The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (18 page)

I hope this letter finds your father on the mend and your mother in good spirits. You may inform her that the last time I saw Billy, he was dressed in an elegant new uniform and mounted on a steed far better than Buttercup. His limp has never left him, but as he can still ride, he's to be a cavalry “pioneer”—a scout for the army. I pray he comes through this murderous war with no further injuries or fevers.

 

Your obedient servant,
Sandy

 

After I finished reading Sandy's letter, I looked again at the handwriting of the letter, chuckling to
myself that I had thought it written by a lady. How Sandy would laugh when I told him of my mistake! But then I realized I might never have the chance to tease him. I didn't even know his real name
. Sandy
could be short for
Alexander
or it could just refer to his sand-colored hair. His given name could be altogether different, and he had never told me his family name. Without either, how could I ever hope to find such a slip of a lad in the big city of Philadelphia?

 

Suddenly Geordie stopped. “Someone's coming,” he said, jumping to his feet.

I could hear the sound of the car coming up the driveway. “Don't go yet. Tell me, did you ever find Sandy?”

The kitchen door slammed. “Lars, I'm home!” Mom called to me. “I'll bring your penicillin up in a second.”

I looked back toward Geordie, but, as always when my parents showed up, my friendly shade had disappeared.

My mother walked into my room, shaking the penicillin bottle. “Hi, honey, how do you feel?” she asked sympathetically.

“Just putrid,” I said, smiling at my secret joke.

She poured out a spoonful of the pink medicine. When I swallowed it without making a face, she looked at me closely. “What's this—none of the usual complaints about how awful it tastes?”

“Oh, it's not so bad,” I said aloud.
Compared to leeches
, I thought with a shudder.

“You must
really
be sick, honey,” she said, feeling my forehead. “Is there anything you feel like eating? Soda pop? Chicken soup?”

There was something I felt like eating, but it was neither of those.

“Got any applesauce?” I asked.

14

Dad put down his coffee cup and sent a disbelieving look across the breakfast table. “I never thought I'd hear you actually
plead
to go to school, Lars!”

“But we're setting up for Colonial Day. It's on Monday.”

“Colonial Day?” Dad looked puzzled.

Mom clicked her tongue. “He told you about it, Erik. It's a colonial reenactment thing. The kids are even supposed to go by a colonial name—to help them get the feel of the era.”

“What name are you going to use, Lars?” Dad asked, picking up his cup again. “
Ehenezer
, like Judge Bank?”

“I know!” Mom chimed in. “How about
George
—your ancestor's name and your middle name, as Aunt Cass kept reminding us.”

Dad scoffed. “That's not old-fashioned enough. Now, how about
Ezekiel
—sounds like a big wheel—or
Ichahod
, as in
Crane
.”

“What about
George
, as in
Washington
?” Mom retorted.

“For Pete's sake, you guys, give me a break!” I broke in, laughing. “I'll think of something.”

“
Pete
—now
there's
a good name,” Mom mused. “Reminds me that we ought to give your brother a call.”

“Poor Peter,” I said. “He missed out on a lot, having to stay in Minnesota. Aunt Cass, and . . . and everything.”

Mom came over and gave me a hug. “I just had to do that. I'm so proud of you, Lars,” she said.

“Seems like a couple of centuries ago you arrived here, L. George. You've grown up a lot since then.” Dad cleared his throat. “So what else is going to happen at this Colonial Day?”

“Oh, crafts and stuff,” I replied. “And by the way, we're having a museum at school, Mom. Can I take the riddle?”

“The what? Oh, you mean that old sieve. Sure, you can take whatever you want. Too bad we can't find the cup and ball—that would be a nice museum piece.” Mom paused, then with a wry smile added, “Be nice to find the will, too.”

My face must have mirrored my worry about the missing will, because after a quick glance at me, Mom went on, “Cheer up, Lars! By tomorrow you won't be contagious anymore and maybe you'll feel up to going out.”

“Could we go to Valley Forge?” I asked eagerly. “I feel fine!”

“Sure—call up a friend.”

My eagerness faded some. “I don't know anybody's number.”

“We know Pat's. Look, I'll call her up and see if she'd like to go to Valley Forge with you tomorrow,” Mom said.

I regarded this plan with mixed feelings, but Mom soon came back to report that it was all set.

“And guess what?” she added. “Pat's going to pick you up on her horse! There are riding trails at Valley Forge.”

“Horseback? Geez, I don't know.” I remembered how I had disgraced myself at camp. Still, riding to Valley Forge sounded like fun. I hoped I could stay in the saddle that far.

Saturday morning turned out to be bright, sunny, and unseasonably warm. As I waited outside for Pat, I remembered how Aunt Cass had bamboozled me into thinking Pat was a boy. I was still smiling at this memory when Pat came cantering up the drive. Her white horse had unexpectedly blue eyes. To cover up the awkwardness I felt, I asked Pat about them.

She laughed. “In a horse, they're called
glass eyes
. Dad got her for me because he said blue eyes run in our family. Except for me—I guess I got brown eyes from that great-great-whatever-grammy whose picture is on my wall. Dad says I take after her—that we're as alike as two peas in a pod.”

I made a face. “Please—don't mention peas.”

“Oh, you hate them too? Well, I hate to tell you, but we grow bumper crops of them in our garden—so did Cass.”

“I know, I know.”

Mom brought out a brown paper bag. “A snack,” she said.

I took it from her and peeked inside. “Oh, good—pasties!”

“Aunt Cass used to make those for me,” Pat said. “I haven't had any since she died.”

“These are from her recipe,” Mom said. “I'll give you a copy if you like—to remember her by.”

I handed Pat the bag and gingerly climbed up behind her.

“Take it easy,” Mom said. “Lars isn't much of a horseman.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Olafson, I'm a careful driver,” Pat joked, and chirruped the horse down the drive.

At first as we jounced along Seek-No-Further Pike I was too nervous to say much. Then Pat told me it was a family tradition to name horses after flowers, so her mare was called Petunia. It seemed silly to be intimidated by a horse named Petunia, and soon Pat and I were talking about all kinds of things—Pat pointing out the sights, and me telling her some of the Valley Forge stuff I'd picked up from Geordie. Of course I didn't reveal my source of information. As we talked, I was more and more tempted to tell her my secret, but how could I explain without her thinking I was either lying or crazy?

Finally I said, a little stiffly, “You know, before we got to Penncroft Farm, Mom kidded around about it being haunted.”

Pat replied, “Yeah, Aunt Cass hinted about that once in a while. Of course, she loved to bamboozle kids.”

“I know, I know,” I said, laughing a little nervously.

Pat went on, “I could almost believe it is haunted sometimes, especially . . .”

Petunia, startled by a passing car, jumped sideways, and for a little while we were too busy holding on to talk.

After the horse settled back into her easy gait, I took up the subject again, as casually as I could. “What were you saying about almost believing Penncroft is haunted, especially . . . ?”

Pat chuckled. “Oh, yes—especially when Cass played that creepy Captain Nemo piece on her organ. With the stops pulled out and the wind right, we could hear it at Blackberry Hill. Okay, Lars, here's the turnoff for the park. I just love this part—going through the covered bridge over Valley Creek.”

Must be new
; I thought, remembering that Geordie and Sandy had forded the creek. Then, as we clattered over the bridge, I couldn't help comparing it with the other one, where I'd first seen Geordie. The thought gave me the nerve to blurt out, “Pat, do you believe in ghosts?”

“When I come to Valley Forge, I do a little. There's something special about a spot where real people suffered and died. Not ghosts exactly—just a feeling. And about three thousand of the people who camped here with Washington died.”

I thought about Will, and how close he'd come to death, and felt too much to speak.

As we wound our way up the long hill to the right, Pat said over her shoulder, “Now, look, Lars—don't expect this to be very dramatic. There wasn't any battle fought here, you know. Lots of people are disappointed when they find that out.”

“But there was a battle,” I said. “Just keeping the army together for the whole winter was a battle. Hey, look—there are some of the huts! I can't believe they're still here!”

“Hate to tell you, Lars, but they're all reconstructions,” she said apologetically. “These huts are supposed to be where Wayne's brigade was. Those were guys from Pennsylvania.”

“I knew that,” I said as if joking, though underneath I was feeling more and more excited. “Let's stop and take a look.” We slid off Petunia and tied her up, then went into one of the huts. It was so like what Geordie had described that I could almost see Will lying on the rough bunk, shivering on filthy straw.

Pat looked at me curiously. “See any ghosts in here, Lars?”

A shudder ran over me. “Sort of. Memories, anyway.”

“Memories? I thought you'd never been here before.”

“Let's go to the museum,” I said hastily.

We climbed back on Petunia and trotted along the road that marked the outer defenses. As we went, I suddenly had the oddest feeling that Petunia was following Buttercup's hoofprints, carrying Geordie and Sandy to Valley Forge to help Will.

Parking Petunia below the museum, we went inside. There we found display cases full of artifacts from the Revolution, like the ones at the Brandywine museum. Of course, Pat had been there so much she had favorite things to show me and lots to say, especially about what women did at Valley Forge.

“Yup, not only did Mrs. Washington and other officers' wives come here, but so did lots of other women whose husbands were here. They nursed the sick, washed clothes, and cooked. I wonder if our ancestors were here, too.”

“I doubt it. In his portrait, old George looks like a guy who wouldn't do anything that would mess up his ruffled shirt.”

Pat indignantly started to argue, but another exhibit caught her eye. “I never noticed this display before. It's about that German guy, von Steuben, who taught the Americans to march and maneuver. Apparently he was a phony: instead of being some big shot with the Prussian army, he was really only a captain and hadn't done any soldiering for years. And get this—it says that Ben Franklin helped fake the guy's papers so Congress would accept his help!”

“Let me see that!” I leaned over to read the text aloud. “
His title was false but his skill was not
. That's funny,” I muttered. “He never said anything about a phony title!”

“Who?” Pat asked, giving me a quizzical look.

“Huh? Oh, nothing.” I quickly turned back to the display and read on. “
So at the end of the winter at Valley Forge, the Americans had well-trained soldiers and official French support. It made all the difference
.” Uneasy that I had said too much, I went over to another case and peered at its contents.

Pat came up beside me. “Look at those,” she said, pointing at some leaden dice. “They must have gambled to pass the time.”

“Oh, no—that was against Washington's rules,” I muttered, remembering the backs striped in punishment for gambling.

“Well, looks like
somebody
was breaking the rules,” Pat said. Then she read, “
Failure to use the vaults will be punished by five lashes
. What the heck does that mean?”

“The vaults were the latrines,” I whispered, blushing.

Pat looked at me with new respect, mixed with embarrassment. “How do you know all this stuff? You know what? I think you're a phony yourself, L. George Olafson.”

“A phony?” I echoed weakly.

Pat grinned. “Aunt Cass told me she'd heard you were terrible at history—not the least bit interested. And all the time you were as crazy about history as I am. You phony!”

“Well, not quite
all
the time,” I admitted modestly, grinning back at her. Suddenly it seemed okay that she wasn't a Patrick.

We climbed back on Petunia “in perfect charity with one another,” as Geordie would say, and rode across the Grand Parade to Washington's headquarters. There I saw the woefully short bed upon which the tall general had slept sitting up. And there I could almost see Sandy holding yarn for Lady Washington to wind.

“Lapdog,” I muttered.

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing. Hey—want to skip rocks?”

“Ducks and drakes?” she teased. “Sure.”

We went down to the river. This time I did out-skip her, and soon I was telling her all about the shad run up the Schuylkill that had helped feed the soldiers. Luckily, instead of piquing her curiosity, it whetted her appetite.

“I'm starving—just like the previous visitors. Though I shouldn't really joke about it, I suppose. Sounds pretty awful.”