pushing into their villages.” He takes a breath. “Let’s eat now. We’re almost there.”
She sits back, chewing on the sandwich Harry had made for her in Libby’s kitchen. It was pretty bad, crusts off, edges ragged, and the cheese inside a poisonous yellow. He made one for Libby’s lunch, too. It was worse than anything Libby could have ever put together.
At last they pull off onto the side of the road, and Harry is right. The park is closed, a thick chain looped low across the wide path. Who in his right mind would walk around this place today?
Harry drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He grumbles at the weather, at the closed battlefield site.
“Do you have an umbrella or something?” he asks.
Of course she forgot to bring an umbrella. But as they sit there, the rain tapers off. Shreds of mist rise in pale tendrils over the park grounds.
“That’s more like it,” Harry says, and opens the truck door. They step over the chain to stand on the grass, whichsquishes under their feet. She looks around, thinking, August, a summer day, hot, steamy, maybe; hard to move, Patriots wishing they could sink down, rest their feet, wipe their damp faces.
She must have said it aloud. Harry nods. He waves his hand over the expanse of lawn. “Mammoth trees crowded together, their branches laced into each other. The mosquitoes unrelenting. You couldn’t see two feet into the woods on each side. There were some horses and carts, but most of them walked, carrying heavy muskets.”
Harry stops, and she sees the park, its trees dotting the mown grass. “Coming from the fort are Brant’s Iroquois, St. Leger’s Englishmen, the Loyalists. Almost every family in the Mohawk Valley had men fighting on one side or the other, and many had brothers fighting on opposite sides.”
They begin to walk, Elizabeth telling herself that Zee might have been right here; her own footsteps might cover Zee’s.
Harry holds her elbow and pulls her back. She looks down into a narrow gorge, the bottom choked with trees and weeds.
Where did it come from? It was as if a giant had scooped out the earth, leaving the sides impossibly steep.
“The ravine,” Harry says. “There was a narrow road made of logs. They started down strung out in a thin line all the way back.” He shakes his head. “They crossed the stream on the bottom and started up. The enemy was hidden on both sides.”
He doesn’t have to tell her the rest. She sees how it was. The screams, the shouts, the noise as the enemy came outof the trees, howling, firing, shooting arrows, surrounding them.
Surrounding Zee.
How terrifying it must have been. Her fist goes to her mouth. “How many died?”
“Half,” he says. “More than four hundred, right there on a sweltering afternoon in August.”
She swipes at her eyes.
“It’s sad,” he says. “But it was a long time ago. And we won the war. We’re here. Americans. Free.”
“But Zee,” she says.
He hesitates. “I know something about her life,” he says slowly. “I woke up last night thinking about her and those marks in the corner of the picture. The answer is right there in the drawing. I couldn’t believe it.”
She takes a breath. “The bundle of sticks?”
He smiles. “We have to go into Utica. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”
zee
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
That morning I thought about my life. Would it end that day? Or would I somehow have the fortune to come through the battle alive?
We kept waiting for the order to march. I heard angry mutterings; the rumbling became louder. “We’ll go, with or without Herkimer!”
John leaned over, his face uncertain. “Herkimer doesn’t want to leave. Some say he’s afraid. Others that he fears for his men and the slaughter. He’s sure that there will be an ambush. He just doesn’t know where.”
“What do you think?” I asked
.
“He’s fought before,” he said. “He knows more—”
But Miller cut in. “Try not to worry about it,
She sits back, chewing on the sandwich Harry had made for her in Libby’s kitchen. It was pretty bad, crusts off, edges ragged, and the cheese inside a poisonous yellow. He made one for Libby’s lunch, too. It was worse than anything Libby could have ever put together.
At last they pull off onto the side of the road, and Harry is right. The park is closed, a thick chain looped low across the wide path. Who in his right mind would walk around this place today?
Harry drums his fingers against the steering wheel. He grumbles at the weather, at the closed battlefield site.
“Do you have an umbrella or something?” he asks.
Of course she forgot to bring an umbrella. But as they sit there, the rain tapers off. Shreds of mist rise in pale tendrils over the park grounds.
“That’s more like it,” Harry says, and opens the truck door. They step over the chain to stand on the grass, whichsquishes under their feet. She looks around, thinking, August, a summer day, hot, steamy, maybe; hard to move, Patriots wishing they could sink down, rest their feet, wipe their damp faces.
She must have said it aloud. Harry nods. He waves his hand over the expanse of lawn. “Mammoth trees crowded together, their branches laced into each other. The mosquitoes unrelenting. You couldn’t see two feet into the woods on each side. There were some horses and carts, but most of them walked, carrying heavy muskets.”
Harry stops, and she sees the park, its trees dotting the mown grass. “Coming from the fort are Brant’s Iroquois, St. Leger’s Englishmen, the Loyalists. Almost every family in the Mohawk Valley had men fighting on one side or the other, and many had brothers fighting on opposite sides.”
They begin to walk, Elizabeth telling herself that Zee might have been right here; her own footsteps might cover Zee’s.
Harry holds her elbow and pulls her back. She looks down into a narrow gorge, the bottom choked with trees and weeds.
Where did it come from? It was as if a giant had scooped out the earth, leaving the sides impossibly steep.
“The ravine,” Harry says. “There was a narrow road made of logs. They started down strung out in a thin line all the way back.” He shakes his head. “They crossed the stream on the bottom and started up. The enemy was hidden on both sides.”
He doesn’t have to tell her the rest. She sees how it was. The screams, the shouts, the noise as the enemy came outof the trees, howling, firing, shooting arrows, surrounding them.
Surrounding Zee.
How terrifying it must have been. Her fist goes to her mouth. “How many died?”
“Half,” he says. “More than four hundred, right there on a sweltering afternoon in August.”
She swipes at her eyes.
“It’s sad,” he says. “But it was a long time ago. And we won the war. We’re here. Americans. Free.”
“But Zee,” she says.
He hesitates. “I know something about her life,” he says slowly. “I woke up last night thinking about her and those marks in the corner of the picture. The answer is right there in the drawing. I couldn’t believe it.”
She takes a breath. “The bundle of sticks?”
He smiles. “We have to go into Utica. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”
zee
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
That morning I thought about my life. Would it end that day? Or would I somehow have the fortune to come through the battle alive?
We kept waiting for the order to march. I heard angry mutterings; the rumbling became louder. “We’ll go, with or without Herkimer!”
John leaned over, his face uncertain. “Herkimer doesn’t want to leave. Some say he’s afraid. Others that he fears for his men and the slaughter. He’s sure that there will be an ambush. He just doesn’t know where.”
“What do you think?” I asked
.
“He’s fought before,” he said. “He knows more—”
But Miller cut in. “Try not to worry about it,
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