Ashes (10 page)

Some stories I told in order of when they happened; the day we buried Miss Mary Finch, followed by being sold to the Locktons, followed by the dreadful trip aboard the ship from Newport to New York, followed by our first encounter with Curzon.

(I suffered an odd pain when I spoke his name, and changed the course of that tale.)

Other stories grouped themselves together, like sorting peas from pebbles. Talking about our father led me to his stories about the country marks on his face, the scars he was given by his elders in a ceremony in the village over the sea where he'd been born. How he'd been kidnapped from his parents, his brothers and sisters, and all his friends. This spun itself into the telling of the few stories I knew of Momma's mother, also born over the sea. She was stolen from her home when she was full grown and taken from her husband and children there. I told Ruth how our Momma carried Jesus in her heart always, and about the differences between our Congregational church and the Catholics and the Quakers, and the little I knew about the folk called Jews, and the folk called Mussulmans, who prayed five times a day. Why some people born over the sea paid special respect to springs of clean water, and how they greeted the sun with reverence each morning.

I'd run down one thread of the stories that I wanted her to remember, then chase back up it so I could travel down another thread. Back to Momma; her songs, her kindness, her rules. Back to New York; the rooms of the Lockton house, the sunflowers that grew outside, and Becky Berry, who cooked there. Back to Rhode Island; how I tried to teach her the letters and numbers, how she'd fed chipmunks, how she'd woken afore anyone every morning of her child days.

I took short breaks to eat the tiny fish that Aberdeen caught in the stream, taking care to set aside the longest bones that could be used as pins. He sat and listened in as I told Ruth about snow, how it fell like frozen feathers from the sky, how it could be formed into balls and thrown at a sister, how icicles grew like frozen giant's teeth off the edge of the roof, and how everything melted into water and mud when spring took winter's place. Aberdeen did not believe me about the snow. He wanted me to tell every story I knew about the great ships that crowded the wharves of Newport and New York, how far they journeyed, and what it sounded like when the wind filled their sails and pulled them from the harbor toward the endless sea. So I told those stories too. He wanted to hear about England and Scotland, where there was a city named Aberdeen. Said he fancied a trip there one day.

I talked until my voice was rough and raw, all the while keeping up a steady application of hot poultices on her dreadful cut, as well as a constant stream of prayer to God and supplication to the ghost of our mother.

Late the second night Ruth regained enough awareness to drink some tea and eat a few bites of egg. On the third morning she woke enough to drink a full pot of willow tea. That afternoon I had to help her take care of a call of nature, which was a momentous jolly occasion, for it meant that her insides were working proper. The next day I noted a resolute change in her wound; the skin around it had cooled and the swelling had much receded. She ate an entire egg as well as a handful of grapes. Best of all, she complained that the grapes were sour. Aberdeen laughed out loud and said that if she was restored enough to be peevish, then she was well on her way.

Once she was fully awake and returned to the land of the living, I stopped telling her stories. I had enjoyed the telling, but when Ruth regained her senses, she became wary of me again. The unsettled sensation betwixt us flared. Her eyes narrowed when I stepped close to her, as if she were a cat who'd just spied a snake in the grass. She did not argue or turn away. She even conversated a bit, asking for water for Nancy Chicken or if there was anything left to eat. That was an improvement, to be sure, but any hopes I had of my sister arising from her sickbed with newfound love for me were soon crushed.

Four days and nights had passed and Curzon had not returned. I worried about his absence ceaselessly. Aberdeen shared a tiny bit of my concern, but he was younger and more inclined to hopeful thoughts. That night Nancy Chicken wandered off whilst we slept and did not return. Ruth understood the meaning of this tragedy as well as we did. She lay on her back and cried quiet, with her hands covering her face.

And then the fifth day passed, a day when Aberdeen and I ate nothing. The fish had vanished, we'd plundered all the grapevines we could find, and we'd lost our source of eggs. Ruth could walk a bit, but only with one arm over Aberdeen and the other round me. I counted it as a victory that she was willing to lean on me without shrinking from my touch. But it would take weeks before she could walk for hours on end, and then only if we could find some food.

Aberdeen and I did not talk about this. We did not discuss Curzon, either, because to do that we'd have to entertain the notion that he'd abandoned us or he'd been captured, and I could not decide which would be worse.

And so the sixth day passed too.

I woke the morning of the seventh day to find Ruth staring at me, the tip of her nose almost touching mine.

“I hear a donkey,” she said.

“Donkey?” I asked, startled by this strange declaration. “Are you certain?”

She nodded.

I cautiously peered outside. A thin finger of smoke rose from the ashes of the fire. Aberdeen was nowhere in sight. I held my breath but heard only the wind in the trees and the burble of the stream.

“There is no donkey,” I told Ruth.

She looked at me with pity, as if my ears did not properly work. “It's coming closer. Sounds like a nice donkey.”

A voice bellowed from the woods: an exuberant, loud, comforting voice. “Is anyone to home?”

T
HE GENERAL DOES NOT MEAN TO DISCOURAGE THE PRACTICE OF BATHING . . . ; BUT HE EXPRESSLY FORBIDS, ANY PERSONS DOING IT, AT OR NEAR THE
B
RIDGE IN
C
AMBRIDGE, WHERE IT HAS BEEN OBSERVED AND COMPLAINED OF, THAT MANY
M
EN, LOST TO ALL SENSE OF DECENCY AND COMMON MODESTY, ARE RUNNING ABOUT NAKED UPON THE
B
RIDGE, WHILST
P
ASSENGERS . . . ARE PASSING OVER IT
. . . : T
HE
G
UARDS AND
C
ENTRIES AT THE
B
RIDGE, ARE TO PUT A STOP TO THIS PRACTICE FOR THE FUTURE.

–G
ENERAL
O
RDERS
OF G
EORGE
W
ASHINGTON

R
UTH MOVED ACROSS THE HOVEL
on her backside and sat in the doorway.

“Donkey,” she said to me. “Told you.”

Curzon emerged into the clearing very slowly, tugging behind him a reluctant donkey attached to a small cart. He didn't look any worse for having been gone from us for a week; indeed, he looked better, smiling easily and seeming quite pleased with himself.

“Egads!” he exclaimed at the sight of Ruth. “Lazarus is a lass.”

I helped her to her feet as Curzon brought the donkey closer. The astonishment and joy in his face had me grinning like a fool.

“Her fever broke on the third day and the cut is beginning to heal,” I said. “Where did you–”

“It's a long story,” Curzon said in a rush. “But I've got apples, bread, and cheese in the cart, enough to feed us all for days.”

The possibilities all of this offered us–plentiful food and a way to transport Ruth–cheered me more than anything had in ages. “That is the finest boon I've ever seen.”

“What's a boon?” Ruth asked.

“A boon is a nice thing that makes Isabel smile,” Curzon said. He chuckled and tugged on the lead rope.

The shock of seeing him again, along with the sound of his laughter, set my belly to wiggling, as if toads had begun hopping within it.

“Don't pull so hard,” Ruth scolded Curzon. “He don't like that.”

“Consarned beast thinks I am the Devil,” Curzon answered cheerfully. “Mayhaps he'll like you better.”

Ruth tilted her head and looked the donkey over like a fine lady measuring the worth of a racehorse. To me the poor thing looked like a collection of sticks wrapped in a moth-eaten hide.

“What's his name?” she asked.

“He wouldn't tell me.” Curzon took a small sack from the back of the cart. “He is fond of biting folks. We could call him Gator.”

He pulled an apple from the sack and handed it to Ruth. Instead of eating it herself, she set it on her palm and slowly extended her hand, offering the treat to the donkey. The creature gave a great snort before biting into the apple.

“You've already captured his heart!” Curzon said. “Every time I try to do that, he bites my fingers.”

Ruth regarded the creature with a practiced eye. “His name is Thomas.”

“Thomas Donkey?” I suggested.

“Don't be silly,” Ruth said. “Thomas Boon.”

  *  *  *  

While we feasted, Curzon shared all the news he'd gathered. We had indeed reached Virginia, where the British army had treated the countryside wickedly for months, burning crops and stealing livestock. Curzon thought we'd best make for Richmond, the new capital of the state. We could seek work for the winter there and push farther north come spring. I argued for traveling on to Philadelphia and finding work with the Quakers.

Our destination remained undetermined, but we agreed that we needed to move.

To travel with a cart, we needed to travel by road. That meant we ought make ourselves more respectable looking. We took turns washing our bodies in the stream as best we could, with handfuls of wild mint having to substitute for soap. I boiled more mint in the pot and poured the water over our ragged clothes in an attempt to make them smell less foul. The purchase of the cart and the foodstuffs had taken every last shilling we owned, so it was going to be a while before we could buy anything new to wear.

We headed for the road at dawn and reached it by midday. Curzon was confident that we were far enough north to travel safely in daylight. I was unsure, but we could certainly move faster when the sun was shining. Ruth drove the cart, which kept her occupied after the sad disappearance of Nancy Chicken. Having spent years on a farm, Ruth was well acquainted with the short and perilous lives of chickens, and she quickly transferred her affection to Thomas Boon. He was fond of her, too, and would do her bidding long as the boys kept their distance. He could not abide anything dressed in breeches.

I pulled the thin shawl from my haversack and kept it handy. On the few times that we encountered other travelers, I used it to secure my hat on my head and to hide the scar on my cheek from view. The folks we passed paid us little heed. They were either driving a slow wagon filled with children and furniture or galloping at top speed on a lathered horse. Everyone was fleeing the war best they could.

After five days of walking the war found us, despite my fervent prayers. A company of Patriot soldiers, moving twice as fast as we were, overtook us on the road. Their officer called a halt and hailed us loudly, asking us to stop as well.

“Don't say a word to anyone,” I told Ruth.

She stuck her tongue out at me.

Curzon strode up to the officer, slipping back into the soldierly way of speaking to a fellow of higher rank. Aberdeen stayed with Ruth and me, his hand resting protectively on the cart. The soldiers, sitting in the shade and drinking from their canteens, were as bedraggled as we were. Some walked barefooted; all of them were exhausted and filthy. Most of them were white, but a few conversated and joked freely with the black lads of the unit. This eased my mind some.

“What do you think they want?” Aberdeen asked.

“Mebbe food,” I said, happy that we'd already eaten all of the bread and cheese and most of the apples.

Curzon and the officer finished their confab and approached us, striding quickly. Thomas Boon flattened his ears back.

“It's not much of a cart, sir,” Curzon said.

The officer reached out to grab the donkey's reins from Ruth.

“Don't!” Ruth cried.

Thomas Boon brayed loudly and kicked, missing the officer's legs by a whisker.

“This wretched beast is terrible fearsome,” Curzon said. “The bane of my existence. You are welcome to him.”

Another soldier approached and tried to reach for the reins. Thomas Boon brayed even louder and snapped at the man with his yellow teeth. He succeeded in tearing the sleeve of the fellow's jacket. Both of the soldiers now took two cautious steps back.

“Except for his biting and kicking,” Curzon said, “he's capable enough. He has worms in his bowels, of course, but you must expect that in a beast this old. Whatever you do, don't let him haul gunpowder. He does have a tendency to rear up when startled. He takes great pleasure in dumping everything onto the ground.”