Toliver's Secret (9 page)

But there were no people anywhere. There were no cows in the barns, no sheep in the sheepfolds, nor even chickens pecking in the farmyards. It was like walking in a strange, silent dream.

“There must be people inside,” she thought, for in spite of the tightly closed windows, she could see thin wisps of smoke drifting up from the chimneys and blowing away in the wind.

What a strange place. Not like Long Island. The people there had been friendly—when she and Mother walked the ten miles to New York in November. Sometimes they had been asked inside to warm themselves by the fire.

New Jersey was different. There was nothing to do now but just keep marching along by herself. She remembered a song her father used to sing when he'd come home after drilling with the village militia. “Blow the trumpets, ‘To Arms.' ” That was all she could remember at first. “From the east to the west blow the trumpets, “To Arms!' ” Father had told her Tom Paine wrote it and called it “The Liberty Tree.”

“Let the far and the near—all unite with a cheer—in defense of our Liberty Tree.” Father's eyes really sparkled when he sang that song. She liked to remember him that way.

“Let the far and the near,” she chanted a rhythm for her marching feet.

“Let the far and the near—all unite with a cheer—in defense of our Liberty Tree. Let the far and the near—all unite with a cheer—” Her voice grew strong as she sang it over and over. “—in defense of our Liberty Tree.”

Keeping time to her song, Ellen rounded a bend, and stopped short at what she saw. The road disappeared in a woods. She had seen the woods ahead, but she hadn't thought that the road would go right through the middle of it.

Since the winter branches were bare, she could look deep into the forest of brown tree trunks and evergreens. Trees beyond trees as far as she could see. They seemed to go on for miles. The lonely road curved around a huge pine tree and disappeared. Everywhere there were sure to be unknown dangers. Prowling animals! Bears! Thieves! She could go no further.

I can't do it! I can't go on!

But you must do it, Ellen.

I can't! I'm only ten.

A courier is waiting for your message.

I can't! I won't!

There is naught else to be done. You must!

Ellen stood and looked at the dark road curving ahead into the silent forest. “Well, when there's something hard to be done,” she said at last, “just square your shoulders and start.”

Then she pulled her cap over her ears and raced down the road into the woods, looking from side to side as her feet flew over the frozen ground. Behind every tree there seemed to lurk a monster; under every bush, a wild and hungry animal waited to spring out at her.

“If only I can get to the end of the woods,” she gasped.

She could almost feel things clawing at her back. But she dared not look over her shoulder to see what they were.

“Run faster, Ellen! Run faster!” she cried as she felt the wind rush past her face.

When at last she had to slow down, gasping for breath, she feared she would be flung to the ground and torn apart.

Nothing happened. There were no monsters behind her. She could see not even one squirrel nor one small rabbit. The woods looked quiet and serene.

Patches of fresh white snow lay on the carpet of
brown leaves. Snow flecked the trunks of the great forest trees and collected in drifts like white pillows on the branches of the evergreens. Red berries that had not been eaten by the birds sparkled on dogwood branches. If there were any animals here, they were asleep in burrows or hollow logs. All around her the woods were peaceful.

“Annabelle would like this.” Ellen surprised herself with the thought. The dogwood berries made her think of her cousin. Last winter they had had fun decorating the church for Annabelle's wedding. When they went to the woods to gather greens and red berries, Annabelle had cried out happily, “Why, the forest is more beautiful in winter than it is in summer.”

The forest was beautiful, and Ellen was no longer afraid of it. As she trotted along she realized she no longer was fearful at all.

After a while the quiet was broken by the sound of a dog barking and the thudding of a horse's hooves on the hard dirt road. Ellen looked over her shoulder and saw a small dog jumping angrily at the heels of a skinny old horse. Paying no attention to the dog the horse plodded along heavily. The steam from his nose looked like the steam from a kettle on the hearth.

The rider was a man so thin he seemed to be made
of sticks of kindling wrapped in a fluttering coat. His chin rested on a bunch of straw at his throat and a long pointed nose seemed to hold it in place. From each arm hung big woven baskets, limp and empty.

Ellen slipped behind a pine tree. But the little dog had seen her and ran in circles about her feet barking wildly.

“Why you hiding there, boy?” the man called out in a thin high voice with a twang at the edges.

Ellen held her breath.

“Are you a neighbor—or a runaway?” asked the man suspiciously. “You got a gun?”

“I'm not a runaway,” said Ellen, “and I haven't any gun.”

“Then come out and show yourself.”

Slowly Ellen stepped out from behind the tree. She could see now that it was not a bundle of straw at his throat. It was a dirty scraggly beard. More straw-colored hair hung down his back in a bushy clump. “What's that in your hand?” the man seemed to talk through his long nose.

“Only a loaf of bread.” Ellen held up the blue bundle for the man to see. The dog barked and jumped for it so wildly she had to hold it high above her head to keep it away from him.

“Where you going?”

“To Elizabeth-town.”

“To Elizabeth! Thirteen miles!” He whistled through the space where his two front teeth were missing. “You'll never make it! And besides it will be dark as pitch before you get to Elizabeth.”

Ellen stared at him. “Did you say thirteen miles!” she cried. “I thought it was ten! And I've walked two or three miles already.”

“It may be ten miles as a crow flies, but it's thirteen miles by road from Amboy. You've walked about two, I'd say. That leaves eleven more to go.”

Ellen was too disappointed to say another word. Perhaps the man was wrong.

“Well,” he grunted as he wiped his finger across the end of his nose, “my house is only a half mile from Elizabeth. Get up behind me. I need a helper to hold these baskets.”

As if he had understood what his master said, the horse turned his head to look at Ellen and snorted disapprovingly through his big loose lips. Ellen jumped back. She had never ridden a horse before.

“Step lively, boy.” The man spoke crossly.

The horse rolled his eyes and shook the leathery skin that stretched over his ribs. He looked far from
happy at having another rider, Ellen thought. And the man did not look friendly either. But she never could walk eleven more miles. Since there was nothing else she could do, she'd have to take the ride.

The farmer slipped his foot from the stirrup and reached down a bony hand to help her.

“How do I climb up?” Ellen asked.

“Never been on a horse before?” cried the man in surprise. “A big boy like you?”

“No,” said Ellen. She was going to say, “My father was a schoolmaster. He didn't have a horse,” but she thought better of it.

“Then put your foot here, and I'll give you a hoist.”

Ellen put her foot in the stirrup and awkwardly climbed and squirmed her way up behind him, clutching the loaf of bread to her chest with one hand.

She was glad she didn't have skirts and petticoats to get in the way as she straddled the horse's bony back. Very carefully she tucked her blue bundle inside her jacket and arranged the handles of the baskets on her arms. When she leaned forward and put her arms around the man's waist, she knew the bread was safe between her chest and his thin back.

From the odd smell of his baskets, it was hard to guess what he had carried in them. But his bushy hair
that tickled her face smelled of sweet wood smoke. It was a comforting smell, although sitting behind him like this was an uncomfortable way to travel. The bouncing made her teeth chatter and jarred her spine. Still, it was better than walking eleven miles with the dog jumping at her and trying to get her bread.

The man pointed a long finger at the little dog. “Go home to your master,” he commanded sternly. “Now,” he said, when he saw the dog scurry off, “what's your name, boy?”

“Toliver.” She could say that name without stumbling now.

“Mine's Murdock.”

He handed back some oatcakes that he took from his pocket. “Most boys are hungry,” he said.

Hungry! She was starved! She had given her corncakes to Dow on the boat. When he looked over his shoulder and saw that she had gobbled them up quickly, he handed her two more. But he didn't ask her any questions. They rode in silence to the end of the woods and out along the road, passing more closed-up farmhouses. She wanted to ask him about the people inside, but Mr. Murdock was not a talkative man. She could not guess whether he was for the British or for the Patriots.

He said nothing when he had to stop his horse to let some soldiers ride by. Best not to ask him which side he was on—if she wanted to continue her ride. He'd be quite surprised if he knew he was helping the Patriots—especially if he was a Tory.

These were mixed-up times all right.

Ellen remembered Long Island and the long trip that she and her mother had made. No one ever asked the refugees who staggered along the roads which side they were on. All of them were people in trouble. Some of them had great rolls of bedding and cooking pots on their backs, and some pulled carts piled high with household goods. On top of everything rode small children in baskets and the old people. Farm people along the way were kind to them.

She peered around Mr. Murdock's arm and asked, “Why are those houses all closed up so tightly?”

The question seemed to make him angry.

Ellen could feel his back grow stiff and straight as he cried out, “People have to stay behind locked doors these days—since the British came! It's those redcoats! They take everything! Just walk in and take anything they want! Most farmers hide their cows in the woods—and pigs and chickens, too.”

At the sound of the horse's hooves splashing through
water Ellen looked down fearfully. They were crossing a stream. It was shallow enough, but thin sheets of ice formed around the rocks at the edge.

Suddenly Mr. Murdock stood up in the stirrups and waved his thin arm as if he had a sword in his hand. “King George ain't going to push us around! We'll fight back!” he cried.

Ellen had tried to keep hold of his waist as he stood up. But as she raised her arms she could feel the blue bundle slip down from under her jacket. She lunged for it.

“My bread!” she shrieked. “Stop the horse!”

“Your what?” cried Mr. Murdock as he threw a startled look over his shoulder. He yanked back on the reins. The horse was startled too. He slipped and slid on the icy rocks, sank down on his haunches and darted up again.

“My bread!” Ellen screamed. “My loaf of bread is gone!”

Mr. Murdock reined in the horse by the side of the stream. “Did you drop my baskets?” he yelled.

Quickly Ellen clutched the saddle with both hands, swung her leg over the horse's rump and slid down his side. She didn't stop to wonder about the slippery rocks or how deep the water might be. She waded
into the stream up to her knees until she could scoop up her bundle.

“He might have told me he was going to stand up,” she grumbled as she opened the kerchief and looked at the bread. It was soggy, but the good strong crust had held its shape.

Mr. Murdock didn't see the need to apologize. Instead he dismounted, gathered up his baskets and shook the water from them angrily. He glared at her. “Why did you drop my baskets? It was just lucky they weren't filled with the leather hides I took to Amboy.”

Ellen hung her head, but she felt defiant. Why, it was his fault, she thought. He should have told her he was going to stand up.

“You made me drop my bread when you stood up,” she declared stubbornly. “I had to get it before it floated away and was lost.”

“That was a witless thing to do. Happens my wife would give you another loaf.”

“This is a present for an old man's birthday. My mother baked it this morning,” Ellen said hastily. “But I'm sorry I dropped your baskets.”

“Come on then. Climb back up on the horse,” he said.

When they were well on their way, Mr. Murdock turned and looked back at her suspiciously. “You're a queer one,” he said. “You got something inside that bread?”

Ellen gasped. She buried her face in his back and blurted out the first words that came to her mind. “I'd get a whipping with a birch rod if I lost it.”