mud, and shreds of the hem trailed on the ground
.
The older man patted the side of the cart and swung me up onto the seat in front with them. We were quiet then. I listened to someone whistling a song on a cart in front of us. But the song broke off suddenly, and I thought about what terrible things might lie ahead
.
I spent the first night under the wagon with them
.
I should have felt safe there, but the voices of men crying out in their sleep made me tremble. They were afraid. As was I. My terror grew with each rustle of a leaf. What would it be like to be shot at with muskets? I raised my hand to my head. How terrible if an Iroquois warrior pulled up my hair and sliced off my scalp
.
My lips quivered against my teeth, but I made myself think of Old Gerard, who had taught me: Be quiet in the face of danger. Be calm and still
.
Finally I slept
.
The next morning we followed the marchers as they forded the river to the south. “Better to cross here,” the father explained, “than nearer the fort, where St. Leger will be ready to pounce.”
The woods were almost impenetrable. For hundreds of years massive trees had crowded each other to reach for the sky. Only the slimmest path wound its way under them to show that humans had been there. It was barely fit for men, and certainly not for oxcarts. All day the forest rang with the sound of axes chopping at branches so we could get through
.
At the end of the day, eight hundred men rested along a stretch that must have been two miles long. Glints of the sun still shone like burning coins on the forest floor. Mosquitoes buzzed, and smoke from cook fires made it hard to breathe. I slid over the side of the wagon, thanked the men, and began to search for Father and John
.
An impossible task? It should have been. I searched among men along the path, tripping over feet, branches pulling at me, and suddenly there was Miller coming toward me
.
Miller!
I almost said, Go away, you’re always underfoot, but I closed my mouth over the words. The truth was that I was glad to see him, so glad
.
He nodded as if he knew what I was thinking. I glanced up at
his peeling, sunburned face, his clear blue eyes, and it came to me with sudden sharp pain: he might not survive the battle
.
Would any of us?
His face was more serious than I had ever seen it. “What are you doing here, Zee?”
What was in those eyes? Was it fear? Fear for me?
“You must leave before the morning light,” he said. “Find your way along the trail we’ve left. Go back.”
Go back alone? Go back at all?
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “And you are not my father to tell me what to do.”
“Who would want to be your father?” He smiled a little. “Disagreeable girl that you are.” His hand went to my face, waving away a cloud of mosquitoes
.
I stepped away from that hand. “Isaac would never speak so,” I said
.
“Isaac the traitor,” he said bitterly
.
We stood glaring at each other. Then he grasped my arm and pulled me forward. I stumbled along behind him and saw Father and John leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak
.
They started up when they saw me. “How is it possible you are here, Zee?” Father said. He was angry; I could see that. “You never think.”
He looked at John, almost desperately, I thought. “She has to go back,” Father said. “But who is there to take her?”
I might have reminded him that I had come through the mountains, across rivers, and into the Mohawk Valley completely alone. But this was Father, not Miller, and I could not speak that way to him
.
“She will have to go by herself,” John said, and put his hand on my shoulder to soften his words
.
Miller’s eyes were on me, and I glanced up at him. “I’ve given it some thought,” he said slowly
.
“Do I need you to think for me, Miller?” I said sharply
.
“She will not go back,” Miller said. “I knew that from the start. How strong she’s always been.”
Strong? I glanced
.
The older man patted the side of the cart and swung me up onto the seat in front with them. We were quiet then. I listened to someone whistling a song on a cart in front of us. But the song broke off suddenly, and I thought about what terrible things might lie ahead
.
I spent the first night under the wagon with them
.
I should have felt safe there, but the voices of men crying out in their sleep made me tremble. They were afraid. As was I. My terror grew with each rustle of a leaf. What would it be like to be shot at with muskets? I raised my hand to my head. How terrible if an Iroquois warrior pulled up my hair and sliced off my scalp
.
My lips quivered against my teeth, but I made myself think of Old Gerard, who had taught me: Be quiet in the face of danger. Be calm and still
.
Finally I slept
.
The next morning we followed the marchers as they forded the river to the south. “Better to cross here,” the father explained, “than nearer the fort, where St. Leger will be ready to pounce.”
The woods were almost impenetrable. For hundreds of years massive trees had crowded each other to reach for the sky. Only the slimmest path wound its way under them to show that humans had been there. It was barely fit for men, and certainly not for oxcarts. All day the forest rang with the sound of axes chopping at branches so we could get through
.
At the end of the day, eight hundred men rested along a stretch that must have been two miles long. Glints of the sun still shone like burning coins on the forest floor. Mosquitoes buzzed, and smoke from cook fires made it hard to breathe. I slid over the side of the wagon, thanked the men, and began to search for Father and John
.
An impossible task? It should have been. I searched among men along the path, tripping over feet, branches pulling at me, and suddenly there was Miller coming toward me
.
Miller!
I almost said, Go away, you’re always underfoot, but I closed my mouth over the words. The truth was that I was glad to see him, so glad
.
He nodded as if he knew what I was thinking. I glanced up at
his peeling, sunburned face, his clear blue eyes, and it came to me with sudden sharp pain: he might not survive the battle
.
Would any of us?
His face was more serious than I had ever seen it. “What are you doing here, Zee?”
What was in those eyes? Was it fear? Fear for me?
“You must leave before the morning light,” he said. “Find your way along the trail we’ve left. Go back.”
Go back alone? Go back at all?
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “And you are not my father to tell me what to do.”
“Who would want to be your father?” He smiled a little. “Disagreeable girl that you are.” His hand went to my face, waving away a cloud of mosquitoes
.
I stepped away from that hand. “Isaac would never speak so,” I said
.
“Isaac the traitor,” he said bitterly
.
We stood glaring at each other. Then he grasped my arm and pulled me forward. I stumbled along behind him and saw Father and John leaning against the trunk of an ancient oak
.
They started up when they saw me. “How is it possible you are here, Zee?” Father said. He was angry; I could see that. “You never think.”
He looked at John, almost desperately, I thought. “She has to go back,” Father said. “But who is there to take her?”
I might have reminded him that I had come through the mountains, across rivers, and into the Mohawk Valley completely alone. But this was Father, not Miller, and I could not speak that way to him
.
“She will have to go by herself,” John said, and put his hand on my shoulder to soften his words
.
Miller’s eyes were on me, and I glanced up at him. “I’ve given it some thought,” he said slowly
.
“Do I need you to think for me, Miller?” I said sharply
.
“She will not go back,” Miller said. “I knew that from the start. How strong she’s always been.”
Strong? I glanced
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