Storyteller (12 page)

“You must leave before the morning light,” he said. “Find your way along the trail we’ve left. Go back.”

Go back alone? Go back at all?

“It’s too late for that,” I said. “And you are not my father to tell me what to do.”

“Who would want to be your father?” He smiled a little. “Disagreeable girl that you are.” His hand went to my face, waving away a cloud of mosquitoes
.

I stepped away from that hand. “Isaac would never speak so,” I said
.

“Isaac the traitor,” he said bitterly
.

We stood glaring at each other. Then he grasped my arm and pulled me forward. I stumbled along behind him and saw Father and John leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak
.

They started up when they saw me. “How is it possible you are here, Zee?” Father said. He was angry; I could see that. “You never think.”

He looked at John, almost desperately, I thought. “She has to go back,” Father said. “But who is there to take her?”

I might have reminded him that I had come through the mountains, across rivers, and into the Mohawk Valley completely alone. But this was Father, not Miller, and I could not speak that way to him
.

“She will have to go by herself,” John said, and put his hand on my shoulder to soften his words
.

Miller’s eyes were on me, and I glanced up at him. “I’ve given it some thought,” he said slowly
.

“Do I need you to think for me, Miller?” I said sharply
.

“She will not go back,” Miller said. “I knew that from the start. How strong she’s always been.”

Strong? I glanced at him again quickly, surprised, pleased. He smiled, looking down at me. “Headstrong, then.”

They stood in a circle around me, wondering what to do with me. But I was no longer the girl who had left the door to the henhouse open. I was no longer only the girl who had spilled the soap fat, who had burned the bread. I was another person entirely
.

I would go to battle with them
.

“There is still a half day’s march. If she stays with the wagons,” Miller said, “the pace will be easier.”

That was true. I knew it would be hard to keep up with that marching army, even though we must be close to our destination
.

“She will be safer in the rear, too,” Miller told Father, as if I couldn’t hear, as if I were just a child
.

I didn’t listen to the rest. I was so tired. Too tired to eat. Almost too tired to sleep. I went through the trees, not far from where they stood, and lay on the rock-hard dirt, looking at the motionless leaves above me
.

It was much later when Father knelt beside me with water and a crust that I was hardly able to chew
.

Father spoke. “I can only imagine what these weeks have been like for you, Zee. But I know you survived terrible things.”

I felt a sudden burning in my throat. To have him say that was almost worth those weeks alone
.

“The anger I feel is only because I want you safe. You and John are all I have now.” His voice was thick. “And that small bit of land on the edge of the river.”

“If I had stayed back,” I said, “and something happened to you, I would have nothing.”

He was silent, but even in the dimness, I saw that he understood. I reached up and put my arms around him. I had never done that in my life. I didn’t have the courage to say that I loved him, but he knew that; I was sure he did
.

I slept then until light sharpened the world around us, and we were faced with a day that promised to be hot. A terrible day ahead of us
.

I ripped off a shred of my under petticoat to dip into a water jug and clean my face, then tied up my heavy hair so it would be out of my way
.

Miller was in front of me. “I have a ride for you with men bringing up food supplies,” he said. “There’s only a small bit of room, but they promised it for you.”

It was hard to thank him, but I did, telling myself I was truly grateful
.

Father put his hand on my shoulder. “Remember what Old Gerard has taught you,” he said. “Should it be necessary, melt into the trees, go back. Live, Zee. Live.”

Elizabeth is up early, and Libby, too. “I still have to go to work today,” Libby says. “Terrible, your last day, but—” She runs her hand over Elizabeth’s hair. “You’ll have an adventure.”

“I’ll tell you all about it tonight, every single thing,” Elizabeth says as she and Harry get ready to leave.

It’s a poor day for a Monday in spring, a morning filled with unrelenting rain. Moments later they’re in the truck with rivulets of water running along the side of the road. Even though the windshield wipers beat back and forth, it’s almost impossible to see.

Harry leans forward and swipes the pane. “The park will be closed,” he says, sounding irritable.

Elizabeth wonders why they aren’t turning back. But suppose they do. She pictures the day going forward: saying goodbye to Harry, going into the empty house to wait for
Libby, sitting in that chair for the last time, watching the rain cascade off the leaves, her full duffel bags behind her in the corner.

But Harry doesn’t turn back. He’s talking about Brant, the leader of the Iroquois.

Elizabeth had seen a picture of him in Harry’s book and thought how cool he looked, slim and dark-eyed.

“His tribal name was Thayendanegea. A mouthful, isn’t it? He was there with St. Leger.” Harry glances at her. “The Iroquois wanted the British to win because the Americans were crowding them out, building farms smack in the middle of their hunting grounds, and pushing into their villages.” He takes a breath. “Let’s eat now. We’re almost there.”

She sits back, chewing on the sandwich Harry had made for her in Libby’s kitchen. It was pretty bad, crusts off, edges ragged, and the cheese inside a poisonous yellow. He made one for Libby’s lunch, too. It was worse than anything Libby could have ever put together.

At last they pull off onto the side of the road, and Harry is right. The park is closed, a thick chain looped low across the wide path. Who in his right mind would walk around this place today?

Harry drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He grumbles at the weather, at the closed battlefield site.

“Do you have an umbrella or something?” he asks.

Of course she forgot to bring an umbrella. But as they sit there, the rain tapers off. Shreds of mist rise in pale tendrils over the park grounds.

“That’s more like it,” Harry says, and opens the truck door. They step over the chain to stand on the grass, which
squishes under their feet. She looks around, thinking, August, a summer day, hot, steamy, maybe; hard to move, Patriots wishing they could sink down, rest their feet, wipe their damp faces.

She must have said it aloud. Harry nods. He waves his hand over the expanse of lawn. “Mammoth trees crowded together, their branches laced into each other. The mosquitoes unrelenting. You couldn’t see two feet into the woods on each side. There were some horses and carts, but most of them walked, carrying heavy muskets.”

Harry stops, and she sees the park, its trees dotting the mown grass. “Coming from the fort are Brant’s Iroquois, St. Leger’s Englishmen, the Loyalists. Almost every family in the Mohawk Valley had men fighting on one side or the other, and many had brothers fighting on opposite sides.”

They begin to walk, Elizabeth telling herself that Zee might have been right here; her own footsteps might cover Zee’s.

Harry holds her elbow and pulls her back. She looks down into a narrow gorge, the bottom choked with trees and weeds.

Where did it come from? It was as if a giant had scooped out the earth, leaving the sides impossibly steep.

“The ravine,” Harry says. “There was a narrow road made of logs. They started down strung out in a thin line all the way back.” He shakes his head. “They crossed the stream on the bottom and started up. The enemy was hidden on both sides.”

He doesn’t have to tell her the rest. She sees how it was. The screams, the shouts, the noise as the enemy came out
of the trees, howling, firing, shooting arrows, surrounding them.

Surrounding Zee.

How terrifying it must have been. Her fist goes to her mouth. “How many died?”

“Half,” he says. “More than four hundred, right there on a sweltering afternoon in August.”

She swipes at her eyes.

“It’s sad,” he says. “But it was a long time ago. And we won the war. We’re here. Americans. Free.”

“But Zee,” she says.

He hesitates. “I know something about her life,” he says slowly. “I woke up last night thinking about her and those marks in the corner of the picture. The answer is right there in the drawing. I couldn’t believe it.”

She takes a breath. “The bundle of sticks?”

He smiles. “We have to go into Utica. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”

That morning I thought about my life. Would it end that day? Or would I somehow have the fortune to come through the battle alive?

We kept waiting for the order to march. I heard angry mutterings; the rumbling became louder. “We’ll go, with or without Herkimer!”

John leaned over, his face uncertain. “Herkimer doesn’t want to leave. Some say he’s afraid. Others that he fears for his men and the slaughter. He’s sure that there will be an ambush. He just doesn’t know where.”

“What do you think?” I asked
.

“He’s fought before,” he said. “He knows more—”

But Miller cut in. “Try not to worry about it, Zee. Remember you’ll be toward the rear. You heard your father. Go back as soon as you hear—”

“Like a coward?” I said angrily
.

A group of men were scrambling to move out, so there was no time for him to answer, and no choice for Herkimer. The general gave the signal to march just before they rushed headlong through the forest without him
.

Miller hurried me to one of the last wagons and stood there as I climbed to the seat. He reached out. “Your father is right, Zee. You must live, even if we don’t.”

I shook my head
.

“Don’t you know we’re fighting for you?” He reached up and touched my hand. He was silent for the barest second. Then he smiled. “Who could ever think you were a coward?”

He went forward and I looked after him as long as I could see his homespun jacket. “Live, Miller,” I whispered, echoing my father
.

At last the cart lumbered after the marching men. But after a short time, they were so far ahead that I caught only glimpses of them through the trees
.

As the morning wore on, I jumped at the call of one man to another, at the metallic click of a weapon. I stared into the trees
for movement. Sitting on the rough wagon seat, I began to wonder. The men beside me were in no hurry to move forward. They fell farther behind, allowing wagons to overtake them and somehow pass them on that narrow path. And then I realized. It was deliberate. They were as afraid as I was
.

Who could ever think you were a coward?

If I stayed with them, I might miss what happened in front. I felt my lips, dry and cracked, with my rough fingers, then grasped the side of the wagon and slid down. How easy it would be to return to Fort Dayton. Who would blame me?

Instead, I went forward. I passed one supply wagon after another, feeling the strength in my legs, in my feet. I passed stragglers ahead of the wagons. Once I stopped for water and glanced up at the glints of the sun
.

Somewhere far ahead of me were Father and John; somewhere ahead was Miller. I began to run. Branches whipped at my hair, scratching my cheeks. I passed grim-faced men marching in twos and threes, who barely noticed me
.

I heard the terrible sound of firing; the burning smell of it wafted back to me. The noise of muskets, of shouting, of screaming, was almost deafening; the air was filled with smoke. A small group of men retreated along the path, careening into me
.

I threaded my way through them, and then through the men
who were moving forward. I ran, gasping, searching. Where was Father?

And then, without warning, men disappeared in front of me. I stopped just before I went over the edge of a deep ravine
.

To go through that ravine, our men had to scramble down a log road and cross a narrow stream before they began the climb up again. The first men, led by General Herkimer, had almost reached the top when muskets began to fire and tomahawks were hurled
.

My hand went to my mouth. The enemy had hidden in the dense trees on both sides of the ravine. We were surrounded
.

I slid down, my hands torn by thickets, stung by nettles, my feet bleeding. At the marshy bottom men fought, blood spattered everywhere
.

Herkimer had been right about the ambush. Everywhere I looked were men in British uniforms and Iroquois shrieking terrible war cries
.

An old man with gray hair to his shoulders and a hatchet in his upraised hand came toward me, but then he was gone, and standing over him was one of our own, covered in blood. He yelled something to me, but it was impossible to hear
.

There was no way to move back, almost no way to move forward. I stumbled over someone’s legs, and confused, I thought he
was sleeping, his arm bent under him, a thin line of blood staining his jacket
.

He was only the first. Steps in front of me, bodies lay in awkward piles
.

Someone grabbed me, holding the back of my kerchief, almost choking me
.

I fought to be free of those arms, reaching back with my fingers as I was dragged into the trees, my heels digging into the ground
.

The sounds I made were low and deep. I managed to turn and reached for his face, his eyes. I heard his ragged breath, and as he raised his hands against me, I twisted away
.