The Newcomer Read online

  What was she doing? How could she prevail against a man? She felt a scream rise in her throat and choked it off, for screaming would not help. No one could hear her. Nor could she fight off this attacker with physical strength.

  But he did not attack.

  The Indian merely looked at her, at the baby, and then his eyes rested on Jacob. She glanced at her sick husband, whose eyes were open. And she saw a flicker of recognition in those bloodshot eyes.

  “I should’ve known,” Jacob said in a raspy whisper. “You’ve been with us the entire time. God will bless you, my friend.”

  In that instant, comprehension flooded Dorothea’s mind. Her thoughts ran backward, clicking off the things she knew. Jacob told her of an Indian who had helped him build the cabin, working beside him for months, showing him how to choose the best timbers. He was a Delaware Indian, Jacob said, who had shown him great kindness. “You are . . . Jacob’s friend?”

  The Indian ignored her question and kept his eyes on Jacob.

  “Please, can you help us? Is there anything you can do for my husband?”

  Just as suddenly, the Indian spun on his leathered heel and disappeared into the woods. Dorothea didn’t know whether she should feel relief or sorrow.

  Before daylight, the Indian returned with a pallet—two wooden poles held together with sewn animal skins. He lifted Jacob onto the pallet, covered him with the red Mutza he’d been lying on, and attached the pallet to the mule’s harness. Then he handed Dorothea something round, made of animal skins with sheepskin on the inside. He put the baby into the carrier and then onto Dorothea’s back. He pointed to the mule and folded his hands together so Dorothea could step onto his hands. He helped hoist her onto the mule, the baby on her back, and led the mule by the reins as Jacob had done.

  They rode all day, with short stops near creeks to get water, feed the baby, check on Jacob, who slipped in and out of unconsciousness. When he came to himself, he whispered to her, his voice threadbare from his struggle. “Fear not, Dorothea. God is with us.”

  Once the old Indian disappeared into the woods and returned with some plants to eat. She found herself wishing she had the skills of Anna’s grandmother, left in Ixheim, for she had known how to find plants to provide food or medicine.

  She thought the Indian was leading them to the cabin that Jacob built, but as the last light of day lit their path, they arrived at a clearing in the forest. Then she saw, across the grassy expanse, an enormous wooden building, and in the air she smelled a scent of chimney smoke. As she gazed at the building, she had the oddest sense that they had gone through the deep dark woods of the New World and come out the other side into the Old World.

  She blinked a number of times, sure she was hallucinating, but the building did not evaporate into thin air. It remained solidly in front of them. Its steeply pitched roof was covered in shingles, the siding was made of clapboard, and the narrow dormer windows reminded her of German architecture. Candlelight flickered through many of the tiny windows, and she felt cheered by the sight.

  The Indian helped Dorothea climb down from the mule and unlashed the pallet from its harness. He knelt by Jacob and put his hand on his heart, as if he was passing something on to him, a wordless blessing. Jacob murmured something to him, words Dorothea couldn’t understand. Then he grasped the red Mutza with his hand and pressed it upon the Indian. He spoke some words to him in a language she did not know.

  The Indian stood and held the red Mutza in his hands for a long while. Then he simply walked off, without a backward glance. The baby let out a cry and Dorothea looked down at his little innocent face. She looked at Jacob’s fevered face, listened to his labored breathing.

  But they’d gotten this far. She had to keep going. She reached out a hand and knocked on the door. Then she knocked again, louder this time.

  A hooded figure opened the door and a woman’s face looked at Dorothea in surprise. She saw the baby in her arms, Jacob on the pallet behind her.

  “Bitte,” Dorothea said, her voice breaking. Please. Every ounce of strength had poured from her bones. She was so cold. She had to get inside the house by a fire and get warm again. She didn’t think she would ever be warm again. “Bitte.”

  “Brauchscht Hilf?” Do you need help? A woman’s voice emerged out of the hood, speaking in the German dialect Dorothea had used. “Kumme.” Come in.

  Jacob’s Cabin

  October 25, 1737

  Anna smelled it first. Chimney smoke in the air. Soon they reached a clearing that led up to a cabin. Jacob Bauer’s timber-framed log cabin.

  “It’s larger than I expected,” the newcomer said as he slapped the reins of the horse to get it trotting. “How in the world did one man build such a frame? A stone chimney? And the roof too. Think of splitting all those shingles. Didn’t you say he’d only been here a year?”

  “Jacob Bauer is known for his unusual strength,” Anna said. “Back in Ixheim, he once carried a donkey laden with baggage across a swollen stream. Another time he broke the horns off a vicious bull.”

  “Is he as wise a leader as his building is sturdy?”

  She hesitated a moment and the newcomer noticed. He turned to her with a question in his eyes. Sturdy, yes. A fine builder, yes. But was Jacob a wise leader? In some ways, wise—filled with vision, determination; in other ways, not at all. Impulsive, strong minded, domineering. She didn’t want to share such an assessment with the newcomer, so she dodged the question. “What makes you ask?”

  “I don’t understand how he could have left Philadelphia ahead of everyone.”

  “With winter approaching, there can be no wasting of time. He wanted to finish mowing the meadow, he said. The livestock depended on that hay for winter.”

  “From what I understand, he left them with the issue of the oath unresolved.”

  “He left the matter in the hands of Bairn, who did resolve it for the men.”

  “Yes, and look where the sons of Jacob Bauer are now.” His sparkling blue eyes fixed on her, intense and unblinking, like those of a cat about to pounce on a mouse.

  Anna dropped her eyes to her lap. What could she say?

  “Jakob Ammann would not have allowed his church men to take an oath that allied them to the world. He would not have left them until everyone could leave together. Instead, he would have forsaken the world’s concern to care for his church.”

  The newcomer’s stories about Jakob Ammann were interesting, though she suspected that his reputation grew exponentially with the retelling of stories. Her grandfather had also known of Ammann, but he had a more temperate view of the man—he had known Ammann to be an angry man, demanding and harsh, combative, divisive. Despite misgivings about Ammann, Anna’s grandfather had become Amish to appease her grandmother.

  Anna felt the need to defend Jacob Bauer from the newcomer’s criticism. “Jacob Bauer didn’t anticipate that it would take a week for the men to be cleared through the Court House. He thought it would only take a day.”

  But that, right there, might be the reason she had doubts about the depth of wisdom in Jacob Bauer. He charged ahead, with little to no patience when things didn’t go as planned.

  Up ahead, Anna saw Christian and Maria, Catrina, Barbara and the twin toddlers, standing outside of the cabin, waving to them. What a glorious sight! They were home. A journey that had begun last spring—seven months ago—covering a long trip up the Rhine River, a difficult stay in Rotterdam, three arduous months on the Atlantic as they traveled thousands of ocean miles, an arrival into Port Philadelphia, only to be forced to stay on the ship until the illness of a few passengers passed one way or another, and a lengthy trek into the wilderness. At long last, they were home. God’s goodness knew no bounds.

  Christian ran to meet them.

  “When did you arrive?” Anna asked.

  “Just hours ago,” Christian said, grinning. “I have not said this often as a farmer, but it was a great blessing to have no rain. Day after day! Not a drop. The tr
avel went swiftly and smoothly.”

  Maria joined them. “If you overlook the fact that every bone in my body has been jarred and jangled, then yes, it was a fairly smooth journey.” She looked around. “Where is Felix?”

  Anna and the newcomer exchanged a look. “He’s safe. We learned that much.”

  “But where is he?”

  “He’s on the ship. He went as a stowaway. He wanted to be with Bairn.” She looked at Maria. “I’ll tell Dorothea and Jacob. I’ll make them understand that Felix is safe. Bairn will take good care of him. They’ll be back, come spring.”

  Something passed between Christian and Maria.

  “What’s wrong? Is it Dorothea? Is the baby not well?”

  Christian lifted his chin. “Jacob and Dorothea and the baby—they have not arrived.”

  “Not yet,” Maria said.

  Christian dropped his chin. “No. Not yet.” Then a thought occurred to him and he walked to the cart, peered inside, and looked at Anna. “Where is our Peter Mast?”

  Isaac Mast had come out of the cabin to join them, and others were trailing out. “Where is my son?”

  Anna’s shoulders lifted, then sagged. “Peter . . . he chose . . . to remain in Philadelphia.” She looked at Isaac. “That was his plan all along, he said. He did help us look for Felix, but then he was determined to remain behind. We tried to change his mind, Isaac. He knows where to find us. I feel confident he will return.” She prayed so, anyway.

  Maria leaned against Christian and covered her face with her hands. “Everything is falling apart. We should never have left Ixheim.”

  The newcomer flung his arms out in a flamboyant embrace and held them in the air a moment. “Maria, don’t despair! There is a purpose in all things. Our work is not to question. Only to obey the Lord.”

  In the front of the cabin was an open fire pit, with flames licking a roast.

  “Is that venison I smell?” the newcomer asked, sniffing the air appreciatively.

  11

  Lady Luck, Atlantic Ocean

  October 25, 1737

  Captain Berwick hauled forth a handkerchief, gave his nose a fierce blow. “The sinuses!” he said, scowling. “Bairn, ye must better mind that laddie.”

  “Mind him?”

  “He’s a useless cabin boy. Never can be found when he’s needed. He’s turnin’ into a menace. Sneaks around when no one is lookin’.”

  That, Bairn did not doubt. He had given Felix a loose leash, hoping the laddie would settle down as soon as he got the lay of the ship and before it headed out to open sea.

  The captain had given Bairn orders to plot a course south, to the James River of Virginia, with plans to dock along a riverside plantation from which he had bought a large shipment of dried tobacco to trade.

  There was scarcely any type of legitimate trade that sea captains did not engage in for their vessels, for they were resourceful businessmen with ship investors to please. Any seaman knew that the transport of products wanted by the rest of the world was how money was to be made. Captain Berwick was happy to take products from the New World to sell, barter, and exchange in England. And he was also happy to return to the New World with what it wanted most: Germans. They had reputations as highly skilled hard workers. Cities in the colonies exploding with growth needed such a labor force.

  The trip to Virginia did not take long, a few days’ journey. But then the captain told him to set a course north to Boston. Bairn felt a hitch of worry. That meant they would not be crossing the Atlantic until mid-November. While the journey east would be much shorter than the return—the prevailing global winds blew from west to east, and there was that odd stream of warm water that provided its own benefits of plentiful fish for the catching and mild temperatures—even still, he knew not to tempt Mother Nature.

  “Captain Berwick,” Bairn said carefully, for he didn’t know this captain well, “it concerns me to delay crossing the ocean. Winter won’t be staved off for long.”

  “Nonsense! You need to read this. We’re in fine shape this winter.” He thrust a copy of Poor Richard’s Almanack in his hands. “Warmest winter in a decade.” He coughed into his handkerchief. “In Boston, we’ll fill Lady Luck’s hold and be off on our journey.”

  The captain walked a few paces to the water bucket, reached down for the dipper and filled it, then slurped it down.

  The Lady Luck was an American-built barque, with three large masts and a foremast rigged square, a ship designed for cargo transport. The great object of a cargo transport was to always be full. The fact that there was such little cargo loaded in Philadelphia was curious to Bairn, though he had more sense than to rag the captain about it. He had already discovered that if you were going to get along with Captain Berwick, there were things you did well not to notice or comment on. The endless nose blowing, for one. Bairn had asked him if, mayhap, he was a user of snuff, and the captain snarled back at him to mind his own business, adding a few unrepeatable adjectives. “Sir, what would we be loadin’ in Boston Harbor to sell in England? I can help negotiate prices for you. I’ve done it many times for Captain Stedman.”

  “A fresh avenue of trade.” Captain Berwick gave him a wink. “I won’t be needin’ any help with negotiatin’.” And he had no more to say to Bairn.

  Tending to Felix was all consuming. Bairn already had quite a bit of responsibility on his shoulders as first mate, as the captain had only a skeleton crew on the Lady Luck. The captain spent much time in the Great Cabin. His frequent absences provided Felix unlimited freedom to roam the ship . . . until something happened. And it often did.

  So far Felix had broken a mirror in the sextant, untied a sail on the main mast, and tipped over a molasses jug in the galley. Cook banned him from the galley, the second mate Squivvers banned him from the upper deck. Not that Felix paid bans any mind. He went where he wanted to go. Bairn tried to keep the lad out of trouble, but trouble seemed to find the lad.

  Whenever Bairn threatened Felix that he would oust him at the next port, the boy would look up at him, eyes glittering with hurt, watering with worry, and he’d lose his resolve.

  When the watch bell rang this morning, Bairn went to his quarters as soon as he was relieved from duty, expecting to find the boy. The room was empty. Felix had gone missing again. He lay down on his bunk and stretched, exhausted. He missed having a hammock, like those in the Charming Nancy. He’d been up since second watch. His hand dangled on the floor and a warm, fuzzy ball of fur brushed up against his fingers. He jerked his hand up, looked down, and saw a fat gray cat sitting inside Felix’s leather satchel. He reached down and drew the cat to his lap. He noticed an envelope in the satchel, smashed by the weight of the plump cat. Bairn lifted the satchel to his bunk, pulled out the envelope, sealed by wax, though the seal had been broken. Thanks, no doubt, to Felix. Bairn opened the envelope. The pages inside were on good rag paper, a letter written in precise German script, made out to someone named Karl.

  He felt a movement beside him and turned to look into Felix’s face. “You found my cat!”

  “Yer cat? Have y’ been hiding it?”

  “Not hiding it. Just trying to train it so it will catch the rats.”

  “Where is yer dog?”

  “Locked in the lower deck. I hate that dog.”

  “Y’ve been hiding other things too.” He held up the envelope. “Where did this come from? You dinnae take this from your father, did y’?”

  “Our father. He’s our papa. Yours and mine. And now that little baby of Mem’s too.”

  “Don’t avoid the question. Did y’ take it from him?”

  “No. I don’t know whose it is.” The cat jumped out of his hands and off the bed. “I grabbed the wrong satchel when I left the wagon caravan.”

  “Are y’ able to read proper German? In German script?”

  “What’s proper German?”

  “Luther’s German. Before Martin Luther, there was no proper German. Only dozens of dialects.”

  �
��I can read the Bible.”

  “So, then, surely you must be able to read this letter.”

  Felix read the page silently. “It doesn’t read like the Bible. I don’t know these words. And it’s hard to read the handwriting.” He frowned. “Isn’t there any German on the ship?”

  “In case y’ hadn’t noticed, ’tis a British ship.” Bairn lifted an eyebrow.

  Felix turned the pages, one after another. “Maybe you should give it a try.”

  “My German is worse than yer English.”

  Felix frowned. He pointed to the heading. “Mein lieber Karl, mein Mann. My dear husband.” He looked at Bairn. “It’s written to a man named Karl.”

  “Excellent. Yer a genius. Can y’ make out the rest of the letter?”

  Felix scanned the pages again. “It’ll take me some time. And a dictionary.”

  Good. Something to keep the laddie’s busy mind occupied. “Where did you find this satchel?”

  “From one of the wagons. Those horses and wagons we borrowed from a farmer in Germantown.”

  “But that farmer’s name wasn’t Karl. His name was Christoph Saur.”

  “I recognize that name! The printer in Philadelphia had letters from Christoph Saur. He’s a printer too.” Felix yawned. “They don’t like each other.”

  Bairn nodded, distracted. He felt a little tug in his guts, a hunch taking root. There was something going on here. It was too soon to tell just what yet, but there was something . . . something . . .

  Felix stretched out on the bunk, one ankle over the other, reminding Bairn of himself. “So where are we going next?”

  “Boston Harbor.”

  Felix grinned. “There’s no place I’d rather be going.”

  “Have you any idea where ’tis?”

  “None at all.” He stretched his hands behind his head. “What’s molasses?”

  “It’s a by-product of cane sugar. A little like honey. Dark and smoky.”