Scattered Seeds (27 page)

“I see no other choice.”

“But is that not punishable under the law?”

“It is. We will stay off the main road.”

“You’ll have to, and that will be tough going for a woman.”

“She’s no ordinary woman.” Henry smiled, remembering Mary’s pluck.

How he’d missed her!

Magi frowned. “You will carry musket and tomahawk. If a warrior harasses you, tell him of your medicine. He will know of it and let you alone. If he does not believe you, show him the torc. Do this with Indians only, not white men. White men do not believe in medicine. They only believe in taking what is not theirs.”

Henry agreed, and before nightfall, his breeches, both new and old, lay folded in the cart. He was back in deerskin leggings, with a fringed frock over his shirt and the warm torc against his breastbone.

“We’ll set out at first light. Stay wi’ the cart. I’ll go and check the Timber Wolf tavern for any letters.”

The tavern keeper found one prepaid letter for Robert McAdams. “You nearly missed this. It would have gone to Harris’s tomorrow. I’ll need to see your pass.” He extended his hand, palm up.

Henry displayed his pass and accepted a sealed letter from Jonathan Blakesly
of Boston. Another man awaited it, he knew, some legitimate Robert McAdams. Its contents were important enough for Blakesly to prepay the cost of mailing it.

Henry feared refusing it would lead to questions about how he knew an unopened letter wasn’t for him.

He felt the tavern keeper’s eyes upon him. With a “Much obliged,” he left the tavern. He was partway across the street when he realized he could break the seal and return the letter stating that it wasn’t for him after all. He was about to do just that when militiamen on horseback thundered around a corner and nearly ran him down.

“Watch where you’re going, ye damn drunkard,” one of them shouted, turning in his saddle as he galloped past.

Too embarrassed to push through the crowd of witnesses loitering near the tavern’s sign, Henry put the letter in his haversack and left the area. He would give it to Samuel Rogers at Harris’s, where it was supposed to go anyway.

His chagrin eased by the time he found their camp, and by nightfall, visions of Mary rubbed out all thoughts of the earlier mishap. He lay beside a dying fire and stared up at the infinite stars, lost in imaginings of their coming reunion. Would she understand why it took him nearly a year to find her, or would she be angry, convinced he abandoned her? What if she’d been abused? Perhaps she no longer cared for him. His thoughts took a negative turn that kept him tossing until just before sunrise.

He awoke unrested, feeling miserable and heavy, but excitement soon had him bounding up and gathering his things.

At last, today was the day he set Mary free.

Chapter 44

Henry had no trouble finding Lafferty, whose obscene wealth purchased immediate acceptance among Philadelphia’s upper crust society. The elite forgave the Ulsterman’s status as “newly arrived” and rushed to woo him with balls and fetes in hopes of presenting him with their unmarried nieces and daughters. Much to the dismay of all, Lafferty declined each invitation, and when he could no longer do so without offense, he sent word that social events made him long for his wife, who managed his affairs in Ireland. The invitations ended there, but not the gossip. He remained a favorite topic of conversation at Philadelphia’s tables, from the meanest tavern planks to the polished Chippendales of Philadelphia’s richest citizens. If a Philadelphian didn’t know Lafferty personally—and it seemed few did—he knew of him. He was said to be dangerously charming and handsome, but eccentric. Why, Lafferty paid fifty pounds for a common servant girl. His reasons for doing so were anyone’s guess. The loutish suppositions were among the most popular, of course, and partially supported by Lafferty’s visits to the bawdier sections of the city shortly after his arrival. He had particular tastes, it seemed, always seeking an Irish girl with black hair and blue eyes.

At Tun Tavern, Henry learned John Pratt, a former merchant’s clerk, found the girl Lafferty sought. Lafferty withdrew to his mansion thereafter, relying on Pratt, now in his full employ, to manage his trading business and acquire all he needed.

At Lafferty Hall, a brick fortress overlooking the Delaware River, a gate and a walkway invited visitors to cross a manicured garden to the mansion’s front door. Henry took no time to admire the structure or its fine landscaping. He barely noticed the breathtaking view of two provinces. Something far more striking than the vista held his attention, something just past the corner of the house.

There, in the early morning light, a young woman wearing Osnaburg pegged wet bed linens to a line. She had her back to him, but he recognized the gown given to her a year ago aboard
The Charming Hannah.
It was stained and patched, and Henry thought it odd that Lafferty would pay so much for a servant and then dress her so poorly. Her waist looked wider—good, she’d been eating well—and her hands were red to her wrists.

During the long walk from Lancaster, he had imagined their reunion unfolding in ten different ways, but anxiety stole his confidence, and he now stood at the gate as fixed as one of the garden statues. What if he approached and she screamed? Time and labor may have turned him into a man she might not recognize. Should he hide the musket and his tomahawk?

Mary gathered up her basket, then trudged back inside the house.

Henry kicked at the gravel, furious at his indecisiveness. Their reunion would have to wait until she returned for the linens, and that could be hours from now.

He stalked along the periphery of the garden where wild roses leered over the wall at their tame counterparts. In the shade of a chestnut tree, he found a good vantage point and sat down, his rage succumbing to exhaustion, for he walked to Philadelphia without stopping.

He was unaware that he dozed until a husky voice startled him.

“Who is ya?”

Henry searched for the speaker’s face, but found only the vessel-streaked whites of a man’s eyes. Something poked his chest and pinned him against the tree trunk. He reached up and felt the iron of his own musket barrel.

“I said, who is ya?” The specter pushed the barrel harder against Henry’s chest.

“Robert,” he coughed. “Robert McAdams.”

“What’s you doin’ here?”

The sun burst through a cloud to illuminate a brand on a mahogany cheek. The man backed his face away from the light.

“I—I’m resting.” Henry tapped the powder horn at his chest and gestured to the musket. “Gonny be hard to fire that wi’oot any powder in yon pan. What happened to your face?”

“Master branded it.”

Henry nodded toward the house. “This master?”

“Uh huh.”

Fear sliced through Henry’s middle. By the looks of things, Mary’s master had a penchant for cruelty. “He keeps slaves?”

“Three.” The man straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “Paid a fortune in duties for us.”

“Do ye know the hoosekeeper of yon hoose?”

The man nodded. “I knows her.” He returned the musket to Henry. “Whats you want with her?”

Henry rubbed his bruised chest. “I knew her in Ireland. I want to see her.”

“You may’s well turn ’round and go back where you come from, suh. Master don’t let Mary see nobody. She come out of dat house to go to the kitchen and wash line, and dat all.”

“She ne’er goes into the city, mayhap to buy food or to go to chapel?”

“No, suh. Mister Pratt, he buy everything for Mister Lafferty.” He flashed a wide grin. “Sometimes I gets to go into town so’s I can help load and unload the wagon.”

“She is permitted no visitors?”

The slave shook his head. “No, suh, though none’s asked for her until today.”

“But why? Why is she kept hidden?”

“I expect so’s she cain’t tell nobody how cruel the master is. Folk think he somethin’ he ain’t.”

Henry resisted the urge to run past the slave and crash through Lafferty’s door.
Keep your wits
, he told himself,
keep your wits. Mary’s life may depend upon it.

“Does he beat all of ye? Mary, too?”

The slave answered by rubbing his brand and looking away.

Henry glared at the mansion’s front windows. What sort of monster lurked behind that expensive glass? What hell did Mary endure here? He forced himself to unclench his fists.

“What’s your name?” He tried to sound nonchalant.

“Abraham.”

“Sit wi’ me, Abraham.” Henry smiled and patted the ground, hoping Abraham didn’t notice his shaking hands. “I have dried venison, if ye’d like some.”

Abraham slumped down across from him. “Your kind don’t never give my kind somethin’ unless they want somethin’ for theyselves.”

Henry reached into his haversack and handed Abraham a chunk of venison. He studied the slave and decided to be honest. “I want to help Mary escape. I need you for that.”

Abraham jumped to his feet and shook his head, still chewing the meat. “No, suh. I like Mary, and she good to me and all, but I gots to worry about my own skin.”

Henry stood. “I’m not asking ye to put yoursel’ in danger. All I’m asking for is information so I can come up wi’ the best way to get her oot mysel’.”

“I could gets a lickin’ just for talkin’ to you.”

Henry closed his eyes and sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s . . . I understand.”

He sank back down to the ground and buried his face in his hands. He would watch the house, gather information, discover patterns, and find the right moment. He could approach Pratt, see what he could learn there.

Abraham squatted beside him.

Henry lifted his face, and his eyes fell on Abraham’s brand. “He must be terribly cruel.”

“Mmm, he dat.”

An idea came to Henry, and he said it aloud before thinking it through. “Come wi’ us. I have a cabin way far off. Your master would ne’er find—”

Abraham stifled a laugh with his palm, then dropped his hand. “Miss Mary can put on a new dress and hat and pass for somebody else. Cain’t nothin’ wash the black outta my skin. Offer means a lot though. Says a lot about you as a man.”

They sat in silence for a time. “I’ll do whats I can to help.” Abraham nodded toward the house. “Like I said, she good to me.”

An hour later, Henry’s plan was underway. Under gathering storm clouds, Mary rushed to the wash line with her basket in her arms.

Abraham charged toward her carrying a bucket of gardening tools. He would feign collapse and spill his tools, and when Mary stooped to help him pick them up, he would announce that she was to meet Henry under the chestnut tree after dark.

Henry would hide her in a Quaker’s barn, and on the morrow, he would buy her new clothes to conceal her identity. They would set out for Lancaster tomorrow night.

Henry shook with anticipation. He could hardly wait to see the expression on her face when Abraham delivered the news.

With Abraham approaching the clothesline, Mary unpegged the flapping linens and placed them inside her basket. She turned to reach for another sheet. The wind pressed her apron and petticoat against her body, revealing an obvious bump at her belly.

Henry slapped his hand across a gasp and turned his back on the scene. He was mistaken, surely, and faced the house again, unwilling to trust his eyes. Yes, there it was, proof of Mary’s infidelity.

He gathered up his things, his ears pounding and his eyes pricked by tears.

Who could blame her? Did I expect her to wait for me her whole life?

He crashed through the brush along the garden wall, no longer caring about secrecy. It was over. She was dead to him.

“Oh!” he heard her exclaim above the wind.

Morbid curiosity—or perhaps some wretched need to know if his plan would have worked—caused him to watch the scene unfold. Abraham lay sprawled on the ground in front of her, his tools scattered across the grass.

Aye, and now, he’ll tell ye I’m here.

He watched, enraged now, hoping she choked on her shame.

She cast a glance toward the house before dropping to her knees to help Abraham return his tools to the bucket. By her next reaction, Henry knew the slave delivered his message.

“Henry’s come for ya. He’s under the chestnut tree. Meet him there after dark.”

Mary rose and wiped her hands on her apron. She gawped at Abraham, her laundry forgotten. Her face brightened and then sagged into an expression Henry would find hard to forget. She looked toward the garden gate, where Henry stood, his heart drumming and his face set to burst into flames. Her hands flew to her mouth.

He shouldered his musket and allowed her a moment to soak up the sight of him, which, when he thought on it later, must have been both surprising and alarming. Now a man, his breechclout and leggings marked him for what he was, a semi-wild frontiersman fresh in from the backcountry.

She offered a wavering smile, and it vanquished his rage and closed up his throat. Nay. She wouldn’t do this to him. He wouldn’t let her. He couldn’t face her, couldn’t imagine what he’d say to her. All those worry-filled nights, all those times in the woods when he swore he felt her longing for him, all the backbreaking labor, performed at top speed long past dark in the blistering heat . . . all so he could get the harvest to market and resume his search for her. All that, wasted. All that, and she didn’t wait a year to offer herself to someone else.

She took a tentative step toward him before glancing back at the house, where her rich lover probably watched her over a glass of brandy.

Henry gave her a hard stare and turned on his heels. With the tomahawk beating against his thigh, he ran west as fast as his legs could carry him.