The Riddle of Penncroft Farm by Dorothea Jensen

his dark hair affectionately
.
    Father’s expression softened. He looked at me and smiled. “Poor Geordie. Seems only yesterday you were playing with gewgaws. Remember the toy soldier from England that I bought in Philadelphia when you were still in leading strings?
”
    I nodded. Next to the cup and ball that Will had carved of apple wood from our trees, that lead soldier had been my favorite toy. How Mother had protested when Father had given the small grenadier to me! With her Quaker beliefs, she didn’t think it fit for child’s play
.
    I also remembered Father’s present for Will that same day. The day our first apple shipment to England (arranged by Benjamin Franklin himself) had occasioned a special treat. Father had brought Will a signet ring inscribed grandly in Latin with our family joke about Will’s stubbornness and name: “Ubi Voluntas Via Ibi Est” (“Where there’s a will, there’s a way”). I wrenched myself back to the present and replied to my father’s question
.
    â€œ
Aye, I remember the soldier well and still keep it by me, Father. ’Tis my lucky piece. I tried to get Will to take it with him, but perhaps his ring will bring him the luck he needs.” I crossed to the settle and took out another length of thread
.
    When I turned back, the shuttered look had
returned to my father’s face. “What Will needs is a dose of reason. I forbid you to mention his name again,” he said gruffly
.
    Mother and I exchanged unhappy looks
.
    Father began pacing back and forth. “You’re right, Patience,” he said after a time. “Geordie must peddle those apples, and he’d best start tomorrow. ’Tis rumored the British army is coming up from Chesapeake Bay to take Philadelphia back from the rebels. I for one will give General Howe a most warm welcome—and there are many who share my sentiments, although they’ve feared to speak out whilst the rebels are in the saddle hereabouts.” He crossed the room and opened the cupboard hidden in the woodwork over the fireplace. Inside we kept our spices, money, and valuable papers safe from mildew and robbers
.
    Father brought out some farthings and closed the cupboard door. “Here’s a bit of money for your journey, lad, but try to barter for your board and keep as you go. Gold coins are scarce
.”
    â€œ
But, Laban, if the British army is coming, mightn’t Geordie be in danger?” Mother protested, her eyes dark with, worry
.
    â€œ
Nonsense, Patience. The British are gentlemen, and Geordie is loyal to his king and country. They’ll not harm him
.”
    So it was that early the next day I set off with a wagonload of apples, pears, cider, and perry to sell to the country taverns down Brandywine Creek way
.
    By late afternoon I had sold everything but four kegs of perry. I found a buyer for three of these in Mr. Welsh, whose tavern stood four miles west of Chadd’s Ford, one of several places where Brandywine Creek could be waded in safety. These fords, besides being shallow spots in the stream, offered the only clear access to the riverbank, which elsewhere was steep and thickly wooded
.
    As it was dark by the time I made my bargain with Mr. Welsh, I decided to stay the night. There were few guests, so I had the luxury of a bed to myself. I quickly readied for sleep, rubbing my teeth with a chalked rag and adjusting the bed ropes more tautly under the sagging mattress so that I might sleep tight
.
    I slept far
too
tight, not waking until nearly nine. Fearing that Father would be angry at my dawdling, I hurried downstairs to settle up my accounts with the jovial tavern keeper
.
    Mr. Welsh was busy in the common room with a lively group of customers; he told me they were a patrol of American mounted sentries, called
vedettes.
The sight of these Continentals, washing down slabs
of ham with hot, steaming toddy, filled me with great dismay. Last I had