“There are hundreds of them,” John said, thrusting his hoe into the earth. “We must find my father. And the chevalier. At once.”
Marcus abandoned his basket of roots and leaves and followed John toward the Brethren’s House. They had not made it more than a few yards when they ran into de Clermont and Brother Ettwein. The two men were already aware of the invasion from Philadelphia.
“There are too many of them!” Brother Ettwein was saying to de Clermont, his eyes wild. “We have already unloaded seventy wagons in just two days. The Scottish prisoners are in one of our family houses. Their guards are living in the pumping house. The army’s stores have filled the lime kilns and the oil house. The single brothers are displaced. And now more locusts descend! What are we to do?”
The wagons from Philadelphia pulled to a stop in the fields on the southern bank of the river, one after another, flattening the buckwheat planted there. A troop of horse accompanied them.
“So much for our peaceable village!” Ettwein continued, his voice bitter. “When Dr. Shippen wrote, he said the army would be an inconvenience—not drive us out of hearth and home.”
Still the wagons came. Marcus had never seen so many at one time. The drivers unhitched their teams and led them to the water. The wagon train’s guards dismounted, allowing their horses to graze.
“Shall I speak to them, Johannes?” The chevalier de Clermont looked grim. “There is probably little I can do, but at least we will know their plans.”
“We settled in Bethlehem to avoid war.” Ettwein’s voice was low and intense. “We have all seen enough of it, Brother de Clermont. Religious war. War with the French. War with the Indians. Now war with the British. Do you never get tired of it?”
For a moment, the chevalier de Clermont’s composed mask slipped, and he looked as bitter as Ettwein sounded. Marcus blinked and the Frenchman’s face became as inscrutable as it was before.
“I am more tired of war than you know, Johannes,” de Clermont said. “Come, Chauncey.” He beckoned to Marcus.
Marcus scrambled down the hillside in de Clermont’s wake, trying in vain to keep up so that he could reason with the man.
“Sir.” Marcus struggled to regain his footing. “Chevalier de Clermont. Are you sure—”
De Clermont wheeled around. “What is it, Chauncey?”
“Are you sure you should be interfering in this matter?” Marcus asked, adding, “sir,” again as an afterthought.
“You think the citizens of Bethlehem will fare better if John Adams argues their case?” The chevalier snorted. “That man is a menace to international relations.”
“No, sir. It’s just—” Marcus stopped and bit his lip. “Those are Virginians, sir. I can tell from their clothes. They’re wearing buckskin, you see. Virginians don’t like being told what to do.”
“Nobody likes to be told what to do,” de Clermont observed, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, but they have rifles. Very accurate rifles, sir. And swords,” Marcus continued, determined to avert disaster. “We’re not armed. And the marquis is alone at Brother Boeckel’s house.”
“Sister Liesel is with Gil,” de Clermont said curtly, resuming his blistering descent of the hill. “She is reading to him about the Moravian missions to Greenland. He says he finds it soothing.”
Marcus had seen the fervent glances that the marquis had bestowed on the Boeckels’ charming daughter, and was glad that Lafayette was married, as well as that Sister Liesel was a paragon of virtue.
“Nevertheless, sir—”
“For God’s sake, Chauncey, stop calling me sir. I’m not your commanding officer,” de Clermont said, wheeling around to face him once more. “We need to know why these wagons have arrived. Has Philadelphia fallen to the British? Are they here on Washington’s orders? Without information, we cannot determine what must be done next. Are you going to help me, or hinder me?”
“Help.” Marcus knew this was his only real option, and followed de Clermont in silence the rest of the way.
When they reached the southern bank of the river, all was confusion.
A man in buff breeches and a blue tunic rode toward them on a horse that was probably worth as much as the MacNeil farm. A long Kentucky rifle—the kind used by woodsmen on the frontier—was jammed through a loop on his saddle, and a fur-trimmed helmet was strapped to his head. Marcus thought his brains must be baking inside it on such a warm day.
“I am the chevalier de Clermont, servant to the Marquis de Lafayette. State your business.” De Clermont motioned Marcus to stay behind him.
“I am here to see Mr. Hancock,” the man replied.
“He’s at the inn.” De Clermont jerked his head toward the ford. “In town.”
“Doc?” a voice cried out across the clearing. “That you?”
Vanderslice was in one of the wagons, perched atop a pile of hay. He waved.
“What are you doing here?” Marcus said as he approached the wagon.
“We’ve brought the bells from Philadelphia so that those British bastards don’t melt them down and make bullets out of them,” Vanderslice explained, launching himself from the pile of hay with a mighty leap. He landed on his feet, like a cat. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Still with that French kakker and his friend, I see?”
“Washington sent the marquis here to recover—and the rest of the army with him, it seems,” Marcus replied. He looked over at de Clermont, who was deep in conversation with a knot of cavalry officers. The chevalier wanted information, and Marcus had pledged to help him. Marcus had to at least try to keep his bargain. “Where are you all headed?”
“Some town west of here,” Vanderslice said vaguely. “We’ve brought along everything we could haul out of Philadelphia. Even Gerty.” He looked up at the town of Bethlehem and whistled. “What kind of place is this, Doc? It seems awfully grand to be filled with religious folk. I hear the women are all unmarried and the men live in one big room, together.”
“It’s like nowhere else I’ve ever been,” Marcus replied honestly.
“Is the food good?” Vanderslice asked. “Are the girls pretty?”
“Yes,” Marcus replied with a laugh. “But Congress has ordered us not to disturb the women, so you best keep your fingers in the pies.”
* * *
—
THAT EVENING, John Ettwein led Marcus and Vanderslice on a tour of his town. Instead of starting with the large, imposing stone buildings in the center of Bethlehem, John headed straight for the warren of structures that were built along the Monocacy Creek.
“This is where our people first settled,” John explained, standing before a small, low structure made of logs. The land sloped down to the water, giving a clear view to the west over the Moravians’ mills, tanneries, butchers, and waterworks. Ettwein pointed at one of the buildings. “There’s the springhouse. The water never freezes. Not even in winter. And it turns the wheel that sends the water up the hill and into the town.”
Marcus had been amazed to discover that water flowed into the apothecary’s stillroom, and that he didn’t have to run up and down the hill to fetch clean water for the marquis’s medicine.
“I’d show you inside,” John continued, “but your guards have taken it over.”
Some of the colonial soldiers quartered there were congregating outside and watching while stores of ammunition were unloaded into the nearby oil mill.
John showed them the millworks instead. As they neared the workshop, a black couple came into view, climbing the hill from the river. They were about Brother Ettwein’s age, and their arms were linked at the elbows. Both wore the dark, simple clothing of the Moravian Brethren, and the woman wore one of their crisp white caps, this one unadorned with ruffles and tied with a blue bow—the sign of a married woman. Marcus regarded the pair with curiosity, as did Vanderslice.
“Good evening, Brother Andrew and Sister Magdalene,” John called to them. “I was showing our visitors the millworks.”