The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (15 page)

Astonishment rooted me to the floor. Did Will haunt the City Tavern? It was, after all, a great place for him to hang out, camouflaged by the colonial outfits of the staff.

Mom was twittering about the Tavern's atmosphere as we sat down. “They really do a great job here, dressing and acting like it's the eighteenth century. I especially loved the bow!”

The costumed waitress handed each of us a large menu that looked as if it were written on parchment.

“Interesting,” said Dad, reading his menu. “This was quite a popular spot with the Founding Fathers—John Adams called it ‘the most genteel tavern in America'—and they all came here to celebrate after signing the Declaration of Independence. Wonder what drink they used to toast the big event?”

Mom replied, “Some kind of toddy or punch, I imagine.”

Her words gave me an idea. When the waitress came to take our order, I told her I wanted the Tavern pasty. Then, gathering my courage, I went on, “And for a drink I think I'll have perry.”

Mom laughed and said, “My, what adult tastes you're getting, Lars! I never thought you'd forego soda pop for
that
.”

I could hardly wait to see if I'd get what I requested and watched eagle-eyed as the waitress placed a green bottle in front of me. Then I read the label. It said “Perrier.”

After lunch, we visited other historic sites that Geordie hadn't mentioned. On the drive home, Dad complimented me on my improved attitude about living in Pennsylvania.

“I know it hasn't been easy for you, and we're both proud of how well you've handled it.”

I squirmed a little in the backseat. “But I haven't . . . that is, I mean . . . well, Aunt Cass helped a lot.”

Mom beamed at me. “Just the same, we're proud of you.”

When we turned off Seek-No-Further Pike and passed the Penncroft Farm sign, I remembered the first time I'd seen it. It was amazing how different I felt now.

“Why, that's Judge Bank's car,” Mom exclaimed in a worried tone. “I wonder what he's come all this way for!”

The judge stepped out of his car and came over to us. “Erik, Sandra, L. George,” he said solemnly. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “I'm afraid I'm here as your lawyer, not just as your friend. Edward Owens has filed suit in the probate court.”

My mother's eyes flashed. “If only we could find that new will! Couldn't we stall by asking the Hargreaveses to vouch for the fact she
did
write a new will? They witnessed it.”

“Owens found out about it and cornered Ellen Hargreaves to ask her what she had seen of the will when she signed it. At first Ellen said she hadn't seen anything. You know that witnesses don't usually read the documents they sign; they only verify the signature of the main parties involved. But when Owens asked if she had happened to see his name anywhere on the page, she admitted that she had noticed it was in there because Cass had written the name in especially elaborate letters. The large Roman numeral
IX
caught her eye.”

My mother protested, “But
that
doesn't prove anything!”

“Owens thinks it does. And because Cass's old will clearly left the farm to him, he thinks it's enough to win his case. Owens always was a little nutty about memorializing his ancestors, but now I think he's really gone off the deep end. He says you're living here illegally.”

Mom stamped her foot. “If only we could find that will! I can't bear to leave Penncroft now!”

Dad put his arm around her. “Surely it will turn up, Sandra, if we can just figure out where she could have . . . Lars, you've probably poked around in all the nooks and crannies here. Lars?”

But I didn't answer. I ran from the adults as fast as I could into the orchard to be alone with my fears. We might really have to leave Penncroft Farm. And I realized I couldn't bear that any more than Mom could.

I was so upset, I went to bed that night with a throbbing headache. The next morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a red rash all over my body. Even though every swallow was agony, it was actually more pleasant than going to school and facing Eddie Owens.

Mom took me in for a throat culture, and the next day the doctor called to say that I definitely had a strep infection. Mom told me that the rash along with strep throat meant I had scarlet fever.

My throat was so sore I could only croak, “Scarlet fever! I thought that was extinct!”

“It's still around, but penicillin will take care of it. I'm going into town to pick up your prescription. Try and get some rest, honey. When I get back I'll make you chicken soup or whatever else you think you can swallow. Sleep tight!”

I could hear her footsteps going down the stairs and out the back door. Soon the sound of her car heading down the road faded away, and I drifted off into a fevered sleep. After what seemed only an instant, my eyes fluttered open.

There, sprawled across the window seat, was Geordie. The buckles on his shoes caught the light from the window like signal mirrors. When Geordie saw I was awake, he came over to the bed. “Good morrow, Lars. You appear to be a mite doleful.”

“My throat is really sore.”

“I hope it doesn't turn putrid.”

The word made my stomach lurch. “Putrid!” I said feebly.

Geordie leaned over me. “Putrid throat was what nearly carried off Will.”

I tried to sit up, then fell back against my pillows, swallowing painfully. “I thought he was wounded in the
leg!
”

“Aye, but 'twas putrid throat laid him low at Valley Forge. Sandy and I truly feared for his life.”

“You saw Sandy again?”

Geordie smiled to himself. “I saw Sandy more than you'd think. But I'd best commence my story properly and tell you the whole. At the very least it may divert your mind from your own miseries.”

12

After I returned from Whitemarsh, life at Penncroft Farm went on much as usual. Day after day, I helped Father with the winter pruning, trimming branches to allow more room for fruit to grow and enable us to reach it from atop our ladders. Night after night, we sat by the fire—I shaking wheat through the riddle, Father repairing baskets, Mother spinning or knitting. Our hands were busy, but our tongues were silenced by our secrets, all discourse banished by discord
.

I didn't tell Mother that Will was no longer a regular solider, though doing so might have eased her Quaker conscience. Knowing her son risked the gallows to spy in enemy-held Philadelphia would surely not have eased her heart
.

For several weeks, I was in a fever to hear if
General Howe had indeed attacked the American encampment and what the outcome had been. The mails and newspapers were sorely disrupted by the occupation of the capital, however, and I could hardly ask Father for such news without betraying my interest—not to mention my growing attachment to what he still called the rebel cause. Thus I was mightily pleased when I happened upon Squire Cheyney
.

The squire seemed right glad to see me. “Hullo, young Geordie,” he bellowed like a large, friendly bull. “How's your mule of a father? Does he know of your bravery at Chadd's Ford?
”

I twisted my hat in my hands and replied bashfully, “Nay
.”

“
At least we Americans showed our mettle, though we were out-maneuvered. And at Germantown we came closer to victory
. . .”

“
Squire,” I broke in, too eager for news to be properly polite to my elders. “What happened at Whitemarsh?
”

His laughter boomed out. “Whitemarsh? Why, General Sir Billy Howe marched his army up to attack, and there was Washington on a high hill ready and waiting for him. Howe tried to lure Washington down far a fight, but His Excellency wouldn't be
drawn. He stayed up in those fortresslike hills, and Howe's cannonhalls bounced off the very trees without hurting anybody. Sir Billy fumed and fretted for a day or two, then marched his troops back to Philadelphia. Puts me in mind of the song: ‘The king of France, with forty thousand men, marched up the hill and then marched down again.' Ah, I would have paid real gold for the chance to see those redcoats crawling back to Philadelphia
.”

“
Is Washington still at Whitemarsh, then?” I asked
.

“
Nay, lad, they're decamped. Gone into winter quarters at Valley Forge. 'Tain't gentlemanly for armies to fight in the wintertime, it seems. So the Continentals are living like beggars at Valley Forge, while the British carouse like gentlemen in Philadelphia,” he said, grimacing
.

“
Valley Forge? But how can ten thousand men find shelter there?” I looked about me at the snowdrifts and remembered the soldiers shivering at Whitemarsh
.

The squire snorted. “The merchants of Philadelphia insisted that the army stay nearby or they'd cut off all their support. Besides, it's my guess that Washington wants to stay between Howe's army and the
American supplies stored at Reading—especially since the redcoats burned the materiel stored at Valley Forge when they raided it after Brandywine
.”

For the first time, I was glad Will was a spy in Philadelphia. Dangerous as that was, at least he slept in a warm garret and had table scraps to eat
.

I took my leave of the squire and started for home. As I guided the reluctant team down the snow-laden pike, I found myself unconsciously humming “The King of France.” Then, as the wind pierced my old brown woolen cloak, I tried to warm myself by thinking about the hot stew, fresh-baked bread, and mulled cider my mother had promised to have ready
.

It was to be a special treat in these lean times. Most of our customers had paid us in Continentals—the paper money issued by the Continental Congress. These bills were worth so little that folks had taken to disparaging the value of something by saying it was “not worth a Continental” (an expression Father applied as freely to American soldiery as he did to American currency). In any case, we sorely missed the English pounds that we would have gained had the war—and Congress—not cut off British trade. Indeed, we had been forced to barter for necessities with food we ordinarily kept for our own use through
the long winter. As a result, our family larder was ill-stocked
.

Thus, my mouth was watering when I clattered into the kitchen, stomping my snowy boots at the door. But no heady aromas greeted me; no steaming mugs waited on the hob. No clack issued from Mother's loom, nor was there even the gentlest of squeaks from her spinning wheel. The fireplace held only stone-cold ashes, and the room was filled with a strange, bewildering silence
.

Apprehension swept over me, bringing a chill colder than the January wind outside. I had never known my mother to allow the fire to die upon our hearth. Even when we were gone from the house, we always banked the embers with great care to rekindle upon our return
.

I pulled off my dripping boots and ran stocking-footed up the dark, narrow stairs. As I reached the door to my parents' bedchamber, it opened and my mother appeared, her face as pale as death. She came into the corridor and shut the door behind her
.

“'
Tis thy father, Geordie. He was pruning one of the old peach trees by the stone wall. He fell and struck his head . . . and cannot speak Or . . . or move,” she said softly, bowing her head
.

I went over to her. “How . . . how did you get him back here?
”

“
Mistress Derry happened by in her sledge, and we managed to get him into it with the loading pulley. Then her husband helped
. . .”

I dashed away some tears. A lump came into my throat, making it difficult to speak “Can I see him?” I whispered
.

“
Not just now. The doctor is in leeching him
.”

I shuddered at the thought of those repulsive leeches being deliberately fastened to my father's skin to suck out the bad blood
.

“
I'll go rekindle the fire,” I said numbly. As if in a nightmare, I trudged blindly back downstairs
.

The nightmare stretched on for more than a month. My mother spent every waking moment at my father's side, but he gave no sign that he was aware of her daytime presence, or of mine at night. The weeks went by in slow, weary procession
.

One February afternoon I was in the barn quartering apples to make into apple butter. I stuck apple after apple into the hole in the bench and thrust down the sectioned plunger. The cut apples fell out into the basket below. Somehow the rhythm of the task and my own lack of sleep smoothed the rough edges from my cares, and I nearly fell asleep at my
work. That was probably why it took me a moment to realize someone was saying, “Where there's a Will, there's a way
.”

Poking through the barn door was Sandy's towhead, his tricorne askew as usual. He looked much the same except for his reddened nose and his billowy blue cape
.

I exclaimed, “Sandy? How do you come to be here?
”

“
On foot!” He sat down in the straw
.

“
Nay, you doodle! I mean
why
did you come? And did you hear about Whitemarsh? D'you reckon the orderly book did the trick?
”

“
Surely helped.” Sandy grinned, then his face turned solemn
.

My elation vanished. Sudden fear made me feel burning hot and icy cold at the same time. “It isn't Will, is it?” I whispered
.

“
Aye. He's sick, Geordie. Up at Valley Forge. He had to flee the city because Little Smith discovered what he was up to; directly after he arrived at camp, your brother came down with putrid fever. He's in the hospital for Wayne's brigade—a flying hospital, they call it, though I cannot fathom why. 'Tis only a damp and crowded hut. Doctors there can do little but leech and pray. I've been nursing Billy when I can, but I'm often called away from camp. He needs constant attendance and nourishing food. They all do,” he added emotionally. Pausing to collect himself, he glanced at me and went on. “I thought perhaps your mother
. . .”