Sarah Bishop (8 page)

There was a wig shop in the village that had a sign in the window asking for ladies' hair, blond hair preferred. I went in and had my hair cut off. It was of a fine texture, the proprietor said, and very long, so he gave me eleven shillings besides a white mob cap trimmed with pink lace to cover my shorn head.

The day was clear and cold when I left the wig-maker's shop. The road northward was crammed with horsemen and carts and driven stock. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

T
HAT NIGHT I
stayed in a run-down tavern.
I
shared a room with three ladies who slept together in the one bed. It cost six shillings, but mine, a pallet on the floor, cost only sixpence.

In the morning I started out at sunrise and was fortunate enough to find a ride on a cart going northward. The driver's name was Sam Goshen. He was a spare man who talked through his nose, which was very large and purplish. He wore a fringed hunting shirt belted with a rattlesnake skin.

He was driving two oxen and a wagon heaped up with odds and ends of furniture and a bundle of furs. Tied behind were two cows and a piebald horse. He overtook me not far from the tavern. He pushed aside the shaggy, blue-eyed dog that sat beside him, and motioned for me to jump in.

He said with a grin, "Where you bound?"

If I had been truthful I would have answered, "I don't know where I'm going." Instead, I told him that I was on my way to Ridgeford.

"Friends up there?" he asked. "Relatives?"

"Some," I answered, untruthfully.

"It's a lot safer farther up than hereabouts. There'll be a battle at White Plains, sure enough. A big one. Washington's got three thousand troops all forted up behind barricades, ready to fight. And the British have more. Twice as many, I hear. Lot of them Hessians."

He took a swig of something from a jug. I guess it was Madeira because his false teeth had a darkish color, which men get from drinking that kind of wine, or that's what Mr. Pennywell told me once.

"You seem fearful," Mr. Goshen said. "You keep lookin' backward all the time. The battle won't start right off. Maybe in a day or two. By then you won't be around anywhere."

I did keep looking over my shoulder. It was silly, but I couldn't help myself.

"How far away is Ridgeford?" I asked him.

"A far piece. We could make it after nightfall if we pressed, however."

"Does it have a tavern?"

"Yes, but it costs. Two shillings a night just to sleep on the floor. Better to camp by the road and save."

The oxen were slow and the road wound upward through hills. At sunset Mr. Goshen pulled off into a clump of sycamores. I gathered my belongings and got down from the wagon. He kindled a fire, then milked one of the cows.

"Pleased to have you stay for a bite of supper," he said. "Ridgeford is most of two miles north of here."

"I'll be going," I said. "Thank you for the ride. I'll be glad to pay you what it's worth."

"Wouldn't think of takin' money, especially from a pretty girl like you." Mr. Goshen brought out a slab of bacon and cut two big slices and put them in a skillet over the fire. "You're more than welcome to stay," he said.

I thanked him again. I put the bundle on my back, the Brown Bess under my arm, and set off for the road. As I circled the fire, Mr. Goshen suddenly reached out and took hold of my arm. At first I thought it was a friendly gesture. Then I saw his eyes. In the fading light they were pink like a rabbit's.

"Sorry to see you go," he said. "It would be nice if you stayed to eat. A man hates to eat alone."

I tried to pull away.

"No use kickin' up a fuss," he said. "I don't aim to do you no harm."

I felt limp and helpless.

"No harm at all."

I tried to wrench myself free, but he grasped my other arm and pressed me hard against the wagon. I felt the steel rim of a wheel in my back. The bundle and my musket fell on the ground.

"Now, now," he whispered in a dovelike voice. His breath smelled of wine. "Calm yourself, miss."

The little blue-eyed dog began to bark.

"What's a girl doin' on the road if she don't have ideas?" Sam Goshen asked.

I tried to answer, but he interrupted me.

"Ain't right for a girl to go paradin' herself around the country," he said.

Two horsemen were riding up the road toward Ridgeford.

"Ain't right."

The little dog began to snap at my legs. Goshen gave it a kick.

The musket lay on the ground in back of him, one short step away.

"Ain't right at all," Goshen said and started to fumble with my bodice.

By chance, in doing so, he knocked my cap off. A look of surprise came over his face as he caught sight of my shaven head. He gasped.

During the brief moment he took to overcome what he saw, I lunged for the musket and grasped it by the stock. I pointed it at him. The trigger was at half-cock and I put it at full-cock. The sound came loud in the quiet dusk.

His piebald horse was tethered nearby. I untied it and put my bundle across its back and mounted. I kept the musket pointed at Goshen all the time.

"I'll leave your horse at the tavern," I said to him and rode away.

The little dog came after me, barking, but Sam Goshen stayed by the fire. There was still light far down in the west. I made good time toward Ridgeford village.

A
FTER I HAD
put Goshen's horse in the stable, I found a room in the tavern. The floor was occupied by four women, so I had to sleep in bed with two others, which cost me a shilling extra. I woke up at daylight, not knowing where I was. I had the feeling that I was unable to do anything. I couldn't make up my mind about anything, even getting out of bed.

Finally, I wandered outside to the kitchen, where a fire was burning and a young Negro woman was making cookies. She had rolled out a slab of yellow dough, enough to cover the top of a table, and was stamping it out with a tin cutter—click, click, click.

She didn't look up when I came in but went on stamping the dough. I asked her what sort of country lay to the west.

"There's a big river over there," she said. "I crossed it two weeks ago."

"How far?"

"Twenty miles. Twenty-five. I don't know."

"What's between us and the river?"

"Between? Nothing but what's wild."

"Do people live there?"

"None that 'mounts to much, I'd say. A red Indian or two. Maybe more, but that's all I saw."

The woman put the cookies on a tray and stuffed them into the oven.

"They bake quick. Please remind me," she said. "I'll get you a breakfast."

She looked at me for the first time. She was standing on one side of the hearth and the firelight shone full on her. She was young, younger than I had taken her for, thin with light-colored eyes and a small mouth that seemed to smile without smiling.

A description I had read before in the Lion and Lamb tavern flashed into my mind. It read:

Negress wanted! Five feet, six inches in height, or slightly more. Twenty-two years old. Slender, two of front teeth crooked, hazel eyes, soft voice. Generous offer of 50 pounds for return of this runaway. John Clinton, Brandon Plantation, Edenton, North Carolina.

The description fit the young woman who stood looking at me. Should I tell her what I had seen or keep quiet? If I were she, would I want to know? It was possible that she did know. I thought I saw a fearful look in her eyes, and then decided that it was the firelight casting a shadow. I kept silent.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Long Island," I said.

"You been traveling in a hurry or anything?"

"In a hurry, yes."

"I don't ask why. That's your business. Everybody's traveling these days, one reason or another. In a hurry."

I reminded her that the cookies were ready to take out of the oven. She gave me some and poured me a mug of wintergreen tea. The cookies had hickory nuts hidden in them.

She said, "Have you seen me before? You act that way."

"Never."

Her gold earrings glittered in the firelight.

"Ever read about me? You know, the notices they put up on the wall sometimes. About soldiers deserting and slaves running."

"Yes. In a tavern."

"Where?"

"The Lion and Lamb on Long Island."

"That's how far?"

"A day and more by horseback and the ferry."

"That's close." She had a soft voice and a slow way of speaking. "I guess I had better be moving. From what you say. I been moving since last spring, before the cotton bloomed. I'm tired. Do you ever get tired?"

"Yes."

"So tired you could sit down and weep?"

"No, not sit down and weep," I said, thinking of Quarme and Ben Birdsall and Captain Cunningham and Sergeant McCall, the black-faced Hessian, and Sam Goshen. "I want to stand up and shoot somebody."

The woman glanced at my musket leaning against the table.

"I never was that mad," she said. "Never was."

She put the cookies in a jar, except for two, which she wrapped in a cloth. She went to a cubbyhole next to the kitchen and came out with a bundle the size of mine.

"I'll trade places," I said.

"I never felt that way," she answered. "I don't feel like trading with nobody."

I thought about the wild country she had seen. "That wilderness land, was it pretty?"

"Prettiest I ever looked at. Lakes and water running. Wild, though."

"It sounds like a place you could sit down and not be bothered."

"You wouldn't sit much, with all the work you'd need to do. But from what I saw, you won't be bothered none. Not much."

At this moment, as I stood talking to the black girl, I made my mind up. I was sick and confused and weary of fleeing. But I was afraid to stay in the village because of the British soldiers. And I really didn't want to stay here, whether they came looking for me or not. I wanted to be by myself. I would go into the land we were talking about, the wilderness land that lay between the village and the big river. I had fled far enough.

A
CROSS THE ROAD
was a two-storied sundry shop, painted white, with a sign over the door—
THOMAS MORTON & SON
. With the money I had left, I purchased a long-hafted ax, a scoop of flour, some sweetening, enough salt to last, two thick blankets, and gunpowder and shot.

I caught a glimpse of a young man with a serious face peering at me from behind a pile of boxes. I guessed that he was young Mr. Morton. Old Mr. Morton had a square beard. He took hold of it with both hands and said that I must be new to Ridgeford because he had not seen me before.

"Is thee settling or passing through?"

"Passing through."

"Northward?"

I nodded, though that was not where I was going. Mr. Morton had cold eyes. They kept glancing at the musket.

"Thee will find heavy snows in the north. If thee will buy three blankets, I will make thee a bargain."

"That's all the money I have today. If you would care to trust me..."

"Cannot if thee is passing through."

I had the strong feeling that he wouldn't trust me even if I planned to stay in Ridgeford the rest of my life.

"I note that thee carries a musket," he said. "Ridgeford and hereabouts being peace-loving and God-fearing, I wonder why thee does."

"That is none of your business," I said.

At this rudeness Mr. Morton pulled down the corners of his mouth but still kept his eyes on the musket. There was a sudden, loud roll of thunder.

"Thee will need protection against the storm," he said, "seeing that thee is lightly attired. I can furnish a proper garment, should thee see fit to leave thy musket for bond."

"Thank you," I said, "but I don't see fit to leave my musket."

Mr. Morton grunted. It was plain that he felt he was dealing with a mad girl. I think he half-suspected that I would up and turn the musket on him should he say more.

Rain was beating loud against the windowpane. I heard cursing in the street and a heavy wagon pull up.

"Must be Sam Goshen," Mr. Morton said. He went to the window and looked out. "It's Sam, all right. Stole himself a couple of cows on the way."

There were a few other sundries I needed, but I paid for what I had. I said good-bye and walked over to the window. Goshen was getting down to tie up his oxen. I waited behind a clothes rack until he came in. Then
I bundled up and slipped out the door. I crossed the street and stood behind a clump of sumac and waited to find out if he had seen me. When he didn't come to the door, I went on.

The Negro girl was walking fast, going toward the north. We waved at each other, I holding up my musket. Farther along I stopped and glanced back, looking for Sam Goshen. He was nowhere in sight, but his little blue-eyed dog, asleep I guess when I walked past the wagon, now came slinking down the street. He eased up and circled me and growled. I paid no attention to him and went on my way.

The rain had slacked. 1 stood under a big maple tree and got myself ready to make a start. When I came into Ridgeford Fd had a glimpse of the land in that direction, the wilderness the Negro girl had spoken of. It was a place where I would find good timber to build myself a lean-to, and game and wild fowl likely for the taking.

What was more, the King's men would surely lose my trail, never believing that they would find me in this wilderness country.

It began to rain again, but I started off at a good pace, though the bundle was heavy.

I passed an apple orchard where there were some windfalls lying on the ground. I picked up seven of them, ate one, and put the rest in my bodice. There was no house or barn around.

I climbed a ridge thick with pine trees and down the
other side into a meadow wooded with maples that had turned red and looked like flames. As if you could stand beside them and keep yourself warm.

It was near dusk now, and, being tired and wet, I found shelter under one of these big trees. The faggots I collected were wet, but by using some of my gunpowder I got them to burn. There was a creek nearby with trout in it, which I could have caught had I remembered to buy hooks and line. But I wasn't really hungry. I was too tired to eat.