Toliver's Secret (3 page)

“She's gone home, I reckon,” muttered the woman.

“That's good.” Ellen heaved a sigh of relief as she pulled her red cloak about her. “I was hoping she wouldn't be here.”

“What a mean one she is!” said the woman. “She seems to get pleasure out of pestering them that's smaller.”

“She always pesters me, and I don't know why.”

“She likes to see you run. I think she likes to make you go to another pump.”

“But I never bother her at all! Why would she want me to go to another pump?”

The woman cocked her head to one side and looked at Ellen. “Maybe because you're pretty and look well cared for, and she ain't.”

Pretty! Ellen was surprised to hear that. With her straight brown hair! And her face as pale as tallow! Ezra sometimes teased her and said she looked like a burned-out candle. Mother, of course, told her she was pretty, but her father only said, “Don't make her vain. A good character is better than a pretty face.”

Just at that moment there was a great commotion as Dicey came around the corner. She was dragging little Arnie Brinkerhoff, holding him firmly by the ear as he squirmed and tried to get away.

“Don't you throw snowballs at me!” Dicey shouted at him.

Dicey's chapped cheeks were as red and rough as her flannel petticoat, and her eyes made Ellen think of a pig. She looked like a bold scrawny public pig dressed up in a drooping wool skirt. Her pale hair was uncombed and blowing in the wind like a dirty handkerchief.

“Let me go!” Arnie screeched. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Dicey!”

“Don't you do that again,” Dicey warned him as she let him go with a shove. She brushed the snow from her chest and looked up and down the line of laughing people.

When she saw Ellen she put her hands on her hips, spread her feet wide and cried, “You trying to come here again, wooden doll? I told you not to come back here.”

“Now just stand up to her,” Ellen said to herself. But she could feel her feet backing away.

Bending down, the woman in the man's coat whispered
to Ellen. “Just pay her no mind when she tries to scare you. Don't look at her.”

Ellen looked off across the street, but Dicey kept right on yelling. “Look at the little baby in her red cloak.” She shoved her face in front of Ellen. “Afraid to look at me, aren't you?” she jeered. “Too scared to say a word.”

“Leave me alone,” said Ellen. “I didn't hurt you.”

Dicey's face was red with anger and her little eyes were closed in slits as she sneered at Ellen. “Why don't you bring your mamma along if you're so scared?”

“Here now,” said the woman in the man's coat as she stepped between them. “Just leave the girl alone.”

At that Dicey's rough hands grabbed Ellen's bucket and threw it into the street—banging and bumping across the cobblestones.

“Get your water out of the gutter,” she cried.

Ellen turned and ran. She could hear Dicey call after her, “And don't come here again!”

Ellen scurried across the street and hid behind a wooden cart. She hated herself for running, but she could not make her feet stop. She could hear Dicey's taunting laughter, “Don't you come back here, putting on your fine airs.”

A workman with a load of kindling on his back kicked her bucket out of his way. Ellen scrambled in the gutter to get it and set off for the pump two blocks farther away. She was so angry she stomped along, kicking at the stones in the street and hurting her toes.

“I wish I could be invisible,” she said to herself. “I wish I could watch everything and nobody could see me.”

At the second pump she took her place in line. Even here a little old man was grumbling about the high price of firewood, and the women talked about the high price of flour and wool and mutton. Always the same talk.

When it was her turn, Ellen pumped the wooden handle until her bucket was brimming with icy cold water. It was heavy, but she knew that if she carried home a half bucket she would only have to come back—and run the risk of meeting Dicey again.

On the way home she saw the man who sold water from the Tea-Water Pump. His horse pulled a great round cask on wheels. “Good pure water!” he called. “Good pure water for your tea. The best water in town.” Ellen knew it was the best water in town, but it came from a well that was too far away for them to
carry buckets home. Grandfather said he used to buy the man's water, but now he thought it was good for Ellen to go out.

“Good for me to go out!” thought Ellen scornfully. “Someday I'm going to stay at home all the time and never go out!”

When she reached the steps of the shop, she could see Grandfather coming toward her, hopping on one foot while two carpenters in leather aprons helped him. To her surprise she saw that he had lost his hat and his wig had fallen down over his eyes. He looked terrible.

Quickly Ellen put down her bucket and ran to meet him. “What happened, Grandfather? Did you fall on the ice?”

Grandfather looked angry—and very worried, too. “Aye, I fell on the ice,” he groaned. “If it hadn't been for my wig and my hat I would have knocked myself senseless.”

One of the carpenters tried to comfort him. “Don't concern yourself, Mr. Van Horn. We'll make you a crutch.”

But Grandfather only barked at him. “Better make me a new leg. That's what I need.” He closed his eyes
and moaned while the two men helped him up the steps.

The door of the shop was flung open as Mother held out her arms to help him in. “What has happened to you, Father?” she said in a distressed voice.

“I've sprained my ankle,” Grandfather said to her. “I can't walk at all. And what's to be done now, Abby? What's to be done now?”

E
llen lugged her bucket up the steps and followed her grandfather into the shop. As he crossed the room and flopped down on his couch he looked like a rooster with a broken leg whose top feathers had fallen over his beak.

“This will make you more comfortable,” Mother said, tucking a pillow under his head and spreading a wool blanket over him.

“Best keep him off that foot for a while,” said one of the carpenters. “I'll make a crutch for him and bring
it round in a day or two.”

At that suggestion Grandfather groaned. “No crutch. I won't use a crutch. I'll get well before you can make it.” He pushed his wig off his head and ran his fingers through his short reddish hair. “Today of all days,” he said.

Mother thanked the carpenters for bringing him home and shut the door firmly after them. Then she walked to the door that blocked off the stairway to the bedrooms above and made sure it was shut, too.

“Now don't excite yourself, Father,” she whispered. “I know you'll think of something.”

“But they leave at eleven!” cried Grandfather.

“Sh-h-h-h, just stay calm.”

Ellen wondered what was going on as she got an earthen pot from the cupboard. Grandfather seemed so worried, and there was the strange loaf of bread with the snuffbox baked inside.

She poured half the water from the bucket into the pot and brought it to her grandfather's couch. She watched him pull off his shoe and white stocking and wince as his foot hit the cold water.

She picked up his wig that had fallen to the floor. Sitting down on the couch, she stroked his sandy red hair. It was hard to see Grandfather lying there all
disheveled. With his leg hanging over the side of the couch and his foot in a pot of water, he looked like Ezra. Ezra was always getting into some kind of trouble—when he fell from a tree or got caught in a beaver trap.

But never Grandfather. He was the one who took care of everyone else. He'd put leeches on a bruise or cut a vein and let the blood flow out into a basin to cure an ailment. Everyone came to him with their troubles. Ellen hated to see him look worried. The freckles stood out on his anxious face as clearly as spots of rust.

“Would you like some hot porridge, Grandfather?” she asked.

“No, thank you, Ellen,” said Grandfather without opening his eyes. “What time is it?”

Ellen looked up at the little square clock.

“It's only eight o'clock. Would you like some tea?” she asked eagerly. “I could take a few of the officers' tea leaves from the tea caddy.”

“No,” Grandfather said again as he pulled his foot from the water and held it up to look at it. With a groan he let it fall back on the couch. There was no doubt about it, the ankle was even bigger than when he first came home.

If it were someone else's ankle Grandfather would put on leeches to take out that swelling, Ellen thought. Now she knew what she had to do. She'd put the leeches on his ankle for him. She'd take the tongs and put those slimy leeches on his ankle, watching them slither around until they got a grip on the skin. Then she'd have to see them swell up while they sucked out the blood. She shuddered at the thought, but she'd do anything to help Grandfather get better.

Though it made her feel sick to think of it, she stood up and looked at the green glass jar on the counter. Once again it seemed to her that the painted faces of the wig gentlemen were smirking at her beneath their big white wigs. “Pox on you,” she said to them although they really hadn't laughed at her. “I can make myself do it.”

Gingerly she picked up the jar with both hands and turned to Grandfather who lay with his eyes closed.

“Look, Grandfather,” she whispered, “I can help you. Take your foot out of the water and I'll put some leeches on it.”

Grandfather opened his eyes and smiled at her weakly. “Thank you, Ellie,” he murmured, “but it isn't time for the leeches yet. Later—when it's black
and blue.” He patted her waist. “That was kind of you.”

She put the jar back on the counter and hastily wiped her hands on her skirt. She saw how really tired Grandfather was and drew the curtains across the two front windows to shut out the noises of the street. Since that made the room dark she gathered pine knots from a basket to start a fire in the small fireplace. Perhaps Grandfather would feel more cheerful when he could look at a bright fire across the room.

As she sat down in the chair by the fire to eat the porridge her mother brought her, Ellen could see that Grandfather had dozed off with his arms across his face. He lay so still and quiet that the ticking of the clock sounded very loud in the room. In the street she could hear the creaking of an old oxcart and then the quick jingling bells of a sleigh. But inside there was only silence.

Suddenly Grandfather cleared his throat and called out crossly, “Where's that boy Ezra? Didn't he come back to New York with you?”

With her spoon halfway to her mouth, Ellen turned and stared at him. Had he forgotten about Ezra? He must be out of his head!

“Ezra didn't come back with us,” Ellen reminded
him. “He marched away with General Washington's army last fall. Don't you remember?”

Grandfather clapped his hands to his head. “My brains are addled. Must be from the fall on the ice.”

When at last Mother pulled the brown loaves from the oven, the whole house was filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread. She brought the round loaf to show Grandfather what a fine strong crust it had.

To Ellen's surprise Grandfather groaned again when he saw it. “Put it there on the shelf,” he said. “But what's to be done now?” Ellen heard him whisper. “This message must get there tomorrow.”

“Couldn't your friend, the cobbler, take it for you?” Mother asked in a low voice.

“He went last week, and they are suspicious of him.”

Ellen could see her mother's nervous hands playing with the scissors and the razors on the little table between the two chairs. “Perhaps—maybe I could take it for you, Father,” she said softly. “I could dress up as a man.”

“You'd fool no one but an idiot, Abby. You'd never get home again.”

Grandfather's fingers played up and down the row of brass buttons on his vest. “A barber is welcome anywhere. That's how I went through their lines
before—with my shaving kit and my jar of leeches.”

So Grandfather must be some kind of spy, Ellen thought with alarm. There must be a message in that loaf of bread and he must have planned to take it through the enemy lines today. He had said something about leaving at eleven.

As she sat there, Ellen had the feeling that her Grandfather was staring at her. She could almost feel his eyes go through her.

“Ellen could take it for me!” he said with-decision.

Ellen could not believe she had heard her Grandfather correctly. He couldn't mean that he'd send her through enemy lines as a spy.

Mother sank down on one of the barber chairs by the counter and stared at him in startled surprise. “A little girl! To do a man's work!”

“She's ten, isn't she? Almost eleven! She's old enough.”