Sabine wiped the back of her neck with a handkerchief, tempted to cast off her bonnet and dip her head in the cool shallows of the river. After Saturday’s midday meal, they’d journeyed south to their favorite fishing spot. With Lieutenant Bennington by her side for his fishing lesson, she knew best to attain a certain propriety, enduring the heat with her thin cap clinging to her sweaty hair. Moeder often said, “We might be far from the etiquette of a fine society, but we are still part of such, and you, Sabine, will remain a lady.”
Sabine discreetly glanced over at the wood, down the river, and back again. There was nothing to be afraid of—she knew that. But ever since Apenimon’s guarded response about the arrow and the flag, she wondered if the lieutenant’s concern held any validity. Of course she had relayed what Apenimon had guessed at what might have occurred—a young boy piercing the flag during archery practice—but she omitted that it had only been a guess.
However, a month passed without another incident, at least of the suspicious kind. Each Saturday Sabine sat with Lieutenant Bennington and taught him the native language, usually over a meal, with men about. And after each lesson, she found herself in an unsettling routine—a regrettable stroll home laced with a giddy eagerness for the next lesson to begin.
She was a misguided arrow now, scouting briefly for any foul play but plummeting gleefully to focus only on this sunny afternoon reserved for the lieutenant’s fishing lesson.
The strapping man standing beside her, his sleeves once again rolled up, possessed an unreserved demeanor, nothing like the gentlemen Moeder spoke about. The corner of his mouth inched upward into a lopsided grin as he admired the sharp stick her father had fashioned for him. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself.
She couldn’t restrain a snicker.
He turned to her, his eyes widened with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “Do you find me entertaining?”
Sabine straightened her shoulders and twirled her own stick between her fingers. “I find you—” She cocked her head. “Pleased with yourself.”
“I am.” He chuckled. “I’ve come from the hills of East Anglia to this wild countryside, using my bare hands to capture dinner.”
“Ha!” Sabine’s father blurted. “You might not be so pleased when you discover the skill it takes. If only the men had not left on their annual hunting trip. Apenimon would be your perfect teacher.”
“Papa, you are skilled as well.” Sabine waded through the water, her sopped hem weighted against the surface. The shimmering scales of a large trout caught her eye. Holding her breath, she leaned over, lifted her spear, and brought it down with controlled force as she’d been taught as a young girl. The fish sped away and her stick landed clumsily in the muddy bottom, thrusting her whole body forward.
Her father caught her by the elbow and helped her to stand upright. “Very close, Daughter.”
She pulled her cap in place and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. The lieutenant studied her with less embarrassment and more amusement than before.
“What?” The word was clipped, just like her pride. “It is not as easy as you may think.”
“I commend you on your effort, Miss Van Der Berg.” He gave a playful bow with one arm across his waist, and the other opening wide as he grasped his spear. “Now, tell me what you did wrong so I can get it right.” His posture crumbled with boyish laughter, his dark hair falling forward along his sunburnt brow, and his eyes danced like they welcomed her to join in.
What? At her expense?
But he bounded toward her in the current, winked, and gave her a slight nudge with his elbow, whispering, “I am quite impressed, truly.” Aware of his nearness in this sincere gesture, she stepped back, knocking into her father.
“Steady, Sabine.” His deep laugh echoed across the river.
The lieutenant’s bright smile was ever shining in Sabine’s direction. He reached out his hand to her, and she begrudgingly accepted it.
“There you are,” he said as she became steady again, allowing her hand to fall away from his. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, even though delight rolled within her unlike anything she’d ever known.
“Thank you,” she offered meekly.
He began to wade away, searching the waters with a bent head. “So, you just spy one and catch it?”
“Something like that.”
Sabine had never been made the center of such lighthearted attention.
Her father was only mildly encouraging of their merriment. A good Dutchman, he held work like fishing in high regard and pursued it with diligence. He’d employed child’s play only when Sabine was a girl. They had splashed about these very waters and held jumping contests on occasion. Whoever jumped farthest from the bank into the water triumphed.
A nostalgic rush of such a time invaded Sabine. Lieutenant Bennington seemingly fished out the rare lighter side of Papa on this summer day. This did not bode well for her persistence that no match should be made. She wondered if Papa’s choice for her might bring joy not only in a marriage but to her entire family.
Her nerves frazzled with what she had just considered. While the fort might change the land she loved, marriage would change every ounce of her life. Much of that change was cloaked in the unknown. She knew very little of matrimony.
Sabine laid her eyes on her father, trying to surrender her thoughts to the simple pleasure of his cheeriness. While her frayed nerves settled, Sabine contemplated one of the strategies she learned from her father—never leave a challenge without a good rebuttal.
Perhaps the handsome man’s merry play was in dire need of being reciprocated.
Sabine would, of course, return the favor.
She lowered, dipping her hand into the moving waters, wiggling her fingers against the cool drink. “Oh look, Lieutenant.”
He swiveled around with his spear raised. As swift as an oar, her hand paddled the water up and splashed him, giving him such a start that he stumbled backward and landed on his backside, knees poking up on either side of his face and his mouth screwed up as droplets trailed like tears down his cheeks.
Father howled. “I think she’s gotten the last laugh, sir.” He helped the soaked fellow to his feet.
The flash of a dare from the lieutenant’s bright eyes set off a drumroll in Sabine’s chest. His good nature shone through his chagrin, and their smiles grew in unison.
“The water is refreshing.” Lieutenant Bennington licked a droplet from his lip. “Perhaps I shall go for a swim after my catch.”
“If we catch any at all,” Sabine interjected. “You’ve gone and scared all the fish away.” She pretend pouted, then dragged her skirts through the current upstream. The skies darkened, and thunder roared from several miles away. “I’ll find a better spot—” She halted. Beyond the last stand of white pine, a canoe traveled downstream. “Someone is here.” Sabine began walking toward the bank, and her father came around her side—his usual defensive move when they were visited by strangers. The lieutenant’s reflection appeared from behind, just beside her own.
A man with a golden beard and a broad-brimmed hat sat between two native men. “Ho there!” the man shouted with a raised hand when they neared. “Is this Oswego?”
Mr. Van Der Berg dipped his chin. “It is.”
“Wonderful.” His face nearly burst with a sort of relief. “My guides have been ever patient with my apprehension in this wilderness.” He gave an apologetic smile at both of the men beside him then continued, “I have news for a Lieutenant Bennington.”
Jacob’s heart plummeted. “I am he.” He stepped around Miss Van Der Berg as the two native men jumped out of the canoe and brought it to the bank, placing it upside down on solid ground. A foreboding clap of thunder shook the sky.
“We are an hour away from the post.” Mr. Van Der Berg surveyed the heavens. “I do not think we will outrun the storm.”
“There is no shelter nearby?” The tallest of the two guides spoke English well.
Sabine reached the river’s edge. “Come, there are good trees yonder.” She lifted her drenched hem, found her clogs, and began up the bank. “We can use our fishing spears.” The two guides fell into step with the woman and marched off to the wood.
Jacob cast an unsettled glance at Mr. Van Der Berg. “Does she know those men?”
“I am not certain,” Mr. Van Der Berg replied. “But she knows the custom for an exposed moment such as this.” He looked upward again, scrunching his nose. “I felt a drop.” He did not express one ounce of concern as his daughter left with strangers.
They jogged over to the stand of trees where Sabine stalked around the littered floor beneath the canopies. The guides cut the bark of a tree. They sliced it several feet up and around the trunk, then dragged their daggers downward. The tallest man unwrapped the bark like the swaddling clothes from an infant—carefully so. They moved on to another tree. Sabine emerged from the wood and found an open area, tossing two stout sticks to the side and sticking two fishing spears in the earth. The shorter guide took the two sticks that Sabine had found and placed them opposite each spear, about five feet away. Securing the bark across the poles, they ushered everyone beneath the shelter just as the thunder cracked, releasing a downpour.
There was hardly room for everyone. They sat side by side, Sabine between Jacob and her father, and the messenger on Jacob’s other side. The two guides faced them cross-legged, their backs surely grazed by the rain.
“Please, tell me your message.” Jacob spoke in a low voice to the man who introduced himself as Mr. Clive Kimble.
“Sir, it is in my pack, which is beneath the canoe.”
“Who sends you?”
“A Mr. Davis.”
Jacob’s chest tightened. Mr. Davis was his uncle who cared for his daughter. Was it now time? The wall was not secure, and the bastions—nonexistent. He lowered his head and began to pray.
Sabine leaned into him and muttered, “Is something the matter?”
He clamped his teeth, as if he could crush the welling fear with his jaw. If only he could. “My daughter. She is in—” Her hand cupped over his forearm. He met her concerned gaze. Large eyes, swimming like green seas, captured his panic and tossed it away for a brief breath, until he continued, “Danger.”
“Danger?”
“Yes.” He bounced a look to each person beneath the crude shelter. The rain thrummed like tiny Iroquois drums above them, and anticipation shook in everyone’s stare. “My uncle promised to send word once it was time. I fear the time is now. If I do not help my daughter, her mother will steal her away.”