As they drove into the yard of the weathered farmhouse, a young woman came to the door, a pale young woman with a baby in her arms and two toddlers pulling at the skirts of her blue calico dress. A half-grown yellow cat ran between her feet, almost upsetting her.
“Land’s sakes, Nance,” cried Granny. “You’re looking poorly this spring. Is ’Bijah round somewhere?”
The young woman shook her head. “’Bijah took his gun and put for Cambridge,” she answered. “I wrapped him up a clean shirt and a hunk o’ corn’ beef. I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
Granny tut-tutted. “Many gone from around here?” she wanted to know.
“Pretty nigh all the men,” said the young wife sadly. “Like you say, Ma’am Greenleaf, I been poorly this spring, but I got both bake ovens going just like other folks, I can tell you. We’re cooking up victuals to send after the lads. Two oxcarts has gone already, and by tomorrow we can fill two more.”
Granny nodded in agreement. “We’re doing the same at the Port,” she said. “Don’t suppose you got any foodstuffs you could spare us, something you don’t need for your own?” She pulled out a beaded purse and fingered it significantly.
Nancy Davis put up a hand to smooth back the stray wisps of hair from her forehead. “Could be some eggs in the haymow where the hens steal nests sometimes,” she murmured. “Could be. I ain’t had the gumption to go look.”
“We’ll go,” cried Sally Rose eagerly. “Come on, Kitty.”
“You’d better take this basket,” said Gran, reaching under the wagon seat. “And don’t be gone long. It’s nigh on to sunset time. When we finish here, we’ll start home.” She turned again to the farm wife. “I suppose folks is pretty well stirred up around here.”
The young woman nodded. “That we be. Nervous and on edge till we’d run a mile if we was to hear a pin drop. Fear’s about us on all sides, just the way I’ve heard my grandmother tell it was down to Salem in the witchcraft time. It’s because we don’t know what’s happening, I think—nothing since the first word. Sure, the British was driv’ back to Boston once, but maybe they’ve marched out again. Maybe our lads couldn’t stop ’em, and they’re headed this way. And how can I tell whether ’Bijah be still in the land o’ the living or no!” She began to cry.