The Riddle of Penncroft Farm by Dorothea Jensen Page B

ground as I approached the officer
.
    A rolling laugh brought my eyes up. This officer was no lobsterback; indeed, his coat was as blue as Washington’s, though he wore a red-and-silver sash and his cockade was edged with gold. I figured he must be one of the German soldiers hired to fight for the British—one of the Hessians so hated by the patriots. To me, his round face looked like that of one of the German farmers I’d seen selling vegetables at the High Street Market in Philadelphia
.
    â€œJa,
is dusty for all the fog is damp,” he said. He raised the mug and drank thirstily
.
    Mr. Welsh asked, most politely, who was commanding the column. The officer answered, “Knyphausen.” This outlandish name tickled my fancy, and, despite my state of terror—or perhaps because of it—nervous laughter bubbled up inside me
.
    â€œ
Vat is
so
funny, young man?” the officer asked sternly
.
    â€œ
Oh, sir, I . . . I . . . ,” I gasped
.
    â€œ
The lad is but a simpleton—a witling, sir,” said Mr. Welsh hastily, pointing significantly to his head
. “
I fear this war has addled his wits even further. I pray you let him depart in peace. His is that old rig yonder
.”
    The Hessian officer looked at my team and wagon, then peered at me. I let my jaw hang slack and goggled at him blankly
.
    â€œ
We don’t make war on
Idioten,
and we don’t need those broken-down creatures. Someone has left us better horseflesh. Friends of yours?” he challenged Mr. Welsh
.
    The tavern keeper’s laugh rang out. “Mine, sir? And me loyal to the core—as is this poor boy’s father. Run along home now, Geordie.
Now,
Geordie.” Once again that huge hand landed on my back, this time propelling me smartly in the direction of my rig. I leaped into the seat and drove away, for the first time grateful that Daisy and Buttercup were slow as molasses. Had they looked fleeter-footed, the British likely would have confiscated them along with the horses of the luckless Continental patrol
.
    Since the British columns blocked the road going west, I was forced to turn east, toward Chadd’s Ford. Soon I came in sight of Kennett Meetinghouse. I could see that the Friends were assembled for midweek meeting, and I stopped to warn them that the
British were not far behind me. What a waste of precious time! They thanked me for the warning but went calmly on with their meeting as if I had never interrupted, even though shots were now ringing out behind me on the road
.
    I hunkered down on the seat and looked desperately about for a place to turn off the main road. To my great relief, I found a lane that headed north. It was barely more than wheel ruts in the dirt, but at least ’twas clear of trees—and soldiers. Seemingly oblivious to my fears, Daisy and Buttercup ambled along at their regular snail’s pace, despite my shaking the reins to urge them faster. Such effort only delayed me further, for one of the reins snapped. It took the better part of an hour to mend. Thus, it was past noon before I reached Street Road and turned east toward Jones’s Ford, several miles upstream from Chadd’s Ford, where the Americans were waiting for the British attack
    Crossing at Jones’s Ford was not easy—I had to pick my way around felled logs in the stream, and an American patrol stopped me on the east side for questioning. When I said I’d seen troops at Welsh’s but none since, the captain nodded. “Just what Major Spear reported. I don’t know what that blind fool
Colonel Bland saw going up to the fork, but it surely wasn’t redcoats! Now you’d best get along, boy,” he said
.
    Mystified, I got along. Then, toiling up a steep slope, I heard rolling, distant thunder. I looked at the sky. It was cloudless—even the morning fog had burned away under the bright, hot sun. Again the rumbling rent the air, and this time I knew