Scar (6 page)

I wonder if Eliza Little is sleeping right now.

       
CHAPTER SEVEN

     
ONE FIELD OF CORN

       
TUESDAY, JULY 20, 1779

We've been in this ditch far too long. My mother is quiet. Mary is sleeping. The late July sun beats through the branches. I'm covered in dirt and sweat and every part of me itches and aches. Even my mind is uncomfortable as it brings up the faces of my neighbors over and over again. There is a growing dread inside me. I twitch, and a laurel branch sticks into my backside. How would Mr. Decker feel about me lying buried in a hole all day?

I know the answer to my question. Foot or no foot, Mr. Decker would already have me fighting in this war. After my father passed away, I tried to join the militia. Mr. Decker was in favor of it. My mother was not. But even Mr. Decker—a passionate Patriot and an old family friend—was no match for my mother. I hate to admit that I, too, was no match for her.

When my mother refused to allow me to join, Mr. Decker attempted to explain her decision away. He said we couldn't have all our best men off with General Washington, leaving our homes wide open to attack.

Well, today is just that situation. This settlement needs
me and I've chosen to dawdle away in a ditch. How long will I allow myself to be buried under a heap of laurel branches?

I'm about to suggest we climb out when I hear a voice in the distance calling our names.

“Mother, do you hear that?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies.

I venture to move but am too stiff to do more than roll about in the dirt.

My mother struggles to her knees and begins to unbury Mary from the branches. “Mary,” she whispers gently in my sleeping sister's ear. “Mary, everything is fine. Wake up now, dear.”

Mary slowly opens her eyes and blinks at us in confusion. But when she remembers where we are, her eyes widen with panic and she scrambles to look around herself. My mother grabs her and speaks sternly into her face. “We're safe … they're gone.”

The calling voice is moving closer. I recognize it as Mr. Van Etten's. We've seen him often of late, since he must pass our farm to visit with his good friend Mr. Little.

The thought of the Littles has me on my feet.

I pluck up my father's frock from the ditch floor and scramble out, sending branches flying.

“Noah, calm down,” my mother says. “You'll scare Mary.”

“I'll run on ahead and tell him we're fine,” I say.

I throw on the frock and start out of the woods as fast
as I can, which is not that fast, because my legs and back still feel like wet wood from lack of use.

I make the clearing just as Mr. Van Etten disappears around the side of a smoking heap of blackened wood. The sight stuns me. It's my home. Or rather, it was.

Mary and my mother come out of the woods behind me.

“There's nothing left,” I whisper, choking on the words.

“We're left,” my mother says.

Mary leans her head against my arm and takes my mother's hand. We remain like this, staring at the strange sight of our hearth exposed to the summer sky, until Mr. Van Etten appears around the other side of the rubble. I see him jump with joy when he catches sight of us, as much as a man of almost seventy can jump. The three of us start toward him, stumbling over each other's feet because we're walking too closely to one another.

“The Lord have mercy on us all,” Mr. Van Etten says in greeting. And he wraps Mary and my mother in an awkward hug. Mary breaks down into sobs. My chest aches with the effort of taking in the sight of everything I've ever known swiftly turning to ash, while listening to the sound of my sister's wretched crying.

“Come, come now,” the old man says, wiping her face with his filthy shirtsleeve. Perhaps he, too, has spent time in a ditch today. “Let us be off, there is nothing left here to do. You can pick through it tomorrow after a meal and some sleep.”

“Mr. Van Etten, sir, has anyone in the settlement been hurt?” I ask. “Do you know? Do you know how everyone is?” Although there is only one face in my mind.

I can tell he's heard me. But instead of answering right away, he shuffles some, seeming to need a moment to gather his thoughts. Something is wrong. “Well, then,” he says, finally, “I was down at the Littles' when the devils came through. Gone by there early this morning to look at a sick sow, I did.”

He was at the Littles'
.

I suddenly feel unwell. Mr. Van Etten keeps speaking, but I don't hear any of it. And although my eyes are open, they see only the thoughts in my head where I'm whispering a hundred promises to God to ensure everyone's safety … her safety.

“She was mighty unsociable and keeping close to the barn during the day …”

He's talking about the sow. Why will he not say what happened? Why won't he tell me whether she's alive or dead? It's my fault if any harm has come to her. I should have run to warn everyone, to warn her. How dare I dream of fighting in this war when I can't even crawl out of a ditch on my own? Perhaps my mother is right to hold me back like a child.

“He'd been feeding her mash, you know,” Mr. Van Etten continues.

I try to be patient, but we're sucking in the smoke from the blackened remains of my life and Mr. Van Etten is describing what best to feed a sick pig.

“Sir,” I interrupt, taking a step closer to him. “How are they, the Littles, sir, and Mrs. Van Etten? How are they, sir?”

“Mrs. Van Etten is fine, boy,” he answers. “She was out gathering blackberries and fled to the Van Fleets'. But they were burned out there, too, so she made her way down to the Littles' to find me. But the Littles … why,” he frowns, “the Littles aren't doing so well.”

I have this incredible urge to run. “Tell me,” I say, looking directly into his watery eyes. But it's her eyes I see.

“Well,” he says, glancing at Mary and my mother, and then back at me. And I struggle to remain polite. “Mr. Little and I were standing at the sow's pen. Little's oldest girl was inside the cabin mending a mountain of trousers. His second girl and the two babies were out in the yard combing flax. We heard 'em coming through the woods. There was but a hair's breadth to act. Little ordered me and the girls to the house. He took off for his musket hanging in the barn. He thought he could make it. If he'd been younger, he just might have. But an older man like him, well,” he says, shaking his head. “They sprung from the trees, painted and screechin' like a flock of wild turkeys. And it was done.”

Done?

Mr. Little is dead?

“When they … got to him, those two small ones started screeching. I tell you, it was nothing like I ever heard before, those babies crying. I pulled 'em all inside and slammed the door. But I didn't know what to do next. I didn't have me a musket. It was Lizzy, the second of Little's girls, who had
the idea for me to creep up the chimney. I didn't think I'd right fit, but I did. We all figured that there being no other men, they'd leave the girls in peace. Sarah, Little's oldest, stood guard in front of the hearth, holding onto those two babies whimpering into her skirts, when they burst through the door. There was many a man that came in, for I heard a load of shufflin'. And those poor little creatures started right back up with their shrieking.” He wipes his mouth with his large-knuckled hand. “Strong girls, Little's two eldest, with sensible heads on their shoulders. I never heard them girls speak a word excepting to the crying babies. And I never heard no word spoken by the Indians or them Royalist rats. Then they left. Just like that. They gathered up the cows, the mule, and God knows what else, and left. I stayed all squeezed up there until the babies quieted. Creeping down was a mite harder than creeping up, I tell you.” He smiles, wearily. And then turns to look out over the treetops. “He was a good man,” he says, not taking his eyes from the tree line.

“He was a good man,” my mother repeats softly. “And thanks be to God that the girls weren't left alone and had you there with them,” she adds.

He turns back to us and pats my mother's arm. And then he tells us the part that I don't want to know.

“I had the girls stay in the cabin while I made pretense of checking for safety. Truly it was to drag their father's body into the barn. It would have been too much for the babies to see him that way. It was a bad sight … a bad sight … for
they scalped him, you know.” He shakes as he remembers.

My mother wraps her arm under his. “And your wife?” she asks, changing the subject. “How does she fare?”

“She's been put through the mill, she has, but she fares well. She stayed behind with the girls while I came looking for you three. It's a terrible day, a terrible day for this valley.” And he clings to my mother for support.

“It is, Mr. Van Etten,” she soothes. “But let us start off for the girls and your wife. They'll be filled with worry until we arrive.”

The four of us stagger south. The sun is beginning to set. The sky is an incredibly dark red. We walk in silence, each of us turning to his or her own thoughts. What will I say to her? Not one parent gone now, but two.

When we arrive, I'm not ready to see her, so I head for the barn. Although, this choice is not much better. I've never seen anyone scalped before. Putting it off, if only for another moment, I remove my frock and lay it neatly across the top of the leaching barrel outside the barn door. Taking one last long breath, I enter the barn to do what needs to be done.

I find him right where Mr. Van Etten said he placed him. I'm struck by how little blood there is. The scalp was taken so cleanly.

“Ah, Mr. Little, you look as though you've worked too hard today and have lain down in the hay for a rest,” I tell him. If only this were true. Walking to the back of the old barn, I find one of the horse blankets folded neatly in an empty stall. After shaking it out, I lay it next to Eliza Little's
father and roll him gently onto it, wrapping it tightly around him. I sit down heavily next to him in the hay and look up at the barn rafters. “I'm sorry that I didn't have time to know you better, sir,” I tell him.

“It is a great loss,” comes a whisper from behind me.

I jump up and turn, reaching for her without thinking, but I freeze solid when she stiffens. We stand like this, waiting for the arm's length that separates us to feel safe again.

“You can live with us,” I say.

She lets out a little laugh. “You have no home, Noah Daniels. Your mother says that they have burned it down.”

I grunt. She's right.

We're quiet again. I see her eyes find the rolled-up blanket at my feet.

“I'm going to plant wheat,” I tell her. “Acres and acres of wheat. For the rest of my life.”

What a beetle-headed thing to say.

Her eyes fill with tears and I watch as the shape of her familiar smile forms across her mouth.

“And maybe one field of corn,” she says, as she reaches out across the space between us and catches the middle finger of my right hand in hers, squeezing it, releasing it, and turning to leave, all in one motion.

“Just one,” I call after her, curling the chosen finger into my palm to feel its extra warmth. “And just to feed the pigs with,” I add.

       
CHAPTER EIGHT

     
THE LONGEST NIGHT

       
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779

I prepare the wheat field in spring, turning the soil. The day I plant the seed is cool and wet. The sky and the river are the same shade of gray
.

Scar gives a snort in his sleep and I start awake. Or at least I think I do—I must have been asleep if I can't remember my thoughts.

It's late. The sky is black, with no hint of dawn's glow. How can it still not be morning? This has got to be the longest night of my life.

I wiggle closer to Scar. Though my face and chest blaze hotter than the fire end of a flip-dog, I am frozen to the bone. And this dark, endless night makes me feel even colder. Thanks be to God that the burn in my belly has become more of a dull, faraway ache. Perhaps this means I'm beginning to mend. Or perhaps I'm just used to the pain.

I settle in and listen to the whistling of Scar's breathing. I wish I could hear his story. It's Scar's turn to bore me into release from this place.

I try to bring Eliza Little's face into my head, but I can't.
I toss things about in my memory, searching for her. I see the rock where we first sat together. I see the pines along the path where it curves down toward our farm. I even see her worn moccasins. But not her … I cannot see her.

       
CHAPTER NINE

     
I WILL GO

       
TUESDAY, JULY 20, 1779

I stand in the barn where she left me. I don't want to move but I must. I need to get to Van Auken's Fort and check on the rest of our settlement. I don't want to know any more of the damage done today … any more of what might have been prevented. But there is no avoiding it.

As I cross the dark yard, the Littles' cabin looks hot and uninviting. When I open the door and step inside, I find the air thick and stuffy, just as I suspected. Mrs. Van Etten is in the middle of telling the story of her afternoon. I take a seat next to Mary on a bench, knowing I will need to wait until she's finished before I leave. Mary leans on me absentmindedly. I let my eyes close as if I'm resting, but really it's to keep from seeing Sarah and the little ones huddled together in a ball of skirts and grief over on the bed. I try not to shift uncomfortably as I listen to the old woman's voice.

“When I heard the hollering, I ran deeper into the woods. I was so frightened being alone.” Mrs. Van Etten breathes heavily, as if just recalling her story is taxing her. “But I got all turned around and I didn't know which direction to run,
so I just kneeled down and threw my apron over my head and closed my eyes tight. If I was to die today, I wasn't gonna watch it comin' at me. And so I sat there on my knees with my face buried in my apron and my eyes shut and I waited for death. Finally, I heard it coming for me, and I prayed to God Almighty for deliverance. But instead of that devil doing his deed, he knocked me to the ground, and I just laid there in the dirt shaking like I had me a fever, my head waiting for the blow of the tomahawk. But it never did come. What did come was a licking. Someone was licking my neck. When I finally found the courage to strip the apron from my face, I saw that it was Little Jo, the calf I'd been caring for. All along I thought I was being summoned to appear before God and it was that silly little cow that had gone and found me. Oh, Lord, I can't tell you how I praised God's name and hugged that calf.” She wipes her eyes on her apron. “And Mr. Van Etten stuck in that old chimney …”