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  On the threshold of the open door stood an Indian. An old Indian, a broad-faced man with snow-white hair that reached to his waist, his leathered face carved with deep wrinkles, his eyes as clotted as milk. And he was wearing Jacob Bauer’s red Mutza.

  15

  Jacob’s Cabin

  October 31, 1737

  The old Indian spoke not a word. He walked into the cabin, looking curiously at everything the immigrants had brought with them, opening up the large wooden trunks, pulling out clothing, blankets, books, examining them, then dropping them back in the trunk. He was drawn to the pots and pans that were grouped on top of a trunk for easy access for cooking, most of which took place outdoors over an open fire. Maria ran toward where Catrina lay, protecting her with her body. Barbara gathered her toddler boys and huddled them against her. Anna remained where she was, watching the old Indian as he lifted up a metal spoon and held it in the air.

  “Anna, run and get Christian from the meadow!” Maria hissed.

  Anna felt as wary as a deer, but she didn’t sense the Indian posed a threat. The last thing she wanted to do was to make an enemy out of this old man. Besides, he must have some answer for them about Jacob and Dorothea. Something. She picked up a loaf of brown bread, recently baked over the fire in a crocked pot, and slowly walked over to the Indian. She held it out to him with both hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice that they were trembling. The Indian looked her up and down, staring at the cap that covered her hair. Other than mild curiosity, she couldn’t read anything in those eyes.

  The Indian took the bread from her, sniffed it. She realized he didn’t know what it was, so she pulled off a corner of it and ate a bite. He did the same, chewing it slowly and thoroughly, as if bread was an entirely new thing to him. And perhaps it was.

  As he chewed, Anna relaxed a little. Clearly, the old Indian wasn’t dangerous. He had no weapons on him, none that she could observe. He was alone. He was hungry—that was obvious by his interest in the bread. She could see that he was missing most of his teeth; no wonder it took him so long to chew. She wondered how old he was—possibly in his seventies or eighties? He wore leather skins for pants and shoes. He had a strong, unwashed scent, but it was combined with another scent—something like animal grease. His chest was bare under the red Mutza.

  The red Mutza was big on him, but then Jacob was a big man. The edges of the coat sleeves were dirty, but the coat didn’t look worse for wear. She doubted he’d been wearing it for long.

  “Do you speak English?”

  He ignored her.

  “The coat. It belongs to Jacob.” She reached out to touch the sleeve of the red coat, but the Indian misunderstood and thought she wanted it. He jerked away from her, backing up until he was out the cabin door. “Wait!” She ran to the door, but he had already disappeared.

  Maria had come up behind her and held her arm in a viselike grip, gasping for breath. “He’s killed Jacob and Dorothea. He’s killed them all.” She lifted her skirt and ran to the meadow where Christian and Isaac and the others were stacking dry hay into the cart.

  Anna called out to stop her, to make her wait, but she ran wild down the long path toward the meadow. She could only imagine how Maria would describe the event. Telling the others about him would be like releasing a beehive in a cluster of horses; they’d all be skittish with anxiety. She went back inside to stay with Catrina, and to be a visible contrast to Maria’s panic. Everyone would be crowding into the cabin for a full report within a minute or two.

  And she was right.

  As soon as the men heard the old Indian was wearing Jacob’s red Mutza, they organized a search party to find the Indian, or to find Jacob and Dorothea’s bodies. The baby too. With Maria’s heightened exaggerations of the Indian, they expected a gruesome discovery.

  The newcomer was the sole voice of reason. “Anna, what condition was the red Mutza in? Was it bloody? Or ragged?”

  “No. Not at all. It looked like it did when Bairn handed it to his father on the docks, just a few weeks ago. It’s old, threadbare in spots, but it didn’t look like it had been through anything disastrous.” She looked to Christian. “I don’t think the Indian could have done anything to hurt Jacob and Dorothea.”

  Relief swept through Christian’s eyes. “Why? What makes you think so?”

  “He’s old, and feeble. And he was hungry. Jacob would have towered over him. There’s no way the Indian could have hurt them. And why? Why would he have hurt them?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Maria said. “He came in here, rifling through our things. He was looking for something.”

  “Or someone,” Anna said.

  All eyes turned to her.

  “He had a curious look on his face as he walked around the cabin. He was alone, and I could see no weapons. I offered him bread and he seemed grateful. I don’t think he’d eaten in a while. I just don’t think he would have hurt anyone.”

  Maria saw it differently. “He didn’t utter a word, Christian. He was like . . . a . . . an animal. A possessed animal.”

  “He didn’t understand English. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t talk.”

  “But you tried to communicate with him!” Maria said. “You pointed to the coat and he ran off. Guilty! He killed them.”

  “Be logical, Maria. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. All that we know for sure is that he came across the red Mutza, and not long ago, by the looks of the coat. It was in good condition. We don’t even know if he encountered Jacob and Dorothea. It’s possible they had to leave their belongings along the way.”

  “But why?” Barbara said. “If something happened along the way, someone would have seen a sign of them. I agree with Maria. The Indian must have taken the coat after he killed them.”

  Josef put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Barbara, we trust in the sovereignty of God in all things. All things. Jacob and Dorothea and the little one are under God’s protection.”

  Isaac Mast lifted his bearded chin. “Christian, I blame myself. I was the one who insisted that the meadow be mowed. I tried to think the way Jacob would think. I believe we did what he would’ve wanted us to do, to stay the course and trust that he could take care of himself. But I was wrong. We’ve waited too long. It’s time to find out what has happened to them.”

  Standing by the door, Henrik chimed in. “Whatever you decide, you’d better hurry. The wind is picking up and the rain is starting.” Indeed, rain was pecking at the roof.

  “The hay!” Christian said. “We’ve got to get the last of it in!” He bolted out the door and the rest of them followed right behind.

  Anna had heard stories from her Swiss grandparents about flash floods, but she had never lived through one in Germany. The clouds rumbled as slashes of lightning stabbed the sky. Raindrops fell as the group scurried around the meadow to gather armfuls of cut hay and drop them in wagons, then suddenly, with little warning, the skies opened. Rain pelted down upon them in a great roaring current, a torrent so heavy Anna had to hold her head down in order to breathe. So heavy was the sound of rain that she couldn’t see anyone, couldn’t hear anyone call out to each other.

  Struggling to walk, she moved toward the woods to take shelter under a canopy of trees, then felt a strong arm around her waist as Henrik appeared at her side. He supported her as they made their way back to the cabin with the others.

  Soaked to the skin, the little group sat in silence, waiting for the storm to pass, listening to the water pound on the roof. Water even poured down the chimney flue, defeating Isaac’s best efforts to get a fire going. Outside, lightning shimmered in the ethereal greenish light of the storm, sending weird flashes into the cabin through the two tiny windows.

  A few hours later, they stepped out of the cabin into a world scrubbed clean, strangely beautiful. The sky was bright blue, red cardinals trilled in nearby trees. Christian, Isaac, and Josef stared dumbly at the meadow now flattened, soaked and soggy; the remaining cut grass was ruined.

>   “Nature can be cruel,” Isaac said glumly.

  “Come now, most of the hay is safely tucked in the cabin’s loft,” Henrik said. He lifted his hands. “Let us not forget to praise God. We are safe.”

  Barbara sidled up to Anna. She was a tiny woman whose head barely topped the elbow of her husband. Her high, squeaky voice suited her size. “The newcomer should be our leader,” she said. “With Jacob Bauer gone for good, we are going to need someone like the newcomer to survive. He’s the one.”

  Anna glanced over at Henrik. He was close enough to have heard Barbara, but he showed no sign of eavesdropping. His eyes were closed and his chin lifted up, as if praying.

  “Jacob Bauer is not yet gone for good, Barbara,” she said. Not yet.

  Ephrata Community

  November 1, 1737

  Dorothea knew that the sisters expected Jacob to die; each time they knocked on the door, she opened it to see a cringing look on their faces, expecting her to give them the death message. But they did not know Jacob Bauer. While she couldn’t deny that he wasn’t improving, he did not yet die. She held on to a glimmer of hope that he would beat this illness, whatever it happened to be. And in the meantime, she was so grateful for this unusual place, for a roof over their head, for wood for the fireplace, for food to eat.

  She took a green apple out of Sister Alice’s basket and polished it with her apron. While the sisters and brothers ate sparingly, only one meal a day, and although they were not meat eaters, they were generous with their portions for Dorothea and even provided cooked chicken or beef broth for Jacob. And the sisters often reminded her that there was always a bowl in the kitchen full of something to eat, there for anyone to take.

  No one expected or insisted that Dorothea abide by the ways of the community. Just the opposite; they were immeasurably kind to her. She had observed their kindness extended to others too. There had been vandalism against a newly constructed building—broken windows. The vandals, two boys, had been caught in the act, but rather than call for the sheriff, the community fed them and sent them on their way.

  She found herself easing into the life of the Ephrata Community. There was a strictly adhered to pattern she had observed throughout the days and nights—a combination of work and worship. For the first time in her life, she did not fear the night. No, even better. She looked forward to it. At midnight, she listened for stirrings as the sisters woke and made their way to the chapel for worship. And the singing that wafted through the hallways, it was hauntingly beautiful. So different from the sad, somber music she knew from church.

  Dorothea would open the window a crack, because it was hard to hear otherwise. Then she would lie on the small bed next to her ailing husband and let the glorious sounds fill the room. It was the only time she felt complete peace, when that music floated into the room and surrounded her. She felt the music swirl around her, lift her from sadness and anxiety and fearfulness . . . to peace and certainty. And hope.

  Jacob’s Cabin

  November 2, 1737

  The sun rose brightly, the sky extended in all directions, an unending canopy of blue. Henrik filled a tin cup with hot coffee and dunked a chunk of bread into the cup. “With your blessing, Christian, today I am going out to search for Jacob and Dorothea. Doing something is better than doing nothing, is it not?”

  Christian gave Henrik a look of sheer astonishment. “Today? Any trails would be washed out after the rainstorm.”

  “I’ll head south toward Philadelphia. Someone must have seen them, or some sign of them. You don’t need me here, just to sit in a cabin.”

  Lines creased Christian’s wide forehead, and Anna knew he was pondering the motivation behind this plan. Was the newcomer thinking of leaving them?

  Henrik had been gracious to them, but on many occasions Anna had glimpsed a look of something in his eyes, or perhaps it was his seeking nature—looking for a better place to belong. He had lived among them for a week or two now, and it seemed he had yet to find his place among them, his role. They certainly weren’t the tillers of the Garden of Eden that he seemed to be looking for—petty arguments sprang up, jealousies, irritations.

  Henrik didn’t wait for Christian to give him his blessing. He started to pack a sack with provisions—brown bread, a goatskin for water, venison jerky—and rolled a blanket, then tied it with rope around his stomach. Watching him, Josef strode over to take a rifle off the wall. “Take this with you,” he said.

  Henrik looked at the rifle. “God is the only shield I will need.” He patted his leg, where a knife lay in its sheath. “And a little help from this.” He glanced around the barn and rested his eyes on Anna, smiling as his gaze caught hers. “I’ll soon return—a few days. Perhaps a week. I will have an answer to the mystery of Jacob and Dorothea Bauer.” His face was alight with determination. “By God’s grace, I will bring them with me.”

  Ephrata Community

  When Sister Marcella came to check on Dorothea in the morning, she asked her to stay. The sister stood awkwardly by the door. “Is there a problem?”

  “No,” Dorothea said. “I just . . . wondered why you had come to this place.” And that was partially true. But mostly she wanted to talk to someone, about anything other than illness.

  Sister Marcella’s tightly cinched mouth relaxed, ever so slightly. She came away from the door and warmed her hands by the fireplace. “I came from Germany with my husband and son. My husband started a farm and then I heard Father Friedsam preach near the Cocalico Creek. He spoke like no one I’ve ever heard—about living like the disciples did.”

  Father Friedsam. Father of peace.

  Yesterday, through her small window, Dorothea had figured out which robed figure was Father Friedsam. She heard someone call out his name loudly and saw him stop to wait for the brother to reach him.

  “So Father Friedsam’s preaching and teaching . . . that was what drew you here?”

  “Yes. He taught us that the believer can communicate directly with God, that we can listen and be understood by Him, and achieve a peace and a comfort not available in any other way.”

  Maybe that was what had been missing in her life, Dorothea thought. She had never received peace and comfort from her faith, only duty. Only obligation. “I can’t imagine what Jacob would say to that,” she said, more to herself than to the sister.

  But suddenly, Sister Marcella let out an unexpected snort. “I know what my husband had to say. He called it heresy. He became so hostile to the community, and especially to Father Friedsam, that I finally moved here.”

  Dorothea stared at her. “You left your husband and child?”

  Sister Marcella stared back, unflinching, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I had to. It was the only way to live a truly righteous life.”

  Dorothea thought of the kind sisters who had come in to bring fresh goat’s milk for the baby or change Jacob’s soiled sheets. “And the other women, they left their husbands as well?”

  “Some. Not all. Sister Alice, Sister Helga, yes. They were once married. Now we are married only to God. We were lost, but now we have been found.” With that, she went on her way.

  Dorothea had learned of other odd aspects of the community, but leaving one’s husband? That might be the most unusual one of all.

  Sister Alice, who was easier to detain with questions than Sister Marcella, had told her all kinds of details about the community: It had formed only a few years ago but was quickly growing. Saturday was its day of worship, not Sunday. A Pennsylvania law prohibited work on Sundays, and some men in the congregation were arrested for violating it. “The prisoners sang hymns and refused food for several days,” Sister Alice explained. “It caused their jail keepers so much worry that the authorities decided to release them.” The corners of her mouth had lifted in a smug smile. “We haven’t been bothered about working on Sunday since then.”

  The baby stirred from his nap and Dorothea hurried to pick him up before he let out a cry. Jacob’s eyes flickered open,
then he drifted off again.

  What would she do if Jacob didn’t recover? Where would she go? She hadn’t paid any attention to details he’d told her about the land he had warranted. She looked out the window, over the large green clearing and up at the small orchard. While she was here, she had started to sense an otherworldliness, as if all of material life was suddenly soft and ethereal. This place—it was safe from the dangers of the world, within her and around her. That’s all she ever wanted—just to be safe.

  But this peace and comfort that Sister Marcella spoke of . . . she wanted that too. Her church . . . Jacob and the others, they thought of themselves as better, smarter, wiser than the Mennonites, the Dunkers. Her church thought they were the ones who had found the true path.

  What if they were the ones who were lost?

  16

  Lady Luck, Atlantic Ocean

  November 3, 1737

  It was the middle of a windless night. Bairn had ordered the main sails to be furled and slowed the ship to a few knots. In the morning, he hoped, the wind would rise and they could set full sail, but tonight was a good opportunity for the crew to rest. Besides, it was the Sabbath. He would have thought Captain Berwick would observe a day of rest, but he did not seem to fear God the way his cousins, the Stedman captains, did.

  Bairn saw something move in the crow’s nest, though no sailor was posted. Then he saw the dog standing duty below the main mast. “Felix! Get down here!”

  Felix peered over the crow’s nest, groaned, then made his way down the ropes that led to the deck, before dropping the last few feet. “Bairn, there’s something wrong with the crow’s nest.”