Scar (7 page)

Mr. Van Etten hugs his wife gently. Poor Mrs. Van Etten. Attacked by a cow.

I give Mary's shoulder a little squeeze, and stand up. My mother sees that I need to speak to her and she makes her way over, joining Mary on the bench. “I'm leaving for the fort,” I tell her. She nods. She will allow it. It's necessary that someone from our group report in at the fort, and if that choice is between Mr. Van Etten and me—the old man and the cripple—the cripple wins. “I'll be back by morning.”

Mr. Van Etten meets me at the door. He shakes my hand. I can see Eliza Little out of the corner of my eye, sitting on a
chair near her sisters, watching me. Her eyes shine brightly by the light of the fire, and the cabin is too tight and hot to bear a moment longer.

Outside, the night air cools my face and I breathe it in deep. I hated being in Mr. Little's cabin. It felt wrong—all of us sitting around without him. I remember that after he'd recovered from his illness and was able to attend church, he always chose the pew in front of me, Mary, and my mother. He liked to tell my mother each Sunday that as soon as they were completely settled, they would have us over for tea. I look around Mr. Little's farm and think back to the first time I walked Eliza Little home. It is an old place and needs work, but now I see he had cleared the paths, built strong fencing, split and stacked a good deal of wood, and had nearly all his wheat cut and bound. He worked hard, and for what? I turn and hurry west toward Van Auken's Fort, leaving this sad thought to wander alone like a ghost in Mr. Little's fields.

Not long after starting out, I pass the path leading home and can't stop myself from picturing the moon shining eerily on my burnt-out cabin. Then I see it in my mind's eye as it once was, its familiar shape against the night sky. The thought makes me unsteady, so I focus on the path in front of me and walk on, not raising my head until I smell the smoke from the Van Fleets'. It's not too far out of my way, just a short hike to the north, and I decide to turn toward it. I already know that it's been burned.

And it is.

To the ground.

Its blackened walls no longer resemble the house which stood on this spot my entire life.

I call out.

No one answers.

A chill settles on me and I quickly turn back for the fort. “Please, let the Van Fleets be well. Please, let no one else be hurt.”

The last stretch of the hike feels like an eternity, which is not long enough. After what has happened to Mr. Little, my home, and the Van Fleets, I dread what I will find. So when I come upon the fort and see it's been untouched, I allow myself a few moments of relief before I walk on.

Van Auken's Fort is more like a strongly built house than a great fort like my father described Fort Stanwix to be. Despite its small size, Van Auken's Fort can fit a large portion of the inhabitants of our settlement. And tonight, as I walk inside, I'm sure it's where I'll find most of them.

Jon Haskell greets me at the door with a nod. It's quiet and cool inside. I hear soft crying and the shuffling of many bodies trying to get comfortable. One man's deep voice is speaking in a low tone to a group of men in the corner. I start toward them, but waver. The responsibility of reporting in at the fort had felt right on the walk here. Even my mother had allowed it. But now, as I'm about to approach the men, I think about my foot and imagine I don't belong.

I hang in the shadows and search the group of men for Mr. Decker, but I can see he's not there. Although I do spot
Martinus Jr., Mr. Decker's youngest boy, sitting close to the fire and playing with what looks like two coins. I watch him for a few moments. He's attempting to spin both coins at once. Martinus Jr. is only eight years old, but he has always seemed older. He's an outgoing and talkative boy, very much like his father.

I make my way over and sit. “How now, Martinus?”

“I am glad to see you, Noah,” he says, acknowledging me but continuing to play at his coin-spinning.

“Where is your father?” I ask, bracing myself for the possibility that Mr. Decker is dead.

“Father's not here,” he replies.

I bow my head in relief.

“He traveled south a few days ago. But mother said that Thomas Manning has gone to find him and bring him back.” He stops spinning the coins and looks up at me. “Mr. Haskell sent John Carpenter out to look for you and Mary and Mr. and Mrs. Van Etten.”

“He must have gone first to the Van Ettens'. I missed him. We've been at the Littles' this evening. Mr. Little is …” And I stop.

“Dead, Noah?” he says. “Mr. Vaneken is dead, too. They shot him on the schoolhouse steps. I ran when he told us to. He told all us boys to make for the woods. Unlike with our letters, he didn't have to tell us twice. I hadn't gotten but ten rods when I heard the musket. I knew it was Mr. Vaneken they kilt. My sister Emily said the girls rushed out to help him but it was too late. She said that one of the men stopped
the others from hurting any of the girls on account of Brant's orders. Mr. Tyler says it was the Mohawk Joseph Brant they were talking about. I ran home, but they'd kindled it, so I ran here.” His story finished, he looks down at the two coins sitting in the palm of his hand.

“I'm glad you're safe, Martinus.” I pat his shoulder—but I think it's more for my own comfort than his. I stand to leave. I really should join the men now.

Martinus sits up and stares at me full in the face, and I'm overcome with the need to say something more. “It'll be all right,” I tell him. But I don't know if it will be all right; in fact, it doesn't feel like it will be. And when the boy continues to talk, I know that it won't.

“They stole the Van Eck boys. Mr. Van Eck went after 'em and I heard them say he's dead. Mrs. Van Eck is quiet now, sleeping over by the Gilberts—,” he motions off to a dark corner, “—but she screamed straight through dinner. I thought my hair would fall out of my head she screamed so loud. No one could stop her screaming. She sounded like a pig, half butchered …” His voice gets stuck.

“Be calm, Martinus,” I say, sounding as if I'm looking to comfort him when I'm really attempting to stop him from saying anything more. It doesn't work.

“Mr. Packet is dead too. They shot him running to the fort. He almost made it. They scalped him just a few yards from the door. If you want to see him, Noah, he's lying covered up behind Mr. Cuddeback. I saw him. He looks the same except the top of his hair, skin and all, is cut off. I don't
think it was much of a scalp because Mr. Packet was mostly bald, you know.” And he shrugs. “Will you go see him?” he asks.

“No, Martinus.” I back away. I need to join the men. It's time. But his small voice keeps on.

“They sent John Gilbert and Joseph Harper to Goshen for help. They're planning to chase down Joseph Brant. Will you go, too, Noah?”

The question throws me. I haven't thought about what happens next; my head is still stuck on today. I can't believe they took the Van Eck boys. Abram and Daniel are around the same age as Martinus Jr. And Mr. Van Eck, dead. Poor Mrs. Van Eck. She was already a sad and tired-looking woman. I think about Mr. Vaneken and Mr. Packet … and then me, buried under those branches.

“I must go, Martinus.” And I know that I must.

“Yes, Noah,” he says, lying back down on his stomach and returning to his coin-spinning.

I feel poorly leaving him, but I don't belong at the hearth with children playing games. I'm ready to join the men.

Mr. Tyler is speaking, but he nods in my direction when I step into the group. He's a rough man with eyes like two rocks. He doesn't live in our settlement. I'm not really sure where he lives. He seems to travel up and down the river on endless errands. He has a reputation for behaving rashly, but also for being outspoken for the cause. I've heard that before the war, he ran secret information between towns and settlements for the Committee of Safety, a respected group of
men who worked for the new Continental Congress. Having anything to do with the Committee meant sure death if the British caught you.

“… at least a few hours before daylight,” Mr. Tyler says with authority. “Let's use it to collect any ammunition and muskets we can find. We should gather food and water for the trip as well. Hopefully, the militia will arrive sometime in the early morning and we'll start north.”

“You can't be thinking of following him yourselves?” questions Mr. Jacobson, a young farmer with a large family who lives northeast of our settlement.

Mr. Tyler stands silent for a moment, as if not fully understanding what this farmer has just said. Once Mr. Jacobson's words register, Mr. Tyler's eyes glow with anger.

“Of course we are,” he snarls. “They headed upriver and we'll head right after 'em, as soon as the militia shows up.” He glares around at each of the other men, checking to be sure that this diseased thought of poor Mr. Jacobson's hasn't infected anyone else.

No one says a word.

“Me and Abraham will lead the way. We know that part of the country better than anyone and I'm in the mood to kill a few savages.” Mr. Tyler almost dances as he speaks, unlike his friend, Abraham Cuddeback, who stands next to him barely blinking an eye.

The group is silent as we each consider what Mr. Tyler
has just said. Chasing after an experienced Mohawk warrior is not something any of us were thinking about when we rolled from our straw this morning.

Mr. Tyler keeps up his cold stare at the group, but his eyes seem to linger on me. I feel my face redden as I think back to the ditch. It's like he can see me lying there … hiding. And I wonder if, when these men hear of Mr. Little's death, they will realize that it could have been avoided if I'd run ahead to warn everyone. Perhaps even the Van Eck boys could have escaped being kidnapped. But then I wonder something worse … Maybe these men will take a long look at me and note sadly that I couldn't possibly have done anything to stop any of it.

In this moment, I gather the whole of the raid's horrors and throw it on my shoulders. And in a steady and strong and sure voice, relaying none of my actual feelings, I say it.

“I will follow you.”

“The cripple's a fighter,” Mr. Tyler booms. I bristle at his choice in words. They're the truth. But they still burn.

I hear the rustling of Mrs. Decker's buntlings before I see her. She hurries over to the group, elbowing her way in. She's a short, heavyset woman whose countenance is forever frozen in a scowl. My father used to say that Mr. Decker's farm yielded more beans than any other in the settlement because Mrs. Decker went out to the fields and, with a dark look, dared those pods not to produce. “Noah,” she huffs, “you're staying right here.”

It seems there's not a woman in this settlement who doesn't think she can order me about. “Ma'am,” I say, too loudly, “I will follow Mr. Tyler and Mr. Cuddeback north.”

Frowning, she turns to Mr. Tyler. “What have you to say to this, sir?” She crosses her arms and waits.

I reply before he can. “Mrs. Decker, my father believed strongly in this struggle for liberty. He fought for it on many occasions. Therefore, I know he would be proud to see me doing my part. I also know that he'd want me to help bring the Van Eck boys home.”

“But, Noah …” she says, glancing pointedly down.

My earliest memories are of people's eyes finding my foot. I used to wonder what their thoughts were when they looked at it. Later I began to make up these thoughts for myself—none of them good. But right now, as Mrs. Decker's eyes find my foot, I don't do either of those things. Right now I just react. With anger. “I will refrain from battle if you think it best that someone with my …” I don't finish that sentence. “But Mrs. Decker,” I say slowly, “make no mistake, I will be marching out with the militia.”

Mr. Tyler chuckles. “He talks big, this one. Let the cripple come if he thinks he can keep up. It will do him good to see a little action, eh,” and he punches me in my shoulder with his fist, almost knocking me over. “Maybe we'll let you scalp old Brant himself once we catch him.”

Mrs. Decker isn't prepared for my heated speech or for Mr. Tyler overruling her, and before she can recover, Mr. Tyler is quick to forget about her. “Let's get moving on
the ammunition, the food and water. Who's still missing? Anyone from your neck of the woods, boy?”

“The Van Ettens are at the Littles' with my mother and sister. Mr. Little was shot going for his gun. He's dead.”

“That's too bad. He was a nice fellow,” Tyler says. “Anyone else?” No one says anything. “Then we are down four good men today.”

Quietly, in my head, I add the two boys.

The group breaks up. I make a wide circle around Mrs. Decker on my way out of the fort and start for the Littles'.

Once I'm alone again in the dark, I remember my mother. Getting past Mrs. Decker is one thing, but getting past my mother will be quite another. “Mr. Tyler said I could go” somehow sounds childish, and it won't stand up against my mother anyway. If she isn't behind the idea, and she won't be, then it doesn't matter if the Almighty Himself is behind the idea. I certainly can't use my father's zeal for the cause, because my mother doesn't share it, not then and not now. And if I bring up how proud Father would be, pretending to know his feelings on the matter, I would be sending any hope I had of my mother listening to me straight up the chimney.

My stride slows. It's as if my feet understand the danger in moving me closer to my mother while my head is still far from forming a convincing argument. Although as I listen to the steady rhythm of my footsteps, the inevitable confrontation with my mother fades and is replaced by a vivid daydream of fighting the British.

I have loads of these stories of glory stored in my head, thanks to my father—different ways where my quick thinking or sharp shooting turns the tide in a decisive battle. I choose one of my favorites to replay in my mind. And in what feels like no time at all, I'm back at the Littles' farm.