The morning light seeped above the eastern edge of their world. Sabine placed a fur on Moeder’s lap. The woman sat on the porch, erect like a soldier.
“What do you hear?” Sabine knew well the posture of her mother’s listening. Their early morning watches mostly began this way—Moeder propped in her rocker, waiting for the hot spiced tea Sabine prepared over the fire. Unless the porch was piled with snow in the winter, they hardly missed a sunrise.
“I hear the sandpiper. The heat must be coming.”
Sabine wrapped Moeder’s fingers around the wooden mug then sat on the stool next to her, cradling her own mug in her lap. “A good morning for such a prediction. The milkweed is in full bloom, the sky is clear, and the sun is bright.”
“What else?”
“A mirror to the heavens. Not one crease or stain.”
“Perfect, is it?”
“Aye. Like your first day.”
“My first day.” Whimsical tones bleated from her scratchy throat. “I walked beside the cart, my back sore from sitting. You were curled up on the floor between the bags of flour and sacks of bulbs. The vastness of the green and the towering trees along the crest whispered home to me. Untouched, with no filth in the streets or crowds of people. Purely God’s garden. The only place I’d choose to see for the last time.”
And she had. The greens and silvers and tall trees guarding the western edge of civilization colored her final views.
“The painting in your mind has not one flaw, Moeder. All is the same, all is—”
The loud bellow of men shook the quiet morning.
“Is that the men from Albany?”
“I shall see.”
Sabine set her mug on her stool and stepped into the early light. She snaked around the water barrel and approached the corner of their square home. On the riverbank several men dragged their batoes and canoes toward the existing fort.
Lieutenant Bennington appeared at the entrance, adjusting his coat and straightening his hat. He waved a hand to the men, then took long, confident strides toward the Van Der Bergs’s garden.
Sabine matched his gait and met him at the corner.
“Good morning, sir.” She curtsied. Pushing open the knee-high gate, she planted herself between the remaining blooms of tulips and the curious lieutenant. “The garden is a fine place to start for breakfast, but Father will have fish roasting in no time.”
Lieutenant Bennington rubbed his jaw. “ ’Tis a fine morning. And this is a fine garden.” “Fine” seemed an understatement to Sabine. The garden stretched twice the width of their home and marched along the wooded border with towering blackberry shrubs, rows upon rows of corn, all guided by the hand of Apenimon’s mother. The garden was a world in itself—a broad and established covenant between the Van Der Bergs and their friends, the Iroquois. “You are right, Miss Van Der Berg—I believe your father’s bounty will be far more satisfying than what the soil might provide.” He studied the entire length of the western fence and then turned his attention to the span of the northern fence—the pickets that bordered all four varieties of colorful tulips, now lining the barren ground after their trade. “I wonder, how attached are you to this plot?”
“Excuse me?”
“We are staking out our walls to expand the fort, Miss Van Der Berg. It makes the most sense that our western wall sit right about—” He narrowed his eyes in the direction of their cabin. “Here.” His chopping hand sliced the air above their garden fence.
Sabine’s mouth fell, and she only stared at him.
“The cabin will be safe within our walls.”
She clamped her mouth shut, her mind whirring against his audacity. “Sir, we have lived a peaceful life. There is no need to be walled up against—”
“Walled up? Nay, only protecting you. This cabin is in quite a vulnerable position.”
His charming smile and puffed chest appeared to express an undercurrent of heroism—a trait that Sabine recalled from Moeder’s bedtime tales. Yet Sabine was often perplexed by the simple ending of being swept off one’s feet by another human being. She preferred Apenimon’s true stories about peace treaties among the tribes, where each member was cared for and caring for the other.
“Sir, we have not had one encounter that would require help from you, the governor, or even the King himself. I beg you to reconsider swallowing up our plot.” She choked back a strained tone of panic. “My mother—she has come to terms with her blindness because nothing her eyes have once seen has changed. There is great comfort in that. She is content in her mind’s eye.” Sabine’s heart clouded with the memory of gloomy bouts of Moeder deep in agony over her lost sight. “That has not always been the case.”
Lieutenant Bennington’s eyes glazed. “There is nothing in this life but change.” The low rumble of men’s voices carried from beyond the old fort, and Moeder’s rocking chair creaked in the distance. But all the sounds were fading against the loud pounding in Sabine’s ears.
“This is not negotiable, sir.” Sabine crossed her arms. “We will not be part of your—”
“Sabine!” Apenimon called from the forest’s edge. He stared at the lieutenant but waved his hand for Sabine to come closer.
“Pardon me.” She lifted her hem, stepped around the bean plants, and exited through the far western gate. Her conversation with Lieutenant Bennington clawed at her as she hurried toward her friend. She had turned her back on the first danger she’d ever known.
“What does that man speak with you about?” Apenimon continued to stare beyond her. He was her good watch.
“They come to build a fortress.”
“Here? With Niagra just beyond the bend?”
“The British must match the French, I guess.”
Apenimon now shifted his gaze to Sabine. Ashen circles encompassed his brown eyes, and while he searched hers for an explanation, she blinked several times and concerned herself with his visit. “Is anything the matter?”
A dance of sunlight seemed to brighten his face, and he hooked his thumbs on his leather belt adorned with shells. “He has come.”
Sabine’s heart leapt. “He has?”
“Yes!” Apenimon tossed his long ebony braid behind his shoulder and laughed toward the heavens. “Come, come.” He retreated into the wood, skipping between the hickory trees, casting a longing in Sabine’s direction that she could not resist. She turned around, waved a hand at Lieutenant Bennington, and added, “Please wait, and we shall settle the matter soon,” then ran up to the lean-to and traded her wooden shoes for her moccasins. Gathering her skirt in one hand so it would not catch on any fallen branches or block her view of any forest creatures, she began running after Apenimon.
Only when they came to the walls of the village did she realize they were being followed.
Jacob caught Miss Van Der Berg’s eye as she approached a tall timber palisade atop a terrace. The entrance was flanked by tulips—her tulips. Smoke snaked beyond the fortification, and the sounds of drums and voices mingled with birdsong and forest rustling.
“Miss Van Der Berg?”
She paused. “You followed me.”
Several native women appeared from rows of crops at the southern edge of the palisade. Miss Van Der Berg waved to them, and they returned to their work. Yet their heads turned his way more than once, and their scrutiny burned like the scorching sun.
He scrambled up the terrace. “Perhaps your aversion to protection has given you a reckless abandon, Miss Van Der Berg. I warn you that this type of behavior will not sit well once we are built up.”
She ran her hand along the wooden wall. “Sir, there is no danger here. These are our friends. Lieutenant Wilson should have informed you.”
Her friend Apenimon, who’d appeared earlier, now stood at the entrance. He wore a hide draped on one shoulder, and the other was muscular and bare. His words to Miss Van Der Berg were unintelligible to Jacob. The woman replied with the same tongue, then signaled for Jacob to follow.
A rush of excitement burst in his chest. The simple task of expanding their presence in this region was unexpectedly cast aside in Jacob’s loyal heart to Albany. He would mingle among the men he’d only heard about from traders who bragged about their expeditions. Before his arrival to America, he’d heard tall tales of these people from sea captains. Witnessing the secure alliance with the Iroquois among the settlers of Oswego would be a prized account in his first letter to the governor.
When he stepped inside their fortress, the wafting smell of roasting meat warmed his nostrils. Miss Van Der Berg and the native crossed a clearing flanked with lines of beaver skins and dyed textiles. They approached a long, narrow dwelling that spanned the entire width of the clearing. The roof was curved, and neat rows upon rows of bark and sticks deemed the structure securely built. A child appeared in the doorway and ran up to Miss Van Der Berg. The young woman held out her hand, and the child took it, swinging her arm back and forth.
With eyes only upon the boy, she said, “You should wait outside the longhouse, Lieutenant. I will tell the clan mother that you are a friend.”
A sweaty film coated the back of Jacob’s neck. Clan mother? He wondered where the chief might be and if he should have a proper introduction so as not to stir up unnecessary hostility. But Apenimon very nearly ignored his presence. When Miss Van Der Berg disappeared inside the building with the child, Apenimon just stood at the entrance, his eyes diverted to the ground just beyond Jacob’s boots.
He was being guarded.
During the next half hour, men brought fish to a central fire, speaking to Apenimon at the entrance of the longhouse. They stared at Jacob with arms crossed, and then each man spoke a word—Jacob assumed their names, and his assumption was confirmed when Apenimon spoke his also. He studied Sabine’s friend, wondering if he would speak English. Mr. Van Der Berg had mentioned that he knew English, and French, but all he spoke was his name. The men looked at each other, smiled, then offered the same cordial expressions to Jacob. He returned the pleasantry but felt nervous in his vulnerable position. Miss Van Der Berg appeared again, her face red with elation, demystifying his anxiety. Apenimon relaxed, and the two conversed. She signaled for Jacob to follow her once again, and they left the settlement. Two men nearly plowed into them. They were both adorned in a mix of native hide and the blasted French uniform. One approached the palisade and conversed with a young man at the entrance. The other tipped his hat to Miss Van Der Berg and said, “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He eyed Jacob. “Il est votre ami?”
“Je m’appelle Jacob Bennington.” Jacob removed his hat and gave a curt bow—not too low to this encroaching Frenchman.
Miss Van Der Berg explained that Jacob was from Albany. The man made a snide remark about the overcrowding of the shores of Ontario. He gave a quick “Au revoir” and followed his friend into the palisade.
Miss Van Der Berg continued down the terrace and entered the forest again. Jacob hurried after her. “Do the French also trade with this village?”
“They try to,” she remarked. “They offer expensive wares. We have become close friends to the village. Apenimon considers the French a nuisance.”
“I see.” Jacob hooked his thumb in the buttonhole of his jacket, his chest rising with satisfaction that they were indeed in an advantageous position on this front.
“I’d not seem so smug, sir. You are the most foreign of us all.” She eyed his hat and his coat and his boots. “We do not see ourselves as Dutch or British versus French, but friend versus foe. Respect is expected. Those Frenchmen follow the native customs, even if Apenimon has all but cast them off.” She avoided a bramble and skirted around a birch.
“Then you can teach me their customs.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You are under the same King as I, are you not?”
“That means little to me.”
“You might take care of treasonous words such as those.”
“Pardon me, but you are the guest here.”
“And as your guest, I would appreciate your guidance with our neighbors.”
She studied him with large emerald eyes, vibrant like the young wheat fields back in England. “Perhaps you and I might make a trade of sorts.”
“A trade?”
“Aye, sir. I shall teach you the ways of this land and the kindness to its people if you do me one favor in return.”
“What is that, my lady?”
“Leave my garden alone.” Sabine flicked her reddish-gold braid behind her shoulder and planted her fists on her hips. “Build your wall elsewhere.”