The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (19 page)

“Come on, let's eat those pasties,” I said.

After we wolfed down the pasties, we heard some carillon bells. Pat said they were from the Washington Memorial Chapel, and we rode up to investigate. The music was over by the time we arrived, but we decided to look around anyway. As we started down the hallway of the chapel, a familiar voice made me grab Pat's hand and pull her behind a column.

“Lars, what are you doing?” she spluttered.

“It's Mr. Owens,” I hissed. We peeked around the column.

He was standing just inside the entrance to a small private museum. In his arms was a large green drum with a gold eagle painted on the side.

“I'm sorry to take back my ancestor's drum after it's been here so long,” Mr. Owens was saying, “but I'll be opening my own museum soon so I must get everything together.”

“Thanks for the loan. It's been a pleasure to exhibit a drum that was actually used here at Valley Forge,” said his companion.

Mr. Owens seemed to get a little taller. “Oh yes, my ancestor was right here—starving and freezing with the rest of the army. He also warned Washington at Brandywine, you know.”

Pat nudged me. “Gosh, Eddie was right. I thought that was just one of his tall tales,” she whispered.

“Shhh,” I said. I peered back around the arch, then ducked back again out of sight just as Mr. Owens swept by. After he was gone, we went back to where Petunia was calmly munching away at the dry yellow grass within her reach.

“I didn't know Mr. Owens had a museum,” Pat said, making a face. “I hope we don't have to go
there
on a field trip. I couldn't stand Eddie's bragging.”

“He doesn't have one—yet. And won't if I can help it,” I declared. I suddenly felt exhausted and asked Pat if we could go home. Soon we were clip-clopping back on the pike.

“Mom told me about the missing will,” Pat said sympathetically. “I'll help you look for it if you like.”

“Thanks, but we've already looked everywhere.”

“Oh,” she said sadly. We went along in silence for a while, the only sounds coming from Petunia as she ambled along. Then, in rhythm with Petunia's gait, Pat started to sing.

 

Come, bridle me, my milk-white steed
,

Come, bridle me, my pony
,

That I may ride to fair London town

To plead for my Geordie
.

 

“G-geordie?” I stammered, interrupting her song.

“It's just a folk song Dad learned when he was a kid. He said it was an old family favorite—probably because of our ancestor.
Geordie'
s a nickname for
George
, you know. Geordie Hargreaves was the guy whose picture is in your room. It's his wife—our great-some-thing-grammy—whose portrait Aunt Cass gave me. Want to stop and see it?”

I mumbled some kind of agreement. It was as if there were lots of puzzle pieces swirling around in my brain that I couldn't fit together. Meanwhile, Pat went on singing.

 

I wish I were in yonder grove

Where times I have been many

With my broad sword and my pistol, too
,

I'd fight for the life of Geordie
.

 

By the time we reached Blackberry Hill Farm and climbed up to Pat's room, I was beginning to understand. Still, it was something of a shock to see the woman in the portrait, with her mischievous brown eyes, a feathered hat perched askew on her sand-colored hair. I looked down at the metal plate and read the inscription aloud. “‘Cassandra Hargreaves, painted by Charles Willson Peale, Philadelphia, 1805.'”

“Of course,” Pat said offhandedly, “you must have known there was a Cassandra in the family tree somewhere. Both Aunt Cass and your mother were named after her. And I might as well tell you that Cassandra is my middle name. According to family tradition she was quite a tomboy—they called it
hoyden
in her day—and a kind of undercover spy for Washington.”

“Way undercover,” I repeated slowly. Sandy, with the tricorne always askew. Little, plucky Sandy had somehow become my great-great-great-something-grandmother. And Pat's.

“You do look like her, Pat,” I said, still in shock.

“Alike as two peas,” she chuckled. “As long as I'm showing you family relics, I might as well show you this, too.” She pulled out the ring on the chain around her neck that I'd seen her toy with when we'd first met. “See, there's a motto engraved inside: ‘Ubi Voluntas Via Ibi Est.' I think it means . . .”

“‘Where there's a will, there's a way,'” I chimed in.

Her eyes widened in amazement. “My gosh, do you know Latin?”

“No, just that phrase. I, ah, heard it's our family motto.”

“Yup. ‘Where there's a will—'” She stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute! About that will of Aunt Cass's. I just remembered something. When I was little, Cass used to play hide-and-seek with me. One time I peeked through my fingers and saw her go into the barn, but when I went in there, I couldn't find her anywhere. Finally I gave up, went outside, and yelled, ‘Allee allee all in free.' I peeked again and saw her come out of that barn. I couldn't figure it out, but now I wonder if there might be some kind of secret room in there!”

Suddenly all the puzzle pieces fell into place. I shouted, “Grampa's Folly!” and gave Pat a big hug.

She looked at me as if I had suddenly sprouted another head. “You feeling all right, Lars?” she squeaked.

“Patience—you're the one who's a genius! That's it! Come on—I think I know where there
is
a will.”

“You know where it is? Come on, Lars, tell me!”

“No way!” I said, grinning from ear to ear.

We ran outside and jumped onto Petunia. I urged Pat to go faster and faster, until we were flying over the field. I felt like echoing Washington's shout at Brandywine, “Push along, old man, push along!”

As we thundered up the driveway, Mom came rushing out of the house. When she saw our excited faces, she gave a sigh of relief. “Good grief—I thought you'd been thrown off that horse, or that it had run away with you.”

I jumped down and ran over to her, Pat at my heels. “Mom, Mom!” I burst out, so breathless from excitement that my words came out in gasps. “I think I've got it! Tell me what Aunt Cass said in the hospital. Her message for me. Her exact words.”

Mom frowned in an effort to remember. “Let's see now. She said something about a riddle and taking you down a peg. I thought she meant your setting aside your pride and wearing a costume for her. I don't know—it didn't make sense.”

“It does to me!” I shouted. Without another word, I sprinted for the barn. Just as I had done the first time, I groped along the wall. This time I knew what I was looking for: the large wooden peg on which the riddle had hung. I gripped the peg firmly and help my breath.

Just then, Mom and Pat came up behind me. “What on
earth
are you doing, Lars?” Mom said, panting from her sprint.

“This is where the riddle was hanging. Aunt Cass was trying to tell me to pull down the peg where I had found the riddle.”

I pulled down as hard as I could. A dreadful groan filled the barn.

“Yipes, my brother was right: This place
is
haunted,” Mom said, laughing nervously.

“That's no ghost moaning,” I said. “Just take a look.” I found the cord for the light and tugged it.

There was a gaping hole where the peg had been—a hole large enough for a person to crawl through. To hide from Indian raids that never came. Or to hide from Tory fathers.

Mom flew into action. “Quick, Lars, get the flashlight!”

I ran to the kitchen as though pursued by Indians or Tories, grabbed a couple of flashlights, and tore back to the barn. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear it as I shined the light into the hole and the three of us crawled inside.

Mom exclaimed, “Look! There's the cup and ball!”

“And here,” I said triumphantly, reaching for a yellow legal pad, “is Aunt Cass's final will.”

Mom took the will from me with shaking hands and went out into the sunlight to read it. I followed her, while Pat stayed tactfully behind.

For several long minutes, I watched Mom read in silence. Finally, she looked up. “Why, Aunt Cass
didn't
leave Penncroft Farm to me!” she exclaimed.

So Aunt Cass had left the farm to Eddie Owens's father after all. I felt like throwing up. Stricken, I looked at my mother and was shocked by her broad smile.

“She left it to
you!
” she laughed, flinging her arms around me. Then she read through the rest of the will. “She says she wanted to make sure you appreciated the farm, and that if you found this, it proved you had been guided by the proper spirit.”

Hearing this, I choked. “Boy, this dust is awful.” I coughed on purpose a couple of times.

“You really were one smart cookie to find that secret door! How did you know about it, anyway?”

That was the question I was afraid she might ask. “Well, ah, Patience told me . . .” Just then, Pat came out of the barn with an open book in her hand, so I quickly changed the subject. “Uh, Mom, so what does the will say about the Owenses? Did she leave something to them?”

“I can't figure this out, exactly. Something about some memoirs. She says they now belong to you, Lars (she calls you L.
George
), but that Edward Owens IX (look how fancy she wrote it—no wonder it caught Ellen Hargreaves's attention) may use them for historic documentation if he feels the world is ready for an accurate account of his ancestors. And . . .” She flipped over to the second page and hurriedly scanned its contents. “No, that's all she said about any of the Owenses.”

Pat held up the book she'd brought out. “This must be what she meant by memoirs. There's a whole pile of 'em in there. And look what it says about Edward Owens!” she crowed.

We clustered around Pat and read the faded, spidery writing in the musty leather volume.

15

In the spring of 1778, after the British left Philadelphia with the Americans right behind them, we settled back into an almost normal existence at Penncroft Farm. Still, I hungrily followed the course of the struggle. It was from Mistress Derry that I heard about Benedict Arnold's treason, though her account was garbled by comments about Peggy Shippen Arnold and her lamentable taste in clothes. Eventually I sifted out the important facts of the matter: how Arnold had bargained with the new British commander, General Clinton, to allow West Point, the crucial fortress under his command, to fall to the enemy. I wondered if Will was one of the soldiers whose lives Arnold had been willing to sacrifice for British gold, and I thanked God the plot had been discovered before anyone died to satisfy Arnold's ambitions. I also wondered
if Ned Owens had found a new idol. Between the disgraced Conway and the treacherous Arnold, Ned had been unlucky in his choices
.

Meanwhile, by great good fortune and sheer grit, Father regained much of his former strength, though he was never again as vigorous as before. Mother and I, fearing to provoke him, never told him of the letters we received from Will, who seemed to be thriving as a cavalry pioneer. Sometimes the sorrowful look in his eye made me think he wanted to ask about Will, but he never did. Not once through those long, long years of war
.

During those years, I grew to a man's height, towering over my mother and approaching my father's stature. Many times I thought of leaving to join the Continental forces, but I knew my mother couldn't have borne it, and my father truly needed me at Penncroft Farm. Still, I missed my brother mighty sorely and chafed to be a part of it all. My heart was with the Continentals, now in the South, where the British had taken the war, again, in hopes of loyalist support
.

What they found instead was the great defeat at Yorktown, Virginia, where the British commander Lord Cornwallis surrendered his entire army. The war was as good as over—or so we thought
.

When the news arrived of the American victory
,
we heard there was to be a great illumination in the city of Philadelphia. Fireworks were to light up the skies and everyone was to place lit candles in their windows. Needless to say, at Penncroft Farm there were no celebratory candles alight. In unspoken agreement, Father, Mother, and I went to bed early
.

We were all asleep when we were awakened by the rumbling of men's voices. I joined my parents in their bedchamber, which faced the front of the house. Through the window we saw a half-score of men, their faces distorted by hatred and by the flickering light of the torches they bore
.

My father, undaunted, threw up the window sash and shouted, “What do you want here?
”

“
Why is your house not lit for the great victory?
”

“
'Tis a victory that gives me no joy,” Father replied
.

“
Only traitors talk like that. I say let's burn him out!” A hoarse chorus of ayes greeted this cry
.

“
Father!” I whispered urgently. “Tell them you've a son with the Continentals. They won't destroy a patriot soldier's home!
”

“
I cannot shelter behind Will after all that's happened
.”

My mother gasped. “Look! They're torching the barn!
”

For a moment we watched helplessly as flames engulfed the dry wood siding of the barn, the roar of the fire drowning out the men's blood-chilling hurrays. Then I flew down the stairs and out to the barn, yelling for them to stop. I might as well have whispered for all they heard of my cry
.