The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (11 page)

“
Hush, you great booby. I still have some perry in the wagons; I can bribe my way through the whole British army with you safely hidden under the hay. You look as if you could use a cupful.” I ran to the wagon and fetched a tin cup full of perry for him. Will's hands shook so much I had to help him hold the cup, but the strong cider appeared to strengthen him a little
.

With every moment, the sounds of battle crept closer. In my distraction, I noticed that golden leaves were sifting down upon us, but it was early for the trees to be shedding so much of their foliage. An odd buzzing sound drew my attention. I looked up and saw the cause of the early autumn: deadly grapeshot whizzing back and forth through the trees cutting down the leaves as it had cut down the young men in the field
.

Frantically I ripped off my shirt and tore it in two. As gently as I could, I wrapped one half around Will's wounded leg. It was agony for both of us, but I had to staunch the bleeding, else he'd die before I even got him into the wagon. If I could get him that far. He was at least a foot taller than I, and heavier by several stone. Without daring to think of the impossibility of my task, I knotted the other piece of shirt round Will's wrists, slipped them over my head, and started to crawl for the wagon, dragging my brother beneath me. He cried out so piteously that I froze, but a burst of artillery fire shook the earth beneath me and I lunged forward convulsively. I don't know if Will struck his head or fainted, but suddenly he went slack, his deadweight bringing me down on top of him so abruptly that my face hit the ground. Everything swirled in a dizzy spiral
.

It was the blood streaming down my own face that spurred me back into action. I clawed wildly to lift myself enough to give Will air. Then, slowly we inched forward to the wagon, stopped behind it, and I gently eased my head out from Will's hands. Leaving him below, I jumped up on the wagon and fixed the slats down at their loading angle. Grabbing the rope of the loading pulley, I tied it to Will's wrists and grasped the other end. Though I strained and heaved
with every ounce of strength I possessed, I couldn't budge him
.

Will's eyes flickered open and he moaned
.

“
Will,” I cried. “Can you crawl any? I can't pull you
. . .”

But Will fell back senseless once more
.

I was in such despair that I didn't hear anyone approaching until I saw him standing next to me—a man in a scarlet jacket with little wings on the shoulders and a tall helmet of black fur. Even without it, he was the tallest man I'd ever seen, that British grenadier
.

Without a word, we stared at each other. Then he drew one arm over his face to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. I didn't move, though I could feel the blood dripping down my own face and the sting of the sweat running into the cuts on my cheek

His eyes flicked over me and then down to Will and the telltale cockade on his hat
.

“
My brother,” I said, and opened my palms to him in appeal
.

Still silent, the grenadier set down his musket and swung the pack off his back to the ground with a loud thud that showed how very heavy it
was.
Then he gathered Will up in his arms and carefully laid him down upon the wagon bed
.

“
Be that drink?” he asked, jutting his chin toward the barrel of perry
.

I nodded my head, speechless
.

“
I could use a bit o' drink. Seventeen miles I've marched since dawn. Seventeen miles in all this heat. 'Tis enough to kill a man, even without the efforts of this lot.” He jerked his thumb at Will
.

I swarmed up the slats, filled a cup, and thrust it at him. The soldier drained it in one gulp and held the cup out for more. I hastily obliged. After downing the second cupful, he picked up his pack and musket
.

“
Thankee, lad,” he growled, and plunged back into the woods before I could thank him in return
.

I had no time to ponder what had happened. The sounds of muskets were all around me in the woods, and the next redcoat to come upon us might not be so helpful. Quickly, I replaced the slats across the wagon and flung myself back on the seat. Even in my hurry, I felt an uncomfortable lump under my breeches
.

It was my lead soldier. I took it up in my hand and gazed at it. After the flesh-and-blood grenadiers I'd seen in the field and in the forest, the toy seemed different. With all the force that remained to me, I threw it down to the ground and left it behind me on the Brandywine battlefield
.

I turned southeast past Sandy Hollow, joining a trickle of Continentals fleeing toward Dilworthtown. I slaked their thirst with the perry, while it lasted. The poor fellows deserved it
.

It was midnight by the time we came up our lane. By great good fortune my father, exhausted by his harvest work, was sleeping too soundly to hear us arrive, but my mother's ear was sharpened with worry. She soon rushed out of the house, lantern in hand. As she stood there, the wind swirled her long white shift about her ankles and sent her long brown hair, loosened for bed, flying about her head
.

“
Geordie, I thought thee'd never get home!” she cried when she saw me
.

“
There was a battle at Brandywine, Mother. I found
. . .”

“
Geordie, thee knows I don't believe in bloodshed . . . no matter what the cause,” she cut in. “It's bad enough to have thy brother run away and break thy father's heart, but now thee, too . . .” Her voice faltered as she followed my mute gesture toward the wagon bed. “It's Will! Oh, Geordie, he isn't dead?
”

“
No, but grievously wounded
.”

Mother felt Will's forehead, then quickly looked over his wounds, murmuring under her breath all the while. “Ever since Will ran away, thy father has said he would treat him like the traitor he is should he return. I must think what's best to do.” She pressed her hands to her head as if that would untangle her thoughts. Then, with an air of decision, she told me we would hide Will in Grampa's Folly
.

This was a secret room my grandfather had insisted Father build into the barn foundation. Grampa had a fear of Indian raids and wanted a refuge handy in case of attack. Of course, there had never been any Indian raids—in fact, the only raids I heard about were the other way around. The Indians in our part of the colony had always been peaceful farmers. Indeed, they had taught the settlers the best ways to till the soil
.

Now, however, we were heartily glad of Grandfather's stubbornness. The two of us managed to get Will to the barn, open the hidden door, and put him down on a pile of straw
.

Will's eyes fluttered open. “Water,” he murmured, then his eyelids closed once more
.

Mother and I looked at each other, jubilant at this proof that he still lived. I ran for the spring, she for the herb garden to gather lamb's-ear leaves to bandage and soothe his wounds
.

It was not easy over the next few weeks to care for Will and keep Father ignorant of his presence in the barn. During that time I confided to my gentle Quaker
mother the tale of how I had come to find Will in the beech grove. Though horror-struck by the dangers I had run and the sights I had seen, she conceded that my action had surely saved my brother's life
.

Reports sifted in about the outcome of the Brandywine battle that had engulfed me and wounded Will. I heard that the American divisions, lacking the training to wheel and face the redcoats coming up behind them, had ended up dangerously separated from each other. Attempts to close the gap resulted in even more confusion—so much so that some Continentals had even fired on their own advance lines. As for the men pelting across the fields behind Washington and Mr. Brown, they had fought valiantly, but finally had had to retreat in disarray
.

Still, 'twas said that Washington's men were not downcast by their defeat, especially since the British were too exhausted by their long day's march to pursue them. For a fortnight after Brandywine, the Continentals had done their best to keep Howe from crossing the Schuylkill, but to no avail. By late September, the British occupied Philadelphia
.

Father was delighted, but Mother and I scarcely cared about the capture of the capital (if it could be called such after Congress had fled), for Will was safe at home again
.

9

When my alarm went off the next morning, I realized I hadn't filled in my Brandywine study sheet. Geordie and I had been interrupted by Dad, who thumped on the wall and told me to stop muttering and get to sleep. His orders couldn't have come at a worse time. After Geordie had finished telling me of his Brandywine ventures, I had asked him about the secret room in the barn, where they had hidden Will.

“I haven't seen anything like that—what did you call it?—Grampa's Folly,” I'd said. “I guess it must have been in the part that burned. Right?”

Geordie had looked at me intently before replying, “What a nimble wit you have, Lars. However did you figure that out?”

“Oh, it was easy enough. There's obviously no secret room in the part that's left,” I'd answered.

“
Obviously
not . . .” Geordie had started to say, but the rest of his reply was forestalled by my father's pounding.

Now, as I hastily filled in the blanks on the Brandywine paper, I thought the questions were so easy that a sapskull could have answered them. That, and a couple of other interesting things, was what Geordie had called me when I'd asked why the British hadn't used the bridge across the Brandywine instead of marching way up to the forks. I'd showed him Route 1 on my wall map.

“Lars, you sapskull, you witling, you great booby! Nary a bridge was built for a score or more years!”

I chuckled at the memory of Geordie's scolding as I scribbled my answers in the blanks. Then I stuffed the sheet into my backpack and clattered downstairs. As I reached the kitchen, the knocker sounded on the front door.

“Who could that be at this hour?” Dad said from behind his newspaper. “Get it, will you, Lars?”

Obediently I went to the door. A balding, pudgy stranger who looked oddly familiar stood there.

“I'm Edward Owens the Ninth,” he announced in a pompous way. “Are your parents at home?”

I returned to the kitchen and told my folks who it was, adding, “I think he's the father of a kid in my class.”

After Dad went to see what Mr. Owens wanted, Mom made a face. “I used to know a guy named Owens who lived around here. He was really a pest,” she whispered to me.

“If he's anything like his son, I think it's the same guy.”

Dad and Mr. Owens came into the kitchen.

My mother stared at the man. “Edward?” she asked.

“Sandra—haven't seen you in years,” Mr. Owens said. “I heard you were staying with Cass. Unfortunately, I didn't know about her passing away until too late to get to the funeral. I just came by to offer my condolences.”

Mom looked away. “Thank you, Edward,” she said softly.

“And . . . to inquire when we might take possession.”

Dad said sharply, “Take possession of what?”

“Penncroft Farm. Surely you knew Cass intended to leave it for a museum? She promised it to me . . . oh, a good ten years ago.”

My parents looked thunderstruck.

Mr. Owens cleared his throat. “Well, I wanted to make sure you knew, so you could plan to move out as soon as possible.”

“I . . . I . . . ,” Mom gasped.

Dad interceded. “It's far too soon to be talking about this—can't you see we're still grieving for her?”

“Besides,” I blurted out, “she made a new will!”

Mr. Owens's eyes flicked over to me.

“Fine,” he said dryly. “Then we'll see you in probate court. Sandra, good to see you again. Don't bother—I'll see myself out.” He strode from the room.

The three of us sat in shocked silence.

Finally, I spoke up. “Don't worry, Mom, I'll find it.”

Mom sighed and ruffled my hair. “I hope you can, Lars, but considering that most of the time you can't even find your own shoes, I'm not too optimistic. Hey, look at that time! I'd better run you to the end of the pike or you'll miss your bus.”

I caught the school bus, but just barely. As soon as I got to school, our class climbed onto another bus for a field trip to Brandywine. After an hour's ride, Mrs. Hettrick stood up and clapped her hands for attention.

“Before we go into the park, class, we'll take a look at Brandywine Creek itself. After all, if it hadn't been for the creek, the battle here might have gone differently.”

“Yeah, maybe the Americans would have won,” Eddie Owens shouted. Despite my best effort to avoid him, he was sitting right behind me.

“Actually, if it weren't for the creek, the Americans wouldn't have been here—the battle would have been somewhere else,” I remarked to no one in particular.

Eddie leaned over my shoulder. “Fat lot you know about it, Lars,” he snorted. “You've never even had it in school. You said so yourself.”

I made a big thing out of wiping off my shoulder where Eddie had snorted. When I looked up, my eyes met those of Pat Hargreaves, who looked amused at what I'd done. She quickly looked away.

Soon someone pointed out the roadside sign for the village of Chadd's Ford. The name caused a lurch of excitement in my stomach. Chadd's Ford—where the Americans had waited on the east bank of Brandywine Creek for a massive British attack that had never come. I could almost see Knyphausen's Hessian troops lined up on the west side of the stream to draw Washington's attention away from the real attack coming from behind. I could almost hear the cannon booming on the hillside and see the leaves cut down by grapeshot.