The Return Read online

  Those things happened. Trial and error was part of the inventor’s labor. Felix fancied himself an inventor, much like Ben Franklin. His barn was littered with good ideas in the making.

  Just as expected, Anna and Bairn were pleased to have unexpected visitors for breakfast, and it was a far better serving than anything Felix could’ve mustered up at Not Faxon’s Farm. Tessa and poor Willie listened wide-eyed as Ben regaled them with story after story. Felix couldn’t stop grinning; he could listen to this man all day long.

  He had done that very thing when he was just a boy himself, not much older than poor Willie. The Charming Nancy had docked in Port Philadelphia, but the German immigrants were held up from entering the colony. They had spent their days haggling over naturalization at the Court House with processing agents. Felix, a curious boy at age eight, had no patience for waiting. He’d spent months on that leaky vessel and was ready to explore the young city. He happened upon the printer at his shop on Market Street and returned to it as often as he could slip away. Felix had been an ardent admirer of Ben Franklin ever since, supporting him even when other Germans disavowed him.

  Too soon, breakfast was over and the day was under way. Anna took Willie to Not Faxon’s Farm with breakfast for Dorothea and the boys, Tessa set off for barn chores, and it was time to show off the wagon. Bairn gave Ben Franklin an overview, walking him from stern to bow.

  He studied every inch of it, just as Felix knew he would. He questioned Bairn on each aspect, those parts that were completed, and the parts that remained unfinished—the brakes, the weatherproofing of the canvas, the hitch at the back to make loading easier—and finally gave it his stamp of approval. “I am duly impressed,” he said. “It surpasses the rumors that surround it.”

  Bairn was pleased by his assessment, Felix could see that. Though they would not say it aloud, they were both thinking the same thing: It would be a fine thing to have such high praise for the wagon spread through Philadelphia, coming from Benjamin Franklin’s eyewitness account.

  They walked Ben out to his carriage. “Before I take my leave,” he said, fidgeting with the brim of his hat, “I hope I can count on you to defend me against my foes.”

  This was a tetchy subject. Ben had written a pamphlet called Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind about the influx of immigrants into the colonies. In the manuscript, there were a few paragraphs in which he wrote of his alarm about the Pennsylvania Germans, whom he felt did not adopt the English language or customs or politics. It was true that his pamphlet had fostered a negative view of Germans around the colony, but it also caused a marked decline in German support for him, as well. Felix believed he regretted his words.

  “I do not always share the opinions of my colleagues.”

  “Aboot what in particular?” Bairn asked.

  “About the natives, for example. If one Indian injures another, I do not agree that all Indians must have revenge visited upon them.” He set his hat upon his head. “I suspect you hold the same view.”

  “I do,” Bairn said. He reached his hand out and Franklin took it in a prolonged handclasp.

  “I trust you will bear my thought to others, Bairn.” He meant the Amish church, Felix knew. He meant the local German Mennonites, over whom Bairn had great influence. He climbed into the carriage. “And I will certainly remind others to watch with bated breath for the arrival of the mighty Conestoga wagon.” He raised a hand and waved a farewell.

  It dawned on Felix that Benjamin Franklin had come not just to see the Conestoga wagon on this morning but to share his politics.

  As Franklin’s carriage rolled down the lane, Bairn returned to the carpentry shop. Felix stayed where he was, hands on his hips, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.

  Tessa eased up behind him. “So the chatty man with the droopy eyes left?”

  “Yes.”

  “He came to see the wagon?”

  “Yes.” He dropped his hands and turned to face Tessa. “That, and maybe to do a little politicking.”

  She shifted a basket filled with chicken eggs to her hip. “About what?”

  “What else? Indians.”

  9

  Along the Monongahela River

  May 4, 1763

  One day passed, then another. The two squaws spoke in low voices to each other as they paddled the canoe along the river, and while Betsy couldn’t understand them, at least their sounds were soothing, so different from the angry, shrieking sounds of the warriors. Only once or twice did the wide-eyed infant in the cradleboard cry out. The young squaw gently unwrapped the baby, and to Betsy’s surprise at first—because she had assumed the baby belonged to her—she handed the baby to the older squaw, who folded him in her arms, tugged down one side of her dress, and held him to her breast. They made camp each evening along the river’s shoreline. The younger squaw caught a fish in her bare hands and they roasted it over an open fire, sharing all with Betsy. Like manna from heaven, it was the first fresh food she had tasted in weeks. Not plentiful but oh-so-satisfying.

  At long last the canoe came round a bend in the river and the young squaw tugged on Betsy’s sleeve, pointing up ahead. There along the river’s shore was what looked to be an Indian village, dozens of clustered domed huts. “Wigwams,” the squaw told her. “Wigwams.” Threads of gray smoke rose from the dwellings into the air. Apparently, this was “home.”

  Squaws in the village hurried down to the river’s edge to greet them, nearly a dozen or more. They surrounded the canoe and started to cry, keening in agony, as if they had arrived with a death message. The sound was dreadful, worse than the howling of wolves. Almost as ear splitting as the warrior’s death halloo.

  They pulled Betsy out of the canoe and onto the narrow shore, circling her, crying and screaming, plucking at her hair and dress. Terrified, Betsy held her arms against her body, not understanding what caused them such distress. Then the sounds stopped, like a flame was blown out. And new sounds began, joyful ones. The older squaw pointed to her and said, “Hurit.” Then women rejoiced over her, calling her Hurit, as if she had been lost to them and now was found.

  It dawned on her that she had been brought to this village to fill a hole in the bereaved family. She was the new sister to the squaws. She was the atonement.

  But what about her grief? Who was going to replace the anguish in her heart? Who was going to replace her family? Her life had been stolen from her, her parents and brother Willie had been murdered, her only remaining sibling had been taken captive. Everything—everyone—near and dear to her was gone.

  How she hated them!

  Beacon Hollow

  May 5, 1763

  Anna was outside when she saw John Elder ride up to the farmhouse, looking for Bairn. From the nearby town of Paxton, he was a leader among Scots-Irish settlers.

  John Elder dismounted and started toward Anna, then stopped with disgust when Zeeb ran up to greet him. “I hate those sharp-nosed, droop-tailed Indian dogs.” He swatted Zeeb away as if the poor old dog was a repulsive insect caught climbing up his trousers. He frowned at Anna. “Those blasted dogs are makin’ strife between neighbors over in Paxton. They kill sheep and calves.”

  “Sweet old Zeeb has never killed anything,” Anna said, clapping her hands so the dog would leave sour John Elder and come to her for a pat. She tried to find good in all people, to appreciate the image of God that was imprinted within, but John Elder sorely tried her efforts. The gray-and-white tangle of his hair gave him the appearance of a sage, but he was far from that. Anna thought of him as a rabble-rouser. He circulated alarming rumors on every visit and seemed eager to create unrest. He carried just enough truth to be dangerous. She always felt a swirl of distress after he left their home.

  She pointed across the yard. “My husband is in the carpentry shop.”

  “Might I trouble y’ for a cup of yer finest tea?” John Elder said, now recovered from Zeeb’s greeting enough to grin.

  Anna nodded. “I’ll bring
it down to the shop.” She didn’t want him in the house.

  “I’ve come t’ see this wagon that is causing so much chatter.” John Elder pulled off his hat with a flourish and bowed low, a gesture that Anna felt smacked of mock humility. He handed her his horse’s reins and strode across the yard to the carpentry shop. She doubted he came for the sole purpose of seeing the wagon. Whenever there was an Indian raid, John Elder seemed personally to make it his business to spread the news far and wide, to increase the terror, embellishing the story with as much finesse as his imagination could furnish.

  As Anna tied his horse’s reins to the hitching post, she stroked the horse’s long neck. “I’m sorry for your master,” she said. “You deserve better.” She filled a bucket of water from the well and set it under the horse’s nose.

  Tessa appeared on the front stoop. “Mem, he’s brought those horrible caterwaulers.”

  “I noticed.” Tied to John Elder’s saddle was a felt bag containing bagpipes. He ended each visit to Beacon Hollow with a personal concert, which he felt was a fitting benediction. The haunting sound of the bagpipes set Anna’s teeth on edge; Tessa deplored them. She said it caused the birds to leave the trees, the sows to vanish deeper into the forest, and her beloved mysterious stallion to head for the hills.

  After brewing tea, Anna carried the mugs to the carpentry shop. She set them on a workbench and turned to leave, but Bairn stopped her. “Stay, Anna. John Elder has some things t’ say that I’d like y’ t’ hear.”

  John Elder lifted up a copy of the Pennsylvania Gazette and read from it: “‘A thousand families in Cumberland County have been driven from their houses and Habitations, and all the Comforts and Conveniences of life. Large numbers are living in barns, stables, cellars, and under old leaky sheds, the dwelling-houses being all crowded.’” He looked straight at her, as if daring her to defy the Gazette. “The barbarians are startin’ up war again.”

  Anna did not allow herself to show alarm, though she felt it. “Cumberland County is quite a distance from here.”

  John Elder held up the Gazette high in the air. “‘If Cumberland County is lost, then Lancaster or even Philadelphia will become’”—he read from the article—“‘the frontier of this Province.’” He pushed the paper to Bairn. “Have y’ not heard of the barbarian siege upon Fort Pitt?”

  Bairn and Anna exchanged a look. Word had trickled down that the Senecas and Cayugas had declared war against the English, intended to take Fort Pitt, then march down the country. Fort Pitt, established by the French in 1753 as Fort Duquesne on the spot where two rivers joined together, had been destroyed by the British in 1758, then rebuilt and renamed. Whoever controlled that strategic fort controlled the entire Ohio country, for both settlement and trade.

  John Elder tossed the Gazette on Bairn’s workbench. “I heard the tragedy about the Plain farm up the Schuylkill. The wee ones taken captive, the parents kilt right before their eyes. The farm burned, the livestock butchered or stolen. I heard the woman was reduced to a smokin’ pyre, that the man had been mutilated, awls thrust in his eyes and a pitchfork and spear stuck in his body.”

  Bairn kept his gaze fixed steadily on John Elder. “Aye, y’ heard the truth.”

  Stunned and sickened, Anna clapped her hands against her mouth. Bairn had not given her those details.

  “Had the government removed the Indians as they had been urged to do, this painful catastrophe might have been avoided. Those poor people—they’re yer people, Bairn Bauer! These children, they belong t’ yer Plain clan. It’s high time we put a stop t’ this kind o’ thing.”

  Bairn looked away and Anna knew what he was thinking. John Elder could be very persuasive.

  “So what are y’ proposin’, John?”

  “I have given myself t’ the task o’ raising two companies. ’Tis time to provoke the Assembly to protect the frontier. They’re blind t’ the troubles and tribulations o’ the frontier settlers.”

  “Y’ ken we are nae people who will take up arms.”

  “There is a great danger in such apathy. People are dying out there, after all. Yer people.”

  “Apathy is nae the same thing as tolerance. We have a commitment t’ toleration. Pennsylvania is a story of how different sorts of people get along. Yer people are part of that story too, John.”

  “Aye, but there is such a thing as being too tolerant.” John pointed at Bairn. “Such apathy leads innocent victims as prey t’ invaders.”

  Anna knew this conversation was a stalemate. John Elder and his friends despised any and all pacifists, particularly Quakers. They believed the Quakers, who had the strongest voice in the Pennsylvania government, were not protecting the citizens, especially those at the frontier.

  “’Tis why y’ Germans are considered t’ have a lack o’ interest in political things. ’Tis why y’ have the reputation for apathy and ignorance. ‘Germans are considered a betrayer of this country, to be hated and despised.’ Those are the words o’ Benjamin Franklin himself.”

  “’Tis nae the words o’ Benjamin Franklin. Y’ve twisted his meaning, John.”

  John scoffed. “I dinnae think so. He called all of y’ Palatine Boors. Swarthy and dark. He said Germans were planning t’ turn this country into another Germany.”

  Anna dropped her chin to her chest. Not this again.

  This New World, intended to be a holy experiment of tolerance, was anything but. All these devout people—Scots-Irish, Quakers, Mennonites, Moravians, Lutherans—they all distrusted each other. But let the talk turn to Indians, and they were instantly thick as thieves, united in their hatred.

  John Elder sighed. “Many Quakers are setting aside their pacifist tendencies, Bairn. They ken this t’ be a matter of life and death.”

  “I dinnae want strife with y’, but no man in our church will be joinin’ yer companies.”

  John Elder jabbed his finger in Bairn’s direction. “I know that whatever Bishop Bauer says, people do. Yer a respected man, Bairn. The Mennonites will follow yer lead.”

  “I’m not a bishop, John. I’ve told y’ that over and over. And I dinnae think that the Mennonites would pay me any mind.”

  “Not true.” John Elder took a few steps around the front of the wagon, then spun around to face Bairn. “Everyone is talking about this wagon. They believe it will revolutionize transportation of goods. Everyone from Lancaster to Philadelphia knows of y’ and yer building prowess.”

  On this one topic, Anna knew that John Elder was not exaggerating. There was much ballyhoo about the Conestoga wagon throughout the county, and it was spreading quickly. On a weekly basis, curious neighbors and interested townspeople arrived at Beacon Hollow to have a look.

  Bairn frowned. “The Conestoga wagon was created with many hands.”

  John Elder waved him off. “Dinnae bother servin’ up false modesty. Y’ built that wagon from the experience y’ gleaned after living half yer life on the sea. No German farmer could have thought of that keel-shaped center. Everyone ken who designed this wagon.” He looked at Anna. “Have y’ no influence on yer man?”

  “Our people think for themselves,” Anna said. “The intention of our church is to honor God, not man.”

  John Elder kept his eyes on Anna. “A church needs a strong leader, and that’s who Bairn Bauer is, its leader. A true leader guides his people t’ make the right decisions.”

  “And what decisions would those be?” Bairn said.

  John Elder shifted his gaze to Bairn. “We need t’ press the government t’ contain the Indians. Washington’s War has nae done enough.”

  “Pennsylvania is committed t’ tolerance, John. William Penn treated the natives rightly and fairly. He bought title t’ their land.”

  “Aye, because he was an Englishman. Penn purchased land from the Indians fairly and openly, but he dinnae so simply out of benevolence. He needed to free the land of prior titles so that he could sell it t’ settlers and recoup the expenses he incurred in settin’ up his colony. P
enn might’ve wanted harmony with Indians, but he also needed t’ own their land outright.”

  “John Elder, this land you feel so entitled to—most of yer own parishioners are squattin’ on that land. They have nae title to it.”

  His jaw hardened. “’Tis unused land.”

  “’Tis land set apart for the natives to hunt in. John, I heard you led a game drive a few weeks back.”

  “’Twas a hunting expedition.”

  “Yer people farm—they do not need to hunt. When you drive the wildlife into one area and then hunt them down, the natives believe you’re taking their livelihood. You offend them. They view land differently than you do—they use it to sustain life.”

  “And how do I view it?”

  “To make a profit.”

  “Whose side are y’ on, Bairn?”

  “On the side of what’s right. On the side of truth.”

  “It is imperative t’ seek their removal.”

  “John, do y’ make any distinction between friendly Indians and enemies?”

  John Elder was quiet for a moment. “This is a Holy War. A struggle that God has ordained.”

  Quiet crackled through the shop. Bairn Bauer stood at his full height, impressive, radiating purpose. “I dinnae argue that the Indians have killed settlers, but far more often they are the victims. I am concerned you are preachin’ a rhetoric of fear.”

  John Elder snorted. “Hardly that. Not fear. Only caution. Preparation.”

  “You can incite entire populations to violence with that kind of talk.”