Sarah Bishop (3 page)

I was thinking about this and why some people were rebelling against the King and some were not and some didn't care one way or the other so long as they weren't bothered. I was thinking hard when I heard an explosion. It was a musket shot. The sound came from upstream in the direction of Purdy's mill.

Next morning Clovis Stone, one of our neighbors, came by to say that Purdy had shot a cat, a big one, big as a catamount and black. The cat somehow got away but had left a trail of blood behind. Purdy was sure that it was the cat that had caused the mill wheel to stop every day exactly at midnight.

Then a curious thing happened. Old Lady Ryder came in that afternoon for her clock, with her hair flying every which way and her green eyes, which never looked straight at you, peering around.

It was a hot day but she had a shawl thrown over her shoulders. When she went to pay my father for fixing the clock, the shawl fell back and I saw that she had
her left hand wrapped up in a rag. Father asked her how she came to hurt herself.

"It's a sprain," she said in her wheezy voice. "Fell on a cobble over in New York."

It was then I noticed that there was a bloodstain on the rag she had wrapped around her hand.

I hadn't believed in witchcraft and witches since I was ten years old, but it gave me a start, nevertheless.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
was Sunday. We usually went to church on foot, but it had rained hard in the night and the road was muddy, so we hitched our two horses to the carryall and set off. I wore my old shoes and toted the good ones to put on after we got there.

The church was two miles away, on the edge of Mott's Corner, surrounded by a grove of shagbark hickory. When we arrived, all the places among the trees were filled with wagons and tethered horses.

"A goodly number," said my father. "Come to hear the word of God, but, alas, they will hear instead the word of Caleb Cleghorn hastily thought of as he ate his morning mush."

My father didn't think much of Preacher Cleghorn.
Before the war started up north, he was preaching loyalty to King George. But now that the British had been driven out of Boston and many people were against the king, he was talking in a different way. If my father had not been a religious man, he would have stayed home on Sunday and read the family Bible instead of going to hear Caleb Cleghorn preach.

While I changed to my good shoes, Father tied the horses to a shagbark tree and gave them each a nosebag to keep them contented. There were several men standing on the church steps. Among them was Ben Birdsall, who was eyeing all the people as they went in and tipping his cap to each of the ladies. He had a red face and little eyes that were sharp as a pig's. Colonel Bird-sail was the leader of a mob of patriots who rode around at night, burned barns, threatened people like the Parsonses, and robbed them if they had the chance.

The first person I saw inside was Old Lady Ryder, who thanked Father again for fixing her clock. She still had her hand wrapped up. The next person I saw was Mr. Purdy, his round face pink and smiling, standing right behind her. I told him that I'd heard he had shot a black cat as big as a catamount. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than Old Lady Ryder coughed twice and whisked herself away without a sound.

There were seats down in front, but Father chose to stand up in the back. "If Caleb begins to rant," he said, "we can slip out without causing a ruction."

Caleb Cleghorn didn't rant. He spoke in a quiet voice of things that were happening in our peaceful community, the mistreatment of the Parsonses, of property burned and animals stolen.

"It is not a revolution," he said. "It is a civil war, a war among people who once were friends. Let us strive to be understanding of those who have different thoughts from ours. For we share a common speech and do worship the same all-merciful God."

I looked about for Ben Birdsall to see if he was within the reach of the preacher's voice, but in vain. I did see Jim Quarme. He was standing near the doorway, nodding his bony head in agreement with everything that was said. I felt his eyes upon me from time to time, but he was nowhere around when the services ended.

On the way out of the church my father was stopped by Master Wentworth, who taught reading and writing at Mott's Corner where I went to school in the winter-time.

"Do you plan for Sarah to enroll with us this year?" he said to Father.

"I am pondering the question," Father said.

"Why, may I be emboldened to ask, need you ponder?" Master Wentworth asked.

"Because, sir, you have become a mouthpiece for the rebellion. I question the wisdom of stuffing my daughter's head full of nonsense."

Master Wentworth had a pale, sad face. "What do
you say, Sarah? Were you happy in school last year?"

I glanced at Father and hesitated, not wanting to contradict him.

"You seemed happy," Master Wentworth said.

Master Wentworth was a good teacher. If you ever made a mistake and used "mayn't I" for "may I not" or left a loose participle, he didn't make a big fuss of it. He had mentioned the war several times, but I never remembered that he took one side or the other. I liked my classmates, too.

Master Wentworth had a scant amount of hair, and the hot sun made his bald spots glisten.

"We shall miss you, Sarah, if you don't come," he said. "You were an excellent pupil."

Father was trying to stare me down, but I looked straight ahead and got up courage. "I learned much, Master Wentworth," I said. "When the crops are in, I would like to come back. That is, if Father doesn't mind."

"Good," Master Wentworth said. "I shall save a seat for you."

Father fell silent as we went down the steps. It was his way of saying that he was angry with me for having stood up against him. It seemed that most every day now there was some kind of ill feeling about the war.

Father started to say something and stopped. We had come to the big shagbark hickory where we had drawn
up the wagon and tethered our horses. The traces were empty. The horses were gone.

Father swore a hair-raising oath. I had never heard him swear before. Nearby, Lem Stewart, our neighbor, was shouting, "Thieves! Thieves!" at the top of his voice. His horses were gone, too. From around the grove came other shouts.

When it was over, we found that six families had been robbed of their teams. And of the six all but one were loyal supporters of the King. Everyone thought it was the work of Ben Birdsall, but no one was sure.

F
OR TWO WHOLE
weeks nothing was heard about the stolen horses. Then Mr. Kinkade carted a load of early apples over to Newtown. While he was there he heard that a drover had been seen hurrying east just the day before, driving twelve horses. That was all we ever heard.

Father did not have the money for another team, but he sold some tools and managed to buy one horse, a mare. She wasn't much of a horse; she was spavined and at least as old as I. However, she could pull a wagon if it was not loaded full. No one knew her name, so I called her Samantha, because I liked the sound.

We started harvesting the corn three days after our team was stolen. It was beautiful corn, mostly four ears to the stalk, plump and the color of fresh butter. I took three half-loads to Purdy's mill and had them ground into meal. I paid Mr. Purdy what we owed and had some left for winter.

I caught only a glimpse of Quarme's bony head sticking up above a stack of barrels and his small, mean little eyes peering down at me. Mr. Purdy told me about the cat he had shot, how it had left a trail of blood behind, how afterward the mill hadn't stopped at midnight. I didn't tell him about Old Lady Ryder and her hand.

The next week we picked a few early Roxbury Russets, which always go to a good market. They are not a pretty apple, having sort of a brownish blush; but underneath the blush is a green-gold and the flesh is sweet and crisp. We also had a fine crop of Golden Russets coming on. It is a smaller apple than the Roxbury but richer to the taste.

I put up ten gallons of cider, thirty-three jugs of apple butter, and saved three small barrels to dry for winter eating. Some I sold in Mott's Corner, going from house to house because you get more money that way than if you sell them to the store.

When I was no longer tired at night, Father brought out the Bible after supper and we sat at the table and he read to me. I'd had a lot of religious instruction from the Bible since the time I was old enough to listen, so this
was more to help me to speak and write properly, now that I was not going to school anymore. I had given up the idea because Father was set against it.

Father was an admirer of William Tyndale. He never got tired of talking about him. Every night he told me something new about Tyndale.

"Imagine," he said one night. It was the night Bird-sail's mob came to our place. "Imagine a young man, just out of the university, who wished to translate the Bible from the Greek language, in which it was first written, into English. But he couldn't because it was against the wishes of Henry the Eighth—he is the King who had many wives and cut the heads off two of them. Because his life was in danger, Tyndale had to leave England and flee to Germany. There he translated the Bible, printed it, and smuggled it down the Rhine River into England, though the King's spies were on his trail."

My father leaned across the table. He clasped his hands. His eyes shone steady in the candlelight. I could imagine him living long ago, having the courage to do the things William Tyndale did.

"Afterward, because the King's spies were searching everywhere for him, he hid out in cellars and garrets and cocklofts. He hid for many years in fear of his life, but all the while writing words in praise of Christ. Until he was finally captured, strangled, and burned at the stake. Today, Sarah, most of the words I read to you are of Tyndale's making. Listen to Matthew:

"'Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.'

"And this: 'Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.'"

Father closed the Bible and folded his hands on the table. "It is good in stressful times to hear the music of these words. To let it echo in the heart. But the meanings are something else besides. It is terribly hard for me to remember them when I think of Quarme or Purdy or Ben Birdsall. Could it be that I am not a Christian?"

"You are a Christian," I said.

"Are you, Sarah? Can you find it in your heart to forgive Birdsall and his mob?"

"I find it hard."

Father opened the Bible again and began to read from Kings, when from far off, in the direction of Purdy's mill, we heard the sound of hoofs striking stone. Father put the Bible away. He went to the door and listened and came back and blew out the candle. The sound of hoofs came closer. From the window I saw a line of horsemen against the sky. They were riding at a trot down the winding road toward our house. I heard the horses splash through the stream.

Father took up the old musket that he used for hunting waterfowl, the one Chad had asked for. He opened the door a crack and stood listening for a moment. Then he closed the door and bolted it.

I was standing back from the window, watching. There were ten horsemen. They rode up near the barn and sat there waiting while one of them slid from the saddle and came to the door. He held a torch in his hand. By its light I recognized Ben Birdsall, his head and fat little neck thrust out.

"Open up," he said and rapped twice.

"What do you want?" Father asked.

"I want to talk," came the reply, "and I can't do it through the door."

It was dark in the room except for a thread of light where Birdsall's torch shone through. Father shouldered his musket, slid the bolt, and opened the door. I stood back of him.

Birdsall held the torch up to see better. He was not carrying a gun, but he had a nose that was turned up in such a way that you peered right into his nostrils. In the torchlight they looked like the barrels of two pistols.

"Light the candle, Sarah," my father said.

"We don't need light," Birdsall answered. He held the torch higher and waved it. "I understand that you have a picture of King George hanging on your wall."

"I did have. It is there no longer."

"That's good to hear," said Birdsall.

The cows were restless, moving around in the barn, and one of them bawled.

"You know David Whitlock, do you not?" Birdsall said.

Father nodded. "He's a friend of my son. Why do you ask?"

"Young Whitlock reported to his father, who reported to me, that you took a book belonging to said father—a book by Thomas Paine called
Common Sense
—did willfully tear this book up, and did, without proper cause, scatter the pieces about in an angry manner. Why, may I ask?" He sounded as if he were reading from a paper, like David himself.

"It was not a book," Father said in an even voice. "It was a pamphlet, and I destroyed..."

"One or the other, it's no matter," Birdsall broke in. "What was the reason for such highhandedness?"

"Do you ask me honestly?"

"I do."

"Well, Colonel Birdsall, my answer is that the pamphlet is a pack of lies."

I was shocked by my father's blunt words, for he gained nothing by saying them. "My brother, Chad, joined the militia," I said. "He's a patriot soldier." Father was too proud and unbending ever to say this. "Chad is off somewhere fighting now."

Birdsall said nothing. He acted as if Chad's being a soldier with the patriot militia made no difference to him.
His torch began to smoke and he held it out at arm's length, but its light still glinted on his upturned nose. It still looked like two black pistol barrels pointed straight at us.

The horsemen seemed to catch a signal from Ben Bird-sail for something. They began to ride around in a circle. One of them lit a torch. The man held it while it sputtered and burst into flame. Then he flung it into a haymow beside the barn. Flames leaped high and caught the barn roof and licked their way swiftly upward to the ridgepole.