Sarah Bishop (13 page)

The east wind lasted for two days. It ended in the night. The sun came up strong in a blue sky that glittered.

I had run out of tea and sweetening—Sam Goshen was responsible for this—and out of powder and shot, and I needed another blanket. I was in dire need of everything, but I didn't want to make the long journey to Ridgeford. Not because it would take all of three days coming and going in the heavy snow, but because I still lived in fear of the British. They had captured the town of White Plains a few days after I left the Golden Arrow, or so I had learned from Sam Goshen. By now they might have marched north and captured the whole countryside. The ferryman had said that they wouldn't bother to follow me, but I hadn't believed him. I didn't believe him now.

I worried over this for a day; then decided I must risk the chance, whatever happened. Wearing my snowshoes, I crossed the frozen lake at dawn and set off through the forest. The trail I had traveled before was hidden deep under the snow.

I came to Ridgeford at dusk of the second day. I circled the village, hiding in the trees, and looked for signs of the King's men. I saw nothing suspicious. The village looked the same as it had the day I left it, except that there were not as many carts on the street.

I went to the tavern, around to the kitchen door first, and talked to a boy who was coming out with a tray of food. I learned that there were no King's men inside, but many of their sympathizers were, now that they were winning the war.

I slipped through a side door into the ladies' parlor. Just outside the parlor was the board where they put up notices. A drover stood reading a notice that looked to be new. I waited until he turned away.

There were five notices on the board. Two wanted to know the whereabouts of a deserter from His Majesty's Ship
Rainbow.
Two concerned runaway slaves from a plantation in Virginia. One concerned a felon who had escaped from Hartford Prison.

I read the notices twice. My name was not there. I felt better. I felt almost calm. With my last pence, I went down to the kitchen and made a bargain with the cook to let me sleep that night beside the oven. I still was uneasy
about sleeping upstairs in the tavern, even though my name was not posted on the notice board.

W
HEN I SHOWED
Mrs. Thorpe, the cook, that
I
could bake good bread, she took me on as a helper. Sometimes I had to carry trays into the tavern and set them on the serving table. I always hurried in and out and never looked at anyone or spoke.

I worked six days. With the shillings I earned I went across the street to Morton and Son's store. Young Mr. Morton waited on me. I thought he would recognize me, but he didn't seem to, and I acted as if I hadn't seen him peering at me over the pile of boxes the first time I had visited the store.

I bought gunpowder and shot, a jug of molasses, salt, and a package of tea. I would have bought more, but I lacked the money. When I asked for the tea, Mr. Morton set out three boxes.

"Just today we had a shipment from New York," he said. "It's the first in a long time. Now that the British are winning the war, we'll have tea regularly. What kind
does thee wish? We have these three brands, all from Ceylon."

I chose the least expensive and after he had wrapped it up and taken my money, he walked to the door with me. He held out his hand to say good-bye. It was pale, like his face. He had blue eyes and lanky, hay-colored hair, which he wore tied in a string knot. I still was sure that he hadn't recognized me.

"What is thy name?" he asked.

"Sarah Bishop," I nearly blurted out. Then I caught myself in time and said, "Travers. Amy Travers." Amy was my cousin in Midhurst, England.

"Pretty name," he said. "Thee was in the store last year late. Thee bought an ax, powder and ball, flour, and salt. Thee wanted three or four blankets but had money only for two."

"You have a good memory," I said. "But you forgot that I bought sweetening, too."

Mr. Morton smiled a little. Then he was serious again.

"Thee may think me rude," he said, "but I am not. There was a notice in the tavern. It was there before Christmas. It was signed by a Captain Cunningham and offered a reward for the return of a girl named Sarah Bishop, accused of starting a fire in New York City. It had a description of the girl. As I remember, it said she was tall yet slight of build and had blue eyes and freckles."

Mr. Morton looked at me as if he were certain that I
was Sarah Bishop. As if all he need do was to march me down to the constable and collect Captain Cunningham's reward. I thought to flee out the door but he was standing against it.

"I don't know," he said, "whether thee is Sarah Bishop or not, though I am certain that if thee is not, then thee has a sister and her name is Sarah Bishop."

He smiled in a superior way at what he must have felt was a joke.

"But this is of little consequence," he said. "What I wish to say is that I remembered thee from the time thee first visited the store. And being most disturbed that thee was the Sarah Bishop responsible for the fire, I went to the tavern the next day after I saw the notice and took it down and destroyed it."

"Thank you," I managed to stammer. "That was kind."

He was looking at the musket I had under my arm.

"Why does thee carry that around with thee?" he said.

I knew well why I carried the musket, but I did not tell him.

He opened the door. Chill air rushed in, and he closed the door and stood with his back against it.

"My father waited on thee," young Mr. Morton said. "I heard thee tell him that thee wasn't settling around here, but going northward."

"Yes, something like that."

He was looking close at me, yet not unfriendly.

"I take it thee never went."

What business is it of yours? I had a mind to say, but I said nothing and edged toward the door. And how do you know that I didn't go north? I thought.

"Sam Goshen was in here a week ago to sell furs," Mr. Morton said. "He told us that there was a girl living up on Long Pond and described thee. I decided that thee must be the girl he was talking about."

It made me uneasy when he brought all this up. "I have a way to go," I said. "I'd better start."

Young Mr. Morton put out a hand to hold me back.

"My great-grandfather," he said, "was banished from Massachusetts Colony because he broke the law by appearing in the street without a musket. But there's no law now that compels thee to carry one. What is thee afraid of?"

"Most things," I said, "and all people."

"Fear is something that encourages people to harm thee. Fear causes hatred."

"You sound like a Quaker," I said.

"I am a Quaker," he replied.

Mr. Morton was dressed in a plain dark brown jacket and plain trousers bound at the knee. He wore a black hat with a wide brim that turned up at the sides and had earflaps. He looked like a Quaker. My father had always disliked the Quakers, their "thees" and "thys," and somber clothes. He couldn't stand the silence of their prideful ways.

"Is that why you are not off to the war?" I asked him, thinking of Chad. "Because you are one?"

"For that reason," Mr. Morton said.

He opened the door. Out of a gray sky it was beginning to snow.

"Thee'd best not go now," he said. "We can put thee up here for the night. My mother can."

I gathered up my purchases.

"We have Meetings," he said. "I wish thee would visit when things are again quiet. We have them every fourth Sunday. Thee would be most welcome to come."

"Sometime," I said, although I had no thought of ever going to a Quaker Meeting. My father in his grave would open his eyes and look at me in dismay.

Mr. Morton glanced out at the falling snow, then closed the door and once more stood against it, as if to bar my way.

"On sober thought," he said, "I think it foolish of thee to depart in this storm, though the British are at hand. I can hide thee until the storm is over. I have hidden the persecuted before."

"Thank you kindly," I said, "but I must go."

Mr. Morton took off his black hat with the flat crown and the flaps that looked like the wings of a tired seagull. Then he put it on again at a straighter angle. That was another habit that my father disliked, the business of wearing a hat at all times, even indoors.

Suddenly he asked, "Does thee live alone?"

"Yes."

"It is not good for a young girl to live that way. Is it because the British hound thee?"

"Partly."

"Why else?"

"Because I like to."

Mr. Morton seemed puzzled. "Has thee no family?"

"None. They are dead."

"Thee is an orphan, then?"

Having answered his question, I said nothing.

He stared hard at the ceiling; perhaps he was staring at heaven.

"When the British leave," he said, "as leave they will, thee must come to Ridgeford. I shall find thee a proper place to live, and gainful employment. Thee cannot live alone in the wilderness. What if thee was to injure thyself? Or fall ill of some disease? Who would know? Who would help thee? Who would care for thee?"

"No one," I said. "I can make do."

I thanked Mr. Morton for his kindness and slipped past. After I had crossed the street I glanced back. He was still standing in the doorway, looking at me through the falling snow.

I
WENT BACK
to the tavern to stay until the snow ended, but soon afterward five of the King's dragoons rode into the courtyard and stabled their horses. It had stopped snowing, and I saw the men from the kitchen window. Mrs. Thorpe wanted me to carry out food to them, but I stole away while they were eating their breakfast.

On my way to Ridgeford I had made slash marks with my knife on some of the trees I passed, high enough on the trunks not to be hidden by fallen snow and close enough together so that I would not stray off. I had no trouble finding the marks on my journey home. But I was nearly frozen when I got there. I used some of the gunpowder to start a fire and sat beside it for hours, until I thawed out.

Months before, when I had heard the bear snuffling around outside, he was digging up the fish I had put in the snowbank. I found this out when I went to get one for my supper and all of them were gone.

I cut holes in the ice, set three lines and caught another batch of trout and bass. This time I smoked them the way the Longknifes had, over a hickory-wood fire and slowly. Some I saved for the muskrat, who liked fresh
trout, though he would eat them when they were frozen. I didn't need to worry about Gabriel. He still clung upside down, never uttering a sound, happily asleep in his dark corner.

Spring came overnight, it seemed. The lake groaned and boomed and then the ice broke up into floes that mild winds moved around. The maples came first, the young leaves red in the sunlight, then the pink leaves of the oaks. Dogwood flowered everywhere, and along the stream there were big swatches of blueberry buds.

Blue herons fished the shallows and a torrent of brown hawks flowed down from the east, flying low over the lake and silently disappearing. Geese came out of the north in dozens of glistening wedges. Gabriel began his nightly wanderings.

The muskrat grew restless and wandered around the cave, making curious noises. But if I took him outside he would come limping back before long, looking hurt, as if I had wanted to get rid of him. At last I took him to the lake, waded out, and let him loose. He followed me ashore and back to the cave. I took him to the lake once more. This time he turned over on his back, gave me a sidelong glance, flapped his fat tail, and was gone. He left behind only the strong smell of musk and a string of silvery bubbles.

I had mixed feelings as he swam away. I knew better, but still I felt deserted. I saw him again a few days later, when I was out fishing on the shore. He came swimming
along, only his head showing, with another muskrat trailing behind him. The pair cavorted around for a while and spoiled the fishing. Late in the spring I saw them again. This time they had two glossy young muskrats in tow.

Staunchly, Gabriel stayed by me. He went off on his nightly wanderings and came back promptly at dawn, hung upside down in his corner, and from time to time during the day gave out his timid squeals. Sometimes, before he flew off at dusk, I played the broom game with him. He was much more human than our neighbor the muskrat.

The Longknifes came early in June. Their baby had died during the winter, but the little girl was healthy and had grown tall. They brought news that the British still held New York, which meant that Captain Cunningham was sitting behind his desk in the big gray building.

We pushed the dugout down the grassy slope and slid it into the lake. To my surprise—and I think to the Longknifes'—it didn't swamp or turn turtle, but floated on an even keel. John Longknife had promised to help me make a birch canoe someday.

"It will be much lighter than the dugout," his wife said. "You can carry a birch canoe on your back. Then you can travel from lake to lake and stream to stream."

"The dugout is all I'll need," I wanted to say but didn't because it would seem impolite.

The Longknifes fished for five days, and I fished with them. We smoked our trout together, enough to last well
into the coming winter, which we were thinking about already. We hunted together—geese for tallow, using reed traps to save powder, and deer meat to smoke.

One evening when we came in from the lake we found tracks beside the stream, where the bear had been fishing. It was the same animal that had stolen my cache of fish from the snowbank, judging from the way one of his front paws slanted out. I didn't mind the fish so much as I feared happening upon him sometime when I was alone.

"Should we track him down?" I said bravely, braver than I felt.

John Longknife shook his head. "One bullet no good. Two bullets no good. Three bullets maybe good." He turned to his wife and spoke in their language.

"My husband says," she explained, "that the bear moves quick. And you can kill him only in a certain place. If you miss that place you will not have time to load your musket again. He will jump on you and claw you dead."