a paper. “We’re land agents, sent by the London Company. We’re here to post notice of eviction.”

  Anna felt Maria at her elbow, wondering what was being said, so she gave her a brief translation. “But we have the warrants,” Anna said, skimming the notice. “Jacob Bauer received land warrants in 1736. Ten thousand acres.”