Free Sarah Bishop by Scott O’Dell Page A

woman put the cookies on a tray and stuffed them into the oven.
    "They bake quick. Please remind me," she said. "I'll get you a breakfast."
    She looked at me for the first time. She was standing on one side of the hearth and the firelight shone full on her. She was young, younger than I had taken her for, thin with light-colored eyes and a small mouth that seemed to smile without smiling.
    A description I had read before in the Lion and Lamb tavern flashed into my mind. It read:
Negress wanted! Five feet, six inches in height, or slightly more. Twenty-two years old. Slender, two of front teeth crooked, hazel eyes, soft voice. Generous offer of 50 pounds for return of this runaway. John Clinton, Brandon Plantation, Edenton, North Carolina.
    The description fit the young woman who stood looking at me. Should I tell her what I had seen or keep quiet? If I were she, would I want to know? It was possible that she did know. I thought I saw a fearful look in her eyes, and then decided that it was the firelight casting a shadow. I kept silent.
    "Where you from?" she asked.
    "Long Island," I said.
    "You been traveling in a hurry or anything?"
    "In a hurry, yes."
    "I don't ask why. That's your business. Everybody's traveling these days, one reason or another. In a hurry."
    I reminded her that the cookies were ready to take out of the oven. She gave me some and poured me a mug of wintergreen tea. The cookies had hickory nuts hidden in them.
    She said, "Have you seen me before? You act that way."
    "Never."
    Her gold earrings glittered in the firelight.
    "Ever read about me? You know, the notices they put up on the wall sometimes. About soldiers deserting and slaves running."
    "Yes. In a tavern."
    "Where?"
    "The Lion and Lamb on Long Island."
    "That's how far?"
    "A day and more by horseback and the ferry."
    "That's close." She had a soft voice and a slow way of speaking. "I guess I had better be moving. From what you say. I been moving since last spring, before the cotton bloomed. I'm tired. Do you ever get tired?"
    "Yes."
    "So tired you could sit down and weep?"
    "No, not sit down and weep," I said, thinking of Quarme and Ben Birdsall and Captain Cunningham and Sergeant McCall, the black-faced Hessian, and Sam Goshen. "I want to stand up and shoot somebody."
    The woman glanced at my musket leaning against the table.
    "I never was that mad," she said. "Never was."
    She put the cookies in a jar, except for two, which she wrapped in a cloth. She went to a cubbyhole next to the kitchen and came out with a bundle the size of mine.
    "I'll trade places," I said.
    "I never felt that way," she answered. "I don't feel like trading with nobody."
    I thought about the wild country she had seen. "That wilderness land, was it pretty?"
    "Prettiest I ever looked at. Lakes and water running. Wild, though."
    "It sounds like a place you could sit down and not be bothered."
    "You wouldn't sit much, with all the work you'd need to do. But from what I saw, you won't be bothered none. Not much."
    At this moment, as I stood talking to the black girl, I made my mind up. I was sick and confused and weary of fleeing. But I was afraid to stay in the village because of the British soldiers. And I really didn't want to stay here, whether they came looking for me or not. I wanted to be by myself. I would go into the land we were talking about, the wilderness land that lay between the village and the big river. I had fled far enough.

21
    A CROSS THE ROAD was a two-storied sundry shop, painted white, with a sign over the door— THOMAS MORTON & SON . With the money I had left, I purchased a long-hafted ax, a scoop of flour, some sweetening, enough salt to last, two thick blankets, and gunpowder and shot.
    I caught a glimpse of a young man with a serious face peering at me from behind a pile of boxes. I guessed that he was young Mr. Morton. Old Mr. Morton had a square beard. He took hold of it with both hands and said that I must be new to Ridgeford because he had not