Hannah of Fairfield

The little black lamb was healthy and frisky. Hannah kept feeding her, with Ben’s help. As the days went by, it seemed sure she was going to survive. Soon she was playing with King and the other lambs.

“Good job, Daughter,” was all Father had said that morning when Jonathan ran to tell him the lamb was alive. Father wasn’t much for compliments. But Hannah could see in his eyes that he was proud of her.

Mother kept telling her that she reminded her of her own mother, whose name had been Hannah too. “Do you remember her?” she asked.

Hannah wasn’t sure. Grandmother Pritchard had died when Hannah was just three. But she thought she remembered someone with a round, smiling face. Someone who always smelled of peppermint.

“She was a midwife,” Mother told her. “She delivered babies, but she also treated other illnesses. She had her own medicines, and many folks thought they were better than those of the old doctor in town. And whenever she was sent for, she always went. I remember stormy nights when the roads were blocked with snow. She would strap on her snowshoes and walk ten miles to deliver a baby. ‘Tell them I will be there,’ she always said.”

For the next few days Hannah carried around a picture inside her head. Of her small, round grandmother walking over snowdrifts to save a life.

In Fairfield the snow had melted and the mud dried up. The sun felt warm now on Hannah’s bare head. New leaves were popping out on the trees. The fields were fresh-turned brown and full of promise. Soon sprouts of corn and flax and buckwheat would be coming up. Yes, spring had finally arrived.

One bright April morning the family set out for church. They walked across the village green as the church bell rang out its call to worship.

Ben was quiet. He looked worn out from long hours of plowing. And Hannah could tell that things were still not right between him and Father. They barely spoke to each other. Still, she had heard no more arguments. Maybe, then, it was settled. He was staying on the farm.

Something seemed different about Mr. Wakefield this morning. His broad face looked unusually serious, Hannah thought. But that was not all. He was carrying his musket.

He wasn’t the only one. So was Jeremiah Turner, the blacksmith. And General Silliman, the head of the militia, the soldiers who guarded the town. Everywhere she looked, she saw men carrying guns. Guns to church! Hannah felt her heart skip. What was wrong?

All through the long service she wondered. She tried to listen to Reverend Eliot’s sermon. But her thoughts kept wandering.

Ever since last fall when the British army had captured New York City, their ships had been making raids on towns like Fairfield. They would come in the night, stealing cattle or burning mills. Fairfield had tried to defend itself. There was the fort overlooking the harbor at Black Rock. And militia soldiers stood guard at night, watching for enemy boats. But still the raids on towns along the shore continued. Just last month two more cannons had been added to the fort.

Had there been another raid? Or had ships been sighted on Long Island Sound? Hannah sighed. She would have to wait to find out.

Her mother glanced over at her, frowning. She knew what that meant. Stop fidgeting. Listen to the sermon. Like Rebecca. Her sister sat perfectly still, her eyes on the minister’s face. And even little Jonathan was amazingly good, his feet only once in a while kicking the seat in front of him.

But not Jemmy. A constant buzz came from the balcony, where the older boys and slaves and Indians sat. Hannah couldn’t see what they were doing. But if there was any mischief up there, Jemmy would be in the middle of it.

The deacon turned the hourglass. Again. Two hours, and still the minister showed no sign of finishing his sermon. Hannah’s feet were numb. They hadn’t brought the footwarmer today, as they did in winter. Even though it was warm outside, the unheated church was cold and damp.

A loud whisper came from the balcony. Loud enough for everyone to hear. Then some shuffling, and a couple of sharp thumps.

Hannah looked over at Mother and Father. They were both staring straight ahead. Perhaps Father hadn’t heard. In church he always seemed far away. But a bright spot of pink burned on Mother’s cheek.

“He is hiding out,” Ben said. “Hoping Mother won’t remember by the time we get home.”

In spite of herself, Hannah had to smile. Billy Partridge was a big, slow lump of a boy. It would take a lot of tickling to make him speak out in church.

He joined a group of men near the church steps. Hannah had to stay with Mother. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t she find out as easily as Ben?

Mother was busy talking with Mrs. Wakefield and Mrs. Spooner. Hannah moved a few steps away from the circle of women. She strained her ears. But still she couldn’t make out what the men were saying.

She had an idea. She took out her handkerchief and dropped it into the grass. She looked to see if anyone was watching. Then she kicked the handkerchief toward the steps. Just as she’d hoped, the breeze carried it almost there.

So that was why men were carrying guns on a Sunday. Danbury was a town close by. If the British came, what might happen to Fairfield?

Hannah hurried back to stand next to Mother. The women were not talking of danger. They were talking about tents for the soldiers.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Wakefield agreed. “You can bring your wheels to my house, and we will sit out in the garden and spin.”

Did they seem worried too? Were their eyes and smiles a little too bright? Hannah couldn’t be sure.

Hannah wanted very much to go. She had missed the winter term. She’d been practicing her reading with the Bible, the only book the family owned. And Ben had helped her with her numbers. Still, she longed to learn more. And especially to have more books to read. She had read the Bible three times now.

Mother kept looking behind them. She was looking for Jemmy, Hannah knew. He still hadn’t come out of hiding.

“I know how much you want to go,” she said. “And we want you to. But I don’t know if I will be able to spare you. There is the shearing of the sheep next month. And then summer will be busy with the dyeing and spinning. We want to make even more blankets for the soldiers this year.”

In the summer the women spun wool for blankets and winter clothes. In the winter they spun flax for summer linen. And most of it now was for the soldiers.

Once, Hannah remembered, Mother had woven pretty new dresses for Rebecca and her. Bright yellow for Rebecca, to go with her hair. And soft blue for Hannah, to match her eyes. The three of them had laughed together as they picked out the colors from the dyed skeins of wool drying in the attic.

She frowned. Blankets for the soldiers. Spinning bees. Father and Ben angry at each other. Guns at church. No school. Everything, it seemed, had been changed by this war.

Jemmy came home in time for dinner. Of course he would, even if it was only last night’s pork and beans that couldn’t be warmed up because of the Sabbath. For once he didn’t have a word to say.

Father said nothing either, until the meal was over. Then he cleared his throat. “James,” he said quietly.

“I will not scold you today, not on the Lord’s Day. But tomorrow we will talk about your disrespect.”

“And tomorrow,” said Mother, “I believe I will be able to find a few extra chores for you.”