The Return Read online

  A hand gripped Betsy’s shoulder, gently but firmly. She looked up into the face of an Indian she’d never seen before—his eyes were not the black of the devil warrior’s eyes, but blue.

  “Whom do you seek?” he said.

  She stared at him, stupefied, as it slowly dawned on her that he was speaking her dialect. “My brother. Please. Tell me where he is.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Is he dead? Have they killed him?”

  “The captives are gone. They have been offered in tribute to Indian families. Most likely, your brother will not be killed. He will be treated as a son. The same fate awaits you.” There was a kindness in his expression that she had not imagined possible in an Indian. She had perceived Indians to be a depraved people, polluted by their paganry. But here was this man, looking down at her with eyes filled with compassion. There was something about the set of his chin, his straight dark hair, his thick brows, his high forehead, features that could make him appear thoroughly intimidating were it not for the kindness she saw in those blue eyes.

  “Please, help me.”

  “Do not fear.” He gave her a gentle smile. “The same sun that hardens the clay melts the ice.”

  But she was afraid. She was terrified. A coil of anxiety began to tighten in her stomach and she felt close to heaving the peculiar contents of the broth. He lifted her under her arms, pulling her to her feet.

  With great reluctance, she stood.

  8

  Junction of the Monongahela, Allegheny,

  and Ohio Rivers

  May 2, 1763

  Trembling with fear, Betsy let the blue-eyed Indian take her elbow and gently lead her to stand before two Indian squaws. As she approached them, one squaw—the older of the two, clearly in charge—peered at her, eyes narrowed.

  The older one was tall and thin, with a long face and a straight nose, wide-spaced eyes, a strong chin. An intricate silver headpiece gathered her hair. She wore a queenly air, though she kept her face without expression. The younger woman was short and stout, round as a pumpkin, with merry eyes, as if she found life to be amusing. She carried an infant on her back, strapped on a cradleboard, and the baby gazed out like a little doll.

  The older squaw came forward and took Betsy’s chin in her hands, studying her infected cheek. She spoke to the other squaw and then to the blue-eyed Indian, who stood deferentially to the side. He said something in their tongue and then they all looked at her. Betsy realized something important had been decided.

  They led Betsy down the hillside to a canoe on the river’s beach. The blue-eyed Indian pushed it into the river. The two squaws waded into the water and climbed into the canoe, then turned to Betsy and made motions with their hands that she should get in. The blue-eyed Indian helped her into the stern of the canoe, but then he stepped back.

  “Where are they taking me?” she asked him.

  “Home.” His tone was calm but firm. “You are going home.”

  Home? She had no home.

  Not Faxon’s Farm

  May 3, 1763

  After much tinkering, Bairn had found ways to outfit the Conestoga wagon with several unique features to help handle heavy hauling. Felix thought his brother might be an engineering genius.

  For one thing, Bairn had designed the wagon with brakes. No wagon Felix had ever seen had brakes built into it, other than latching a chain through the spokes of wheels on a descent so that the locked wheels skidded down a slope. A primitive braking system that worked for a farmer’s light loads to market and back. It would never work hauling the heavy freight in a Conestoga wagon.

  Bairn spent a long time figuring out a better brake system, trying out several options until he settled on a lever that pressed blocks of woods against the wheel to slow the wagon. To keep the brake on, the teamster fastened a chain on the brake lever to a pin under the wagon.

  Another distinctive feature of Bairn’s wagon design was the wheels. They had to be large and strong to hold the wagon together over rough terrain, including rivers and streams, as there were pitifully few bridges on the route from Lancaster to Philadelphia. The rear wheels stood about six feet tall, the smaller front wheels at four feet.

  Bairn angled the wheels so the part below the axle was pitched inward, while the part above the axle turned outward. At first Felix thought Bairn might have made a mistake, perhaps his vision was failing him. But then Bairn showed him that when the wagon was filled with freight, the load pushed on the wheels, forcing them upright or vertical. Brilliant. He was brilliant, that brother of his.

  Those wheels, though, they were difficult to construct. Time-consuming and complicated. Bairn had already built the rims out of oak plank and pounded the spokes into the tight mortises. This afternoon, he brought the wheels over to Not Faxon’s Farm so that he and Felix could help Hans make tires, strips of iron, to wrap around the wheel and solder the joint. To put the tire on the wheel, Hans heated the iron strip until it glowed red. Then he bent the hot metal around the wheel and joined the two ends.

  The moment Hans began hammering the tire on the wheel, smoke and flames danced up from the wooden wheel. With the tire in place, he doused the wheel with water, causing the metal to hiss and spit steam. While the wheel cooked, it squeaked and groaned as the iron tire shrank, squeezing and tightening the wheel joints. A long and laborious process.

  The three men had just completed the tire for one wheel when they looked up and found Will Sock standing at the door.

  “No news,” Will Sock said.

  “No news about Betsy Zook?” Bairn asked. “No news about Johnny Zook?”

  “No news.” Will Sock turned and left as silently as he came.

  The three of them remained silent for a long while, watching Will Sock until he disappeared into the woods.

  “I don’t believe him.” Hans crossed his arms, staring at the woods as if he could still see Will Sock. He spun to face Bairn. “You shouldn’t have gone to an Indian to find out about other Indians. Of course you’re not going to get a straight answer.”

  Bairn glanced sharply at Hans. “If there were news to report, Will Sock would bring it.”

  “You don’t know about Indians, Bairn. You think you do but you don’t. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  Bairn straightened to his full height. “Sounds to me like words straight from the pulpit of John Elder.”

  “This has nothing to do with John Elder,” Hans said, steaming mad. He stiffened his spine, trying to match Bairn eye to eye, but he had to lift his chin and Felix thought he looked mighty silly. “This has to do with you. You’ve given up. You’ve given her up for dead.”

  Bairn was never one to sugarcoat things. He slipped into English, which Felix knew was an indication that he was speaking from his heart. “Nae. Nae for dead, Hans. I have nae given Betsy Zook up for dead. But I doot y’ll ever see her again.” He took off his leather gloves. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I ken how keen y’ve been for her.”

  “Whether she’s dead or alive, at least John Elder would have done something. Not just carried on with building a wagon.” Hans untied his leather apron, tossed it on the ground, and started toward the door.

  “Hans!” Bairn said in a harsh tone. “We need to finish this. Heed my word, lad.”

  For a brief moment, Felix was eight years old again, tucked on the Charming Nancy as it lurched and chugged across the Atlantic Ocean, watching Bairn, as ship’s carpenter, chastise a lazy sailor. All that was missing was salty sea air and the sound of flapping sails.

  Hans stopped at the door and shook his head. He seemed very far away, sunk deep in his own anguish, angry and injured. “I need time to sort this all through.” He mounted his horse and rode off toward the road.

  Bairn sighed, staring sightlessly at a spot on the floor, then put his leather gloves back on. Back to work.

  “Did you have to take all hope away from him?”

  Bairn looked up at Felix, surprised. “Hope can n’er be taken away. But hope
should nae be misplaced. We hope in an eternal life, we hope for Betsy to be sheltered by the Lord God’s lovin’ presence.”

  “But we don’t know that she’s gone for good. Why not let him believe she might return?”

  “Most likely, Felix, she is gone for good. But even if she were to return one day, she will nae be the girl he once ken. Look at how Jacob Hochstetler’s sons had adjusted to their new life and dinnae want to return even when given freedom.” He picked up the traveler, a tool made with a small wheel to measure, and started rolling it along another iron strip. “When one did get released—Christian, I think ’tis his name—he went to his old home and knocked on the door. Jacob dinnae even ken him.” He stopped marking the iron strip and looked up at Felix. “His own father dinnae ken him. Jacob made him wait outside, like a pesky peddler, ’til he was finished with his supper.”

  “But those boys were gone a long time. Betsy’s only been gone a few weeks.”

  “Aye, but Hans needs to do his grieving and get on with it. Y’ ken him as well as I do—he will focus on his loss. It will consume him. I am sorry for this trial, truly sorry, but mayhap ’tis meant t’ test him. T’ give him experience with spiritual matters. Mayhap this will be a great fork in the road for Hans. A trial and tribulation. In m’ own life, those were the times when I learned t’ depend on God in ways I had nae considered.

  “A sea captain once told me something very wise, something I’ve never forgotten: ‘What life does t’ you depends on what life finds in you.’ This terrible trial, ’tis an opportunity for Hans to find out what is in him. His faith will be tested. And found proven, I trust, like those wheels.” He pointed to the three unfinished wheels resting on the wall. “We must find out if they are able to take the weight of the freight in the wagon.”

  Hands hooked on his hips, Bairn’s gaze swept the blacksmith shop and he let out an exasperated sigh. It was a mess, with jobs started, none finished. “And now I must go tell Faxon Gingerich that the wagon’s completion will be delayed a wee bit longer.”

  “So that’s it? Just . . . get on with the wagon? Hans had a point, Bairn. It does seem a little coldhearted.”

  “Nae, not coldhearted at all. I spoke to Hans as I did so he will get on with his livin’.” Bairn picked up the tongue of the wagon, a long pole of iron that would fit between the horses, a project he had asked Hans to finish months ago. “So we all can get on with livin’ the lives God has given us.”

  “Do you truly believe we’ve done everything we could do?”

  “Aye, Felix. I do.”

  “If the girl taken had been our Tessa, would you still give up so easily?”

  Bairn sent him a frustrated glance. “Givin’ the matter of Betsy Zook over to God’s good hands is nae the same as givin’ up. And I would thank you t’ stop questionin’ my judgment on this. ’Tis hard enough, Felix. I’m doin’ m’ best. And now I’m gettin’ back to work.”

  He picked up an iron latch and put it in the fire. “I’ve prayed mightily over this and the answer I keep getting is that Betsy is in God’s hands. I feel peace about it. So does Anna, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “I suppose it does,” Felix said, sorry to add to his brother’s burden. At times, he forgot the pressures that were on Bairn. There was no simple solution. If they were to join Hans and spend all their time pursuing Betsy Zook’s whereabouts, then what would happen to their farms, to their harvest, to this never-ending wagon project?

  Yet to not find an answer about Betsy—wasn’t that wrong too?

  Then Felix realized that his brother had found the middle ground. He had tried, with Will Sock’s help, to see if there was any possible clue to pursue about Betsy’s whereabouts. There wasn’t. So that might be the answer. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a troubling thing. Thinking about this whole thing makes me feel worn out.”

  Bairn took the piece of iron latch out of the fire and set it on the anvil. “What will make y’ feel even more worn out is that yer going t’ have t’ set aside training those colts to get Hans’s unfinished tasks caught up.” He handed a hammer to Felix. “Thank you, brother.”

  Felix looked around the smithy shop at all the work piled up. He had some basic smithy skills but nothing like Hans.

  And then up drove Maria Müller in a pony cart, with her meanest, ugliest pony tied to the back of the cart, the one that was known for biting and kicking. It was walking a little odd, favoring a foot. Felix squinted his eyes and saw that it was missing a shoe on its back leg. Its kicking leg.

  Not Faxon’s Farm

  Tessa was in the woods behind Not Faxon’s Farm, scavenging for wild ginger, when Will Sock appeared, out of the blue.

  He looked in her basket. “Very good medicine.”

  “It’s for my grandmother. She suffers from dyspepsia.” When his sparse eyebrows lifted in curiosity, she rubbed her tummy. “Stomachaches.”

  He nodded solemnly, then his gaze shifted past her. “Are you not frightened to be alone in the woods, little one?”

  She smiled. “No. I know every tree in these woods.”

  “It is not the woods you should fear, but the man who pretends to be a strong tree when his core is rotting within.”

  She looked around her, squinting her eyes to penetrate the forest gloom. “I don’t see anyone but you and me.”

  He gave her a sad smile. “You are not Indian. You look with your eyes. If you were Indian, then you would see with your heart.” He left her then to continue along the narrow path that led toward the main road. She spent the next few minutes turning his words over in her mind, flummoxed by them. Will Sock often spoke in riddles.

  She went back to the task of gathering wild ginger when not more than ten minutes later, Hans galloped down the path and went right past, not even seeing her.

  Not Faxon’s Farm

  May 4, 1763

  Felix awakened to a rose-hued sunrise creeping over the sill. Startled by a sound, he sat up in bed. A new horse was nearby—he could tell by the anxious back-and-forth nickering of his pasture horses. The mysterious stallion! Maybe he’d come to do his business. Maybe Felix could finally get a look at him.

  Barefoot, he padded to the window and peered out. Coming up the long winding lane was a horse and carriage. He scratched his head. None of the neighbors had carriages, only wagons. Carriages belonged to city folks, where roads were cobbled. Out in the country, roads were steep, rocky, and full of washouts. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. Could it be him? Felix opened the window and leaned out. “Why, Benjamin Franklin, do my eyes deceive me? Is it really you?”

  The man snapped his head up to locate the voice. “Indeed, young Felix! ’Tis me!”

  Felix pulled his nightshirt over his head and yanked on his britches and shirt, then bolted down the stairs, still barefoot. The front door slammed behind him and he bolted down the steps. He hadn’t seen his old friend in years, not since the last time he was in Philadelphia, and he had certainly aged a bit. Still tall and straight backed, his belly had rounded and his hairline had receded. He waved his tricornered hat, greeting Felix warmly with a smile that lit his steady gray eyes.

  Felix reached for his hand to shake it. “What brings you to Not Faxon’s Farm?”

  A confused look flitted over Ben Franklin’s eyes. “’Tis not Beacon Hollow?”

  “No. It’s about a mile down the road. Shorter through the woods.”

  “Ah.” He peered out the carriage and down the lane. “My sense of direction has never been stellar.”

  “What takes you to Beacon Hollow?”

  “While in Lancaster Town, news of this Conestoga wagon reached my ears. I had to come see it for myself.”

  How about that. Bairn’s wagon was gaining notice. “It’s housed over at Beacon Hollow, over at my brother Bairn’s property. I’ll take you there myself, but first let’s have breakfast.”

  “I won’t refuse your hospitality, my friend. I started out from Lancaster Town long before dawn and I am rather fami
shed.”

  Felix’s glance swept the house, at the chimney that showed no sign of smoke; he thought of what breakfast would look like in his house on this gray morning—Hans hadn’t returned home last night so he would be of no help, his mother slept late so she would be no help. His mind made a quick inventory of the larder. Near empty. The boys could run to the henhouse and fetch some eggs, hopefully fresh. Felix would crack them in lard over his lone iron skillet (still caked with soot from the previous evening’s meal), watch them sputter and pop until the yolk turned rubbery and the edges were burnt and he was sure they were done. He looked back at Benjamin Franklin, whom he knew had a fine palate and a love of good food. A greasy fried egg might not be the proper victuals for this esteemed visitor.

  Ben smiled at Felix. “A cup of chamomile tea to warm these old bones sounds delightful.”

  Chamomile tea? Felix never heard of such a thing. Tea was tea. Then he remembered that he had run out of tea leaves and hadn’t bothered to replace them.

  Felix’s pant legs were wicking up the morning’s dew. “I have a better idea. Let me get my boots on and we’ll breakfast at Beacon Hollow. It will save you time.”

  “The mistress of Beacon Hollow won’t mind?” But Benjamin was already scooting over in the carriage to make room for Felix.

  “Anna? No. She’s accustomed to me.” He hurried back into the house, grabbed an old rag to wipe off his feet, yanked on a pair of socks—with holes, he noticed—jammed his feet into boots, and was about to leave when he remembered his boys. They would need to eat. He found two red apples and set them in the center of the table.

  It was a short ride to Beacon Hollow, far too short, Felix thought, as he enjoyed the time alone with Ben Franklin. He had retired from printing years ago, and although he was involved in politics, it gave him more time to tinker, his true love. Besides good food.

  Franklin was a born inventor. Felix’s favorite story was about Ben as a boy—a hint of what genius lay in that mind of his. At age eleven, he had wanted to make swimming an easier endeavor, so he built wooden paddles to fit on his hands. They looked like a painter’s palette and acted like fish fins. And they had worked! Last summer, Felix made pairs for his own sons based on his recollection of Ben’s paddles. Unfortunately, they did not work. He used balsa fir wood—soft wood, easy to whittle but good for little else; the paddles swelled up and disintegrated and his boys had to be rescued from the middle of the pond.