Sarah Pfaff sat at the base of a large oak, her thin frame racked with sobs. Tears gushed from her doe-like eyes, and her face twisted with anguish. She had bolted from the breakfast table and into the woods when the conversation touched once again on a terrible battle that had raged at a place called Gettysburg. She knew her Bucky had fought there. What she didn’t know was if he was alive or. . .
The girl kneaded her hands helplessly in her lap as all sorts of black thoughts raced through her head. Finally, she snatched off her hair net and let her blonde tresses fall about her trembling shoulders. Yanking a comb from her apron, she vigorously pulled it through the blonde cascade until her hair caught every glint of the morning sunlight. The harder she combed, the faster the tears fell.
Sarah’s grief grew as she reflected on the sadness that had plagued her sixteen years. Vividly, she remembered the mad ramblings of her delirious older brother, who had been taken from her by the last outbreak of the fever. Then, there was the horrible thundering of cannon that shook the cellar where she cowered while two howling armies grappled in the neighboring pastures and woods. That was last fall when she had met Bucky, her love and the cause of such endless longing and worry.
Sarah continued to groom herself until she heard a muffled cough echo from a thicket off to her left. Her comb froze in mid-stroke as she cocked her ear to listen more intently. Ever since the first news of Gettysburg reached them, gray and butternut-clad deserters had skulked through these woods and put the entire Pfaff family on alert. Her father had been sleeping with his shotgun under his bed again, and even her peace-loving brother Fritz did not venture into the pastures without carrying an old horse pistol.
Sarah knew firsthand of the dangers posed by deserters, and a quiver of fear supplanted the sadness that had brought her to this desolate place. Hurriedly, she tied up her tresses and tucked them under her hair net. Afterward, she fumbled in her apron pocket to produce a razor-sharp dagger that her father insisted she carry. If only she had been armed that day near Antietam Creek when the rogue Bucktail had. . .surprised her. Never again would she allow the filthy, groping hands of a man like Whalen drag her down. Never!
The girl heard the low cough distinctly closer. Crouching low, she scurried into a patch of denser shadow. In her haste, she broke twigs and snapped branches that blocked her way. She came to an abrupt halt behind a large pine, scolding herself for such telltale noises. It was then that she caught a whisper of footsteps slipping through the brush directly toward her.
Sarah’s heart thudded with renewed fear when she slinked forward through the undergrowth. She moved in a zigzag direction toward her farmhouse, somehow keeping her panic in check. She continued to crack branches until she thought to remove her shoes. When she finally crept along with cat-like silence, she swore she heard labored breathing closing quickly behind her.
Sarah burst from the brush and tore across rocky ground that bruised and slashed her bare feet. She never felt the jagged cuts until she tripped headlong over a log and lay panting in a twitching heap. Many minutes passed until the rasping of her lungs quieted enough for her to hear the steady progress of her relentless tracker rustle through the underbrush. When she rose dizzily to her feet, she realized that she still gripped the dagger tightly in her right hand.
With the safety of the farmhouse still a good half-mile away, Sarah resolved to stand and fight. She limped down the path until she reached a place where it passed between two huge oaks. There, with her heart in her throat, she crouched behind the tree to the left. Her dark eyes blazed defiantly. Her lips convulsed into a snarl. Repulsive memories of Whalen’s filthy mouth exploring her face and neck unleashed an anger that made her dangerous, indeed.
Sarah didn’t have to wait long for her pursuer. When his furtive steps drew even with the oak, the girl leaped howling at the surprised soldier and bowled him off his feet. Over and over she thrust her dagger at the squirming man, barely missing his flailing left arm. Bestial grunts emitted from the fellow’s throat as he wrestled furiously to disarm his attacker. Then, they rolled and rolled in a dizzy confusion that filled the girl with desperate strength. Finally, she ended up on top of her stalker with her knees pinning his shoulders firmly to the ground. With a keening cry she wrenched her knife hand free from his grasp. Before she could plunge the blade into his throat, a very familiar voice pleaded, “S-S-Sarah! Don’t! P-p-p-p-please!!”
Sarah’s madness left her when she recognized the lad’s hawk nose and Indian cheekbones. When his words finally registered, she gasped, “Bucky? Oh, Bucky! I almost killed my Bucky. . .”
A guarded laugh escaped from behind Sarah as a burly Bucktail sergeant parted the brush and strode toward her. She still sat astride her boyfriend with the knife gripped menacingly in her hand. She only returned it to the sheath in her apron when Hosea Curtis muttered, “I’ll bet ya didn’t ex-pect Sarah ta react like that, Culp, when ya told her you’d be marryin’ her now instead o’ waitin’.”
“Marry me now?” echoed the girl.
“Yes, that’s why I come back,” choked Bucky, blushing crimson. “I-I-I reckon ya kin let me up anytime now.”
Sarah helped Bucky to his feet and threw her arms around his neck. “Why did you sneak up on me like that?” she scolded, clinging to him passionately. “You scared me half to death!”
“I-I-I figured you was part o’ that Yankee patrol that we come across over yonder,” whispered Bucky, still trembling from his close encounter with Sarah’s dagger. “I was tryin’ ta git around ’em be-fore they spotted me. If me an’ Hosea hadn’t parted ways down by Antietam Creek, they’da seen us fer sure.”
“Why should other Yankees bother you?” asked Sarah after kissing Culp lovingly on the cheek.
“’Cause we been berry pickin’ fer a while.”
“You mean you deserted?”
“Only ’til we gits married. Ya still wanna marry me, don’t ya?”
“Oh, Bucky, of course I do!” cried Sarah, again clinging to Culp. “It wasn’t me who wanted to wait.”
“Quiet, you two!” hissed Hosea. “Come on. Let’s git ta Sarah’s place be-fore that patrol comes this way.”
Heeding Curtis’ warning, the young couple followed him into the dense brush and crept along a path leading south. Twice Hosea motioned for the lovers to stop when a sharp rustling exploded from the thicket ahead. Both times spooked deer leaped up and bounded away, causing Bucky and Sarah to exchange relieved hugs. The hugs led to more demonstrative affection until Curtis’ snarls got the couple moving again.
Finally, after fighting through a patch of thorn apple, the party burst into a farmyard beside a tall, white barn. At the sound of their arrival, a barrel-chested German farmer sprang up from where he was repairing a broken wagon wheel. Immediately, he snatched a long shotgun into his ham hands and yanked back both hammers. It wasn’t until he recognized the lean, hawk-nosed sergeant that he assumed a less belligerent pose.
“Bucky Culp!” bawled Mr. Pfaff, giving the young soldier a bone crushing hug. “Py damn! It’s good to see you! And you, Sergeant Curtis. Are you all that’s left of the Yankee Army after Gettysburg?”
“No, I jess dropped by fer a nip o’ yer homemade wine,” chortled Hosea.
“And there’s no need to explain vhy you are here, Bucky,” laughed the big German with a knowing glance at his daughter. “Come in! Come in!”
Frederick Pfaff fondly smacked each soldier on the arm before leading them toward his sturdy farmhouse. He trudged through the backyard where a circular bench built around the base of an oak reminded Sarah of tender moments spent with her Bucky. As the big German stomped up the kitchen steps, he called to his wife, “Gretchen, ve have guests. Come see who’s returned to us.”
When the men entered the kitchen, a nervous, little woman in a white apron rose from the table where she was peeling potatoes. She dropped her knife and rushed to embrace Bucky, babbling in a mixture of German and English. Sarah’s brother Fritz was there, too, and he leaped from his seat to shake Hosea’s hand like a pump handle.
“Put on some coffee, Gretchen,” ordered Mr. Pfaff. “Sit. Sit,” he instructed the others.
With emotion glowing from her dark eyes, Sarah pulled Culp down into a chair beside her and said, “Father, Bucky and I have some good news for you.”
“Vell, child, what is it?”
“Bucky wants to marry me now!”
“Oh, so you got smart and left those thieving Yankees,” declared the farmer. “Py damn, I knew you had sense.”
“No, I ain’t quit the army, sir.”
“Then, vhy not marry Sarah after the var like you planned?”
“Hartshorne is in command o’ the regiment ag’in, an’ I’m still in his doghouse. He won’t never give me leave ta be with Sarah unless we’s man an’ wife, an’ I miss her so much I’m half-crazy most o’ the time. I jess had ta sneak off an’ see her even if they do shoot me. I’m so desperate in love with her I can’t stand it no more.”
“Shoot you?” cried Sarah, draping herself protectively over Bucky. “They’ll have to kill me first!”
“And me!” growled Frederick. “Ve have the vedding tomorrow be-fore any soldiers come looking for you. Fritz still has your ring. It von’t be a problem.”
“Thank you, sir,” sighed Bucky with a relieved smile. “I jess can’t live no more without yer daughter.”
Bucky’s eyes met Sarah’s, and in the next instant she was in his arms. The room faded away like smoke as he held her against him. The pounding of his heart drowned out the anguish of separation that had haunted him since he had left her behind to fight the Rebs at Gettysburg. Breathing in her clean fragrance, he felt whole again. He stroked her smooth skin and reveled in her touch and excited breath until Mr. Pfaff thundered, “Bucky! Sarah! Enough! You embarrass your mother.”
“And me,” said Fritz, pretending to gag into his hat.
“Ya! Ve must have this vedding tomorrow,” proclaimed the big farmer, shaking the lovers until they unwillingly separated to hold hands under the table. “I fear vhat vill happen betveen these two if they are not properly ved!”
“It’s gol-dang time they ties the knot be-fore they bust at the seams,” agreed Hosea with a suggestive laugh. “You’ll have more grandchildren runnin’ ’round here than chickens if these two has their way.”
“Praise Gott!” blurted Mrs. Pfaff, running to congratulate her daughter. “Praise Gott!”
For the next two hours the family planned Bucky and Sarah’s wedding. The young couple gazed into each other’s eyes, entirely oblivious to the proceedings. Food was discussed, a guest list drawn up, and liquor unearthed from its hiding place in the cellar.
While Mrs. Pfaff bustled about the kitchen baking bread and sweet treats, Fritz left to contact the preacher and summon the neighborhood to the next day’s festivities. He warned each family of the groom’s predicament and told them to watch for Union soldiers. Often, he returned with eggs, flour, ham, and other goods donated for the wedding feast.
All evening Hosea and Frederick toasted the impending marriage, and many maudlin songs burst from their well-oiled throats. Finally, Mr. Pfaff slurred to Bucky, “There’s only one thing that bothers me about you marrying my daughter.”
“W-w-what’s that, sir?” stammered the lad, squeezing Sarah’s hand in apprehension.
“It’s vhat religion you plan for my grandbabes. I know you are Indian, and I vonder if you vill push unchristian beliefs on them.”
“No, I reckon not,” answered Bucky thoughtfully. “I know you folks take a lot o’ stock in that Lutheran God, so there must be somethin’ to Him. I ain’t never been inside a church, but I’d be willin’ as long as I set next ta Sarah.”
“I don’t vant you to think I dislike your people,” murmured the German.
“I used ta hate his people,” acknowledged Curtis, “’til I seen what a good fella Culp is. I’d be proud ta stand shoulder ta shoulder with ’im anytime.”
“I think all races of men are equal in Gott’s eyes,” continued Pfaff. “I’ve helped the Underground Railroad, as you know, and look down on no decent man—black, white, or red. Still, Bucky, I can’t help but be a little curious about your Indian vays.”
“It was my pa, not me, that lived with the Iroquois. All I know is what he told me. Pa was a Mohawk an’ a member of the Turtle Clan. He an’ his clan lived in a longhouse made o’ elm bark. The women planted corn an’ beans, an’ the men hunted fer meat. They only fought the whites ’cause they brung diseases an’ liquor an’ stole the Iroquois’ huntin’ grounds.”
“Then, you are not a member of their tribe?” asked Mr. Pfaff, trying hard to hide his relief.
“No, sir. My ma was white an’ my pa Indian. I only learned ta follow their huntin’ an’ trappin’ ways. I believe in the Great Spirit some ’cause I can feel ’im near me when I’m settin’ alone in a grove o’ hemlocks er by a beaver pond.”
“What was an Indian marriage like?” asked Sarah, snuggling closer to Bucky. “Surely your father told you about that.”
“No, my folks was wed in Smethport by a reg’lar preacher. Pa didn’t marry in the tribe ’cause Indians didn’t git tagether out o’ love. The mother always chose her son’s wife, with him havin’ no say in the matter. I reckon me an’ you wouldn’ta got tagether if we was Mohawks, Sarah.”
“But I vould choose you, Bucky,” giggled Gretchen Pfaff. “I knew you vere right for my daughter vhen you rescue her from that Vhalen! I pray to Gott every night for you. Now, I vill pray you are not caught by the Yankees.”
Culp blushed at the first complete English sentence he had ever heard Sarah’s mother speak. Before he could reply, Sarah asked, “Could you talk to other Indians if we were to visit your father’s people?”
“All I know is a few words. O-gis’-ta is fire, an’ o-na-ga-nose means water.”
“Is the Iroquois language ever musical!” gushed the girl. “Tell me more.”
“Well, I could de-scribe you with the word o-ga-uh’.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Sweet!”