Chapter Two

DILLARD BEACH MYSTERY UPDATE

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Cape Cod: September 13, 1678

The morning sun was just above the pines and the doves were cooing in the maple trees when Rebekah made her way to the small herb garden behind the shed.

She needed to replenish her supply of medicinals. The past week had been a very busy one and her medicine chest was in need of fresh herbs. At least two of the women in the village would be delivered within the month. She needed to gather oatstraw, lemon balm and stinging nettles. If she combined those with raspberry leaf she would have a rich brew that would comfort women nearing their time.
She had just reached the corner of her property when she heard voices coming down the path from the direction of the village: a deep voice that she recognized as belonging to her neighbor, Farmer Birch, and a softer voice in a higher register—a young girl, his daughter she guessed, and she was talking very quickly.
“Hurry, or we will be too late and of no use to anyone.”
Rebekah looked up just as the two came into view. Farmer Birch carried a large white sack with something very much alive trapped inside. A wild animal by the looks of its thrashing about. The young woman with him waved and called out to Rebekah.
“Good day Miss Howland. We have sore need of you.”
“And good day to you.” She stood with both hands on her hips, watching as the visitors approached her gate. She could tell that whatever distressed them, it was serious. “What is the trouble? What is it you have need of this September morning?”
The woman answered, “My brother, Ezra, was splitting wood late yesterday and a splinter flew off and hit him in the leg. He is bleeding so, though we tried to stop it and it did stop for a while, but then he tried splitting the wood again and the wound opened up again, and now he is in dire straights. We need you to come with your potions and stop the bleeding.”
The farmer fixed his eyes on Rebekah, pleading. “You must come, now. My wife tried to close the wound but failed no matter what she did. You must come. Hurry. I am afeared my son will die without your help.” He lifted the white bag towards her. “We do not expect help without cost. We brought a hen in payment.”
“No need for that now.” She waved the bag away. “If it is as bad as you say, we must hurry. Give me a moment to gather a few things.”
The farmer and his daughter waited as Rebekah went into the house, returning a few moments later with her medicine basket. “I think I have all I might need.”
They set off down the path, Birch leading the small party. The distance to the farm was just over two miles, but the urgency of the situation compelled them to hurry and they made the trek in very little time. Rebekah was fully winded when they finally reached the farmhouse. Mistress Birch met them at the door, anxiety obvious on her face.
“Thank goodness you have come miss. My son is dying, I am certain of it. I have tried everything I know but the bleeding will not stop.” She moved back into the house, gesturing for Rebekah to follow. “You will know what to do. I pray it is so.”
“Let me have a look, Mistress.” She walked quickly to the far corner of the great room. A large wooden bedframe piled high with coverlets hid the boy’s shape, his head barely visible on the pillow.
“Tell me what you have done for him; how you have tried to treat the wound,” Rebekah demanded.
“First thing, his father pulled out the splinter. That’s when the bleeding started badly. I tried wrapping the sore with scrap cloths, and that slowed it some, but then it just kept bleeding. I told my husband we should call you first off it happened. But he was determined we should not have you. I thought I could mend it myself. But as you can see, I do not have the skills.” She stared at her hands and then at Rebekah. “My son is going to die, miss. You have to help us.”
Rebekah pulled back the bloody covers and studied the boy. His face was covered with sweat and she could see he was having trouble catching his breath. She turned to the girl. “Hand me the clean cloths from my basket. And fetch me a bowl of fresh water. Be quick about it.”
“And what can I do?” The farmers wife stood back, waiting.
“Start a kettle to boil.”
The woman turned to the hearth and stirred the embers under the heavy pot hanging over the fire.
Rebekah searched her basket until she found what she was looking for: yarrow, dried and minced into a very fine powder. She turned to the boy and removed the makeshift bandage. The boy moaned with the pain. She winced when she saw the wound. It was very deep and would need some stitching to close. Fortunately she had brought a needle and cotton twine.
“Do you have any spirits in the house?”
“Are you wanting to have a drink before you work on the boy?” The farmer questioned. “Is it that bad to look at?”
Rebekah sighed. “It is to clean the wound. Better to use than water at times.”
“I have a small flask in the cupboard.” He turned, fetched the bottle and handed it to Rebekah.
As she poured the precious liquid over the boy’s wound, she could hear the farmer groan at the waste. “Best to have a clean wound, than one that will surely fester in a few days,” she explained.
She looked at both the farmer and his wife. “Don’t be afeared. The wound is not so terrible. Leave it to me and I will do my best to have the lad fixed right enough.” She turned back to the boy and focused all her attention on cleaning and mending the wound. A bit of honey and yarrow powder would stench the blood and reduce the inflammation. A few quick stitches and a final poultice of yarrow leaves, and she was done.
“Keep his leg elevated for a day or two and change the poultice a few times each day,” Rebekah reassured the mother. “Now that the wound is cleaned and mended, his fever will break. He should be up and about soon enough. I have put in a few stitches to keep the wound closed, but come and fetch me if it should open again. I will return to remove them once the wound has well healed.”
“We are grateful you came so quickly,” the farmer said. His wife nodded in agreement.
“It is good I was not far afield.”
The farmer lifted the canvas bag and handed it to her. “Let it not be said we do not pay. A well fed chicken for your yard or your pot.”
Rebekah nodded her thanks. “And I am grateful for your kindness as well. I will come by in a day or two to check on the boy.” With that, she turned onto the path and walked back in the direction of home.