Toliver's Secret (11 page)

Whenever she passed a dark shadow of a farmhouse sitting behind a stone wall, she could smell the smoke from the chimney. There must be people inside. People eating bowls of piping hot stew, sitting beside a crackling fire. Perhaps children were pulling on nightshirts that had been warmed at the fire. Perhaps they were climbing into bed and putting their feet against warm bricks wrapped in wool. Mother had always warmed her bed for her this way at home.

Not a crack of light showed at the windows. Although a dog barked at the sound of her feet crunching in the snow, the doors remained shut.

And then, far ahead, she saw a light no bigger than a needle prick in the dark.

“Maybe it's Mr. Shannon's tavern!” she cried, and tried to run. But her cold wet feet would not obey her. They stumbled and slid on the frozen road and she could not make them hurry.

As she slipped from one uneven hoof mark to the next, she found herself saying over and over, “I shall run and not faint: I shall walk and not grow weary.” Somehow, the words made her think of Grandfather. She remembered him sitting by the fire in the kitchen with his little reading glasses on his nose and the old Dutch Psalm Book in his hands. “They that wait upon the Lord,” she could hear her grandfather's cheerful voice, “they shall walk and not be weary: they shall run and not faint.” It made her feel better to think of the words that Grandfather read aloud and believed so firmly.

When at last she came close to the light she saw that it poured from an open doorway. She knew it was the doorway of a blacksmith's shop by the clang of a hammer on an iron anvil. Wearily she stumbled up
to the door and leaned against the doorframe. When she could catch her breath she would ask the smith the way to the Jolly Fox Tavern.

The small barn was filled with dark shadows and flickering lights, for at one side the fire in the fireplace glowed on a hearth that was almost as high as a table. How good it was to feel the warm air blow over her as she stepped inside.

The blacksmith was startled when he looked up from the anvil where he was beating a horseshoe into shape. His blue eyes shown bright in his grimy face.

“What brings you here, boy?” he said sharply. “It's a cold night to be out.”

“Oh, sir, I'm frozen into an icicle.”

“Step up to the fire, then, but don't alarm the horse.”

Ellen ran up to the fireplace just as the smith raised a dirty hand and pulled the rope of a huge leather bellows. A burst of air from its small mouth sent a swirl of sparks flying up among the shadows and made the fire flare up in a bright flame. The whole soot-covered room was filled with light. From the rafters overhead hung old iron tools and worn-out bits of harness and broken yokes for oxen. Even the brick fireplace looked old covered with a coat of sooty cobwebs.

With the barn brightened by the fire, Ellen could see at the other side of the room an old gray horse waiting to be shod. And in the corner beside the horse a big man sitting on a barrel. He was wearing a plaid muffler wrapped around his fur hat and tied across his mouth. He saluted her with one mittened hand and held the reins of the horse in the other. He said nothing, but she could feel his sharp eyes look at her closely.

“Maybe he's the courier,” she said to herself. “But no—not with that old horse. A courier would have a strong, swift horse who could run for hours.”

When the smith lifted his long tongs and put the horseshoe into the fire, the hairs on his arms shone like copper and matched the lock of hair that fell over his forehead.

“Where did you come from?” he asked.

“Oh-h-h—” Ellen hesitated. She was so cold and miserable she could not think of an answer.

“Never saw you before. Where you from?”

“From—” Ellen groped for some kind of answer. “From—from Mr. Murdock's farm.”

“You a bound boy there?” asked the man in the fur hat. Ellen jumped and turned to see him pull the muffler down from his mouth. He had tipped his head
to one side and was watching her carefully.

The blacksmith grunted. “I'll wager that wife of his would send a boy out on a night like this. She's a strange woman—Mistress Murdock.” He began beating the curved piece of red-hot iron with his hammer.

“Will you tell me the way—” Ellen began.

Suddenly the horse stamped his feet on the wooden floor and the big man jumped up and patted his nose and rubbed his ears to quiet him. He was the tallest man Ellen had ever seen.

As she waited for the man to quiet his horse, she took off her mittens, leaned forward and held out her cold hands to the fire. She quickly clutched her jacket when she felt the loaf of bread start to slip down.

“What's that under your coat?” the big man spoke up quickly.

“It's nothing,” said Ellen.

“Must be a sack of gold,” he said. “Do you think it is a sack of gold, Smithy?” Ellen looked to see if he were serious, but she could not tell.

“No,” said the smith, “but I'll wager it's a bag of good English coins.”

“Perhaps he's a paymaster for the redcoats,” said the big man.

“Or a runaway thief.”

Ellen thought they must be teasing her. She looked from one face to the other. The smith was serious. The other man's eyes were laughing. She hugged the bread close to her chest.

It seemed to her the tall man's eyes looked right past the brass buttons of her coat. She was sure he could see the loaf of bread underneath. But she was not going to show it to him.

“Did you steal something from the redcoats?” he asked as he leaned forward and peered at her across the room. Perhaps he wasn't teasing after all.

The smith grumbled. “Lots of stealing around here—horses—saddles—blankets. You can't trust anyone these days. Not since the British came. Now bring up the horse,” he said to the man with the muffler.

Ellen backed into the corner on the far side of the fireplace while the old horse was led to the blacksmith's side and tied to the wall.

“My horse is too old for any redcoat to steal,” said the owner. He patted the horse's nose while the smith lifted a hind leg and steadied it on the leather apron that covered his knees. With a sharp knife he began to slice off small bits of the hoof before he attached the iron shoe.

“Now,” said the man in the muffler, “what's under your jacket, boy?”

“Nothing,” cried Ellen. “Nothing at all.”

“It must be right valuable,” said the man, “from the way you are hiding it.”

“It's nothing but a loaf of bread,” Ellen called over her shoulder as she dodged around him and darted to the door. She almost choked over the words, she was so tired and upset. Maybe they were only teasing her, but she wasn't sure. She did not know who this tall man was or why he was so curious about what was under her jacket, but she had had enough trouble for today. She did not need any more.

S
he was out in the cold black night again. And now there was no spot of light ahead to give her courage to push on. Everything had gone wrong today. Over and over again! She was so miserable she wanted to sink down in the snow and go to sleep.

She heard some horsemen come galloping down the road and quickly dodged out of the way. She could not see them as they disappeared in the dark, but she could hear them round a bend in the road ahead and then suddenly stop. Far away she heard a burst of
laughter, as if a door had been opened and closed again.

“That might be the tavern!” It was almost too much to hope for, but it made sense. It might be the tavern.

When she came to the bend, she saw a group of horses tied to a long hitching post. A light from a small lantern in a window shone on a sign over the doorway.

It was the picture of a smiling fox. The Jolly Fox Tavern at last! She had found it.

Ellen pushed open the door and stumbled into a room that seemed to be bouncing with laughter and singing. It smelled of hot food and old ale and muddy boots. Candles on the tables and a crackling fire in a huge fireplace made the room glow.

Sprawled on chairs around the long tables were many red-coated officers. They smoked their white pipes, banged their mugs on the bare boards and joked with two nimble waitresses in white caps and long green aprons.

Beside the fireplace at the far end of the room Ellen saw a bar with slats of wood from counter to ceiling. She had never been in a tavern before and had never seen a little room like this. It looked like a cage. The shelves at the back were filled with wine bottles and mugs and pewter tankards. White clay tobacco
pipes hung from the rafters overhead, waiting to be borrowed by the customers.

Inside the cage a plump little woman was drawing ale from a keg into a row of mugs. She, too, wore a long green apron. And in her ears were gold earrings that sparkled when she turned her head in time to the tune she was whistling. A small British flag was stuck jauntily in her white topknot. “Is this Mistress Shannon?” Ellen wondered.

She ran up to her and asked cautiously, “May I speak to Mr. Shannon?”

The little white-haired woman pushed four mugs along the counter and called to a waitress, “Don't keep the gentlemen waiting.” Then she turned to Ellen. “What's your pleasure, sir?” She threw back her head and started to laugh. “You're about as small as they come,” she chuckled.

“May I see Mr. Shannon?” Ellen asked again. She was impatient because the woman was so slow. Now that she was here she wanted to thrust the bread into Mr. Shannon's hands. Who was this woman with the British flag in her white hair?

The woman started singing in a loud voice as she wiped her hands on the towel at her waist. Her eyes darted quickly about the room as she leaned forward
and put her head through the gateway of her cage. “Mr. Shannon's not here,” she said.

“Not here!” Ellen was filled with dismay.

“He has gone to the country to find a few kegs of ale.”

“Gone!” cried Ellen in a voice that was sharp and frightened. What did she mean, gone? Grandfather said he would be here! Waiting for her!

“When will he be back?” she asked desperately.

The woman was banging mugs on the counter and making a great clatter with some dishes. “In a day or two. No telling when.” She seemed to be looking past Ellen at the soldiers in the room.

“I have come a long way—” Ellen began. But the woman's loud singing drowned out her words.

When she could interrupt her, Ellen pleaded, “—and I must find him—now. Can you help me?”

“He's gone to the country,” the woman said again in a very loud voice, “to find some more ale for these thirsty men. No telling which way he went.”

Then she leaned across the counter and whispered, “Just sit by the fire, boy.” Her face was filled with friendly concern. “Just close your eyes and don't talk to anyone at all. I'm Mr. Shannon's wife.”

And with that she went back to the keg of ale,
picking up the song the soldiers were singing, and shouting it as lustily as they. The little flag fluttered with each toss of her head.

Ellen wanted to give Mistress Shannon the loaf of bread, and be done with it. But she remembered her grandfathers warning. “Give the bread to no one but Mr. Shannon.”

Two redcoats moved their outstretched legs to make way for her as she stumbled over to the fire and sat down on a low stool. On a spit before the fire a roast of mutton was sizzling and sputtering. But not even the smell of a good hot roast made her hungry. She was too tired and upset and numb with shock.

As she watched the leaping flames, her head whirled with memories of the day. They went past her eyes in a dizzy parade—the boat full of soldiers, the crowded streets of Amboy, the woods, that awful pig! And for what? For nothing! Mr. Shannon wasn't here! All that she had endured meant nothing in the end! She could sit here and wait all she liked, Mr. Shannon wouldn't be back for two days.

Angrily she kicked off her wet shoes and shoved them toward the fire. She leaned forward, doubling up over the loaf of bread inside her jacket, put her head on her knees, and let her arms flop down. She was too
tired to move. The noise of the tavern swirled about her, but Ellen barely heard it.

Before long she felt a tap on her shoulder and saw the woman with the flag in her hair beckoning to her. Very slowly she got up. “I don't think she's really Mistress Shannon. She's too friendly with the redcoats,” Ellen said to herself. But she hugged the loaf of bread under her jacket and followed her, just the same.

They passed the bar and quietly slipped into a room at the back. The woman locked the door behind them. It was a small room, lighted only by a fire of pine knots and rather crowded with a large bed in one corner and two big chairs by the fireplace. The heavy red curtains at the windows were tightly drawn.

In the dim light Ellen saw a man rise from one of the chairs. To her surprise, she recognized the tall man in the fur hat and the plaid muffler. His eyes were grave as he pulled the muffler from his long chin.

“You're a quick one,” he said. “You ran away too fast.” When he unwound the muffler and took off his hat, his thick white hair fell to his shoulders.

Ellen liked his face, now that she could see it clearly. It was a strong face with a good wide mouth and ruddy cheeks. She remembered his eyes under his white
eyebrows. They had seemed to bore through her jacket in the blacksmith shop, but now they were smiling. He was so tall and rugged he made her think of a great oak tree in the woods.

“This is Mr. Shannon,” whispered the woman. “He has come back sooner than I expected.”

Was he really Mr. Shannon? Ellen wondered. How could she be sure? She thought Mr. Shannon would be a round and jolly innkeeper in a long green apron. She thought he might look like her grandfather, since they were good friends. And why would Mr. Shannon go after ale for the soldiers if he were expecting an important message? And that woman who said she was his wife was wearing a little British flag in her hair. It was rather odd.