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Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray.

With her shiftless and wandering husband, her numerous children, and the freedom to roam she granted her eldest child, two full days passed before Mrs. Barbary stirred herself to report Harry’s disappearance.

And it might have been even longer, had Mrs. Barstow and Sarah not been delivering the shirts and gowns they had sewn for the village poor.

“Did you see my boy Harry at the Cramthorpes?” asked Mrs. Barbary, holding up one of the new gowns against her second youngest child.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Sarah as her mother-in-law assisted a third one into a new shirt. “Just Jimmy and Anna.”

The faded woman grumbled, frowning. “That boy! He’ll be the death of me, see if he isn’t. Just like his father—does whatever he pleases, and never mind if he puts me out of my way.”

“How long have you missed him?” Mrs. Barstow asked.

Mrs. Barbary shrugged narrow shoulders. “A day or two. He did this last summer and called it ‘going abroad.’ But now it’s March and dirty out.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Lamb has seen him,” suggested Sarah. “He still works for her, does he not?” Especially now that Mr. Langworthy was gone, she could have added.

As if she had heard the thought, Mrs. Barbary sniffed. “And not happy about it, either, he has made it plain. Ever since that navy man of yours left—”

“Not my navy man, Mrs. Barbary,” interjected Sarah helplessly. She quite remembered the woman’s malicious streak and what cruel things she sometimes would say to Jane and had no desire to draw her ire, but she could not allow this to pass unprotested.

But the maddening woman lifted a dismissive hand.

“Didn’t he come to Iffley because he knew your husband?

Oh, yes, I know what’s what, even though I have all these tiresome children and can hardly ever stray past my doorstep.

I know he’s the special friend of you Barstows, and he’s drawn the wool over my Harry’s eyes as well—not a one of you bothered by his carryings-on—”

Hearing Sarah draw breath, Mrs. Barstow shot her a warning look and said lightly, “So Harry was as sorry as we were, to see Mr. Langworthy go, then?”

The redirection worked, for Mrs. Barbary wadded up the new shirt in her hands, complaining, “Sorry? Sorry isn’t the word for it! He’s been moping and cross, with not a good word to say to anybody and talking big about what he’d do, if we lived somewhere better than Iffley.”

“What’s wrong with Iffley?” asked Sarah, recovering somewhat.

“It’s not on the sea! Whoever heard the like? I blame that Mr. Langworthy, putting such thoughts in Harry’s head.”

“Thank heaven Harry is a clever boy with many interests,” Sarah said. “He will surely find something new to absorb him, especially now that—Mr. Langworthy has gone away.”

“And we will keep our eyes open for Harry,” Mrs. Barstow assured her, rising to go, “and tell him to come home and set your mind at ease when we see him.”

When they emerged from the Barbarys’ cramped home, the two women shared a relieved look, the elder saying under her breath, “There’s that duty done for another month!”

But Mrs. Barstow was mistaken, for the very next day Mrs. Barbary appeared at the kitchen door of Iffley Cottage, with two of her children clinging to her skirts.

Irving had procured a bucket of birch sap, and Mrs. Barstow was assisting Reed to boil and skim it while Sarah measured out the sugar and lemon peel.

“Mrs. Barbary—what a pleasure,” said Mrs. Barstow, wiping her brow with her sleeve before passing the skimmer to Reed. “You find us making birch wine. Won’t you and the children step in?”

“I don’t know about pleasure,” retorted their visitor, her pale blue eyes reddened and watery.

“I waited and waited but heard nothing, though you said you would speak with Mrs. Lamb, so I had to go to the Tree Inn myself. And me with all these children and no one to help me! But that’s how it is—no one looks out for others’ concerns. ”

Mrs. Barstow and Sarah both knew they had made no promise to walk up to the Tree Inn, but there was nothing to be gained by arguing this point.

They both felt a little conscious, however, for not having been anxious about Harry.

But who could keep a willful imp like him always in sight? Not even Mrs. Lamb had managed it.

Tears began to leak from Mrs. Barbary’s pale eyes.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Sarah, handing her a cloth when no handkerchief seemed forthcoming. “Did—Mrs. Lamb know where to find Harry?”

Mrs. Barbary shook her head and pounded a fist on Reed’s kitchen table.

“That wretched woman said she couldn’t say for certain, but that if she knew one thing, it was that, a couple days earlier when Harry was last there, coins went missing from the till and bread and a pie from the pantry, and when she saw him again she would take a broom to him! ”

“Oh, dear,” said Sarah again. She could not, with any convincingness, pretend she thought the charge an outrage, but she wished Mrs. Lamb had not made it all the same.

Maybe Mrs. Lamb regretted it too, for Mrs. Barbary added sullenly, “But since no one came for your post this morning, she gave me a penny to deliver this and said she would add the postage to your account.” (Slapping a letter on the same kitchen table next to the lemon Sarah had peeled.) “I can’t read like my Harry, but Mrs. Lamb said it’s from your friend in Portsmouth. ”

Portsmouth!

It need not be said how eager Mrs. Barstow and Sarah were for the Barbarys to be gone, but even if courtesy did not require them to hide this, it was equally plain that Mrs. Barbary had no intention of hurrying away.

With a grim face, Reed left Mrs. Barstow to stir the sap while she supplied the visitors with stools to sit upon and some little snacks, which were devoured as quickly as the maid could produce them.

But when her appetite was satisfied, Mrs. Barbary nodded toward the still-untouched letter.

“I wish my Harry were around to hear that. The likes of Mr. Langworthy don’t correspond with boys like my poor Harry, but he’d want to hear the news all the same.

” When this hint drew no more than a polite smile from Mrs. Barstow, Mrs. Barbary descended to wheedling.

“You needn’t read it to me, naturally, but only think how happy my Harry would be when I see him again and can tell him something of his idol! ”

Short of outright refusal, then, there was nothing to be done, and Mrs. Barstow gave in with good grace, giving Reed the skimmer once more, and removing to the window with the letter in hand.

Sarah willed herself not to watch, knowing that if she did, she would do it with as greedy an expression as Mrs. Barbary, studying every fleeting expression which crossed her mother-in-law’s features and straining to hear what murmurs might pass her lips.

No. She did not watch. Instead she sliced another pippin for the children, squeezing a little lemon juice over.

“Tart, isn’t it?” she said to Herbert (or was his name Albert?), a boy just breeched and proudly wearing his new shirt.

Before Herbert/Albert could answer her, however, Mrs. Barstow gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, and their unwanted guest demanded, “What is it? Bad news? Has something happened to the gentleman?”

So much for Sarah’s assumed indifference.

She flew to Mrs. Barstow’s side, her heart in her face, if anyone had cared to notice.

Fortunately they were all staring at her mother-in-law, who quickly answered, “No—Mr. Langworthy is well, I assume. It’s just that—Mrs. Barbary—your Harry has been found! He is in Portsmouth, of all places.”

The fond mother gave a shriek to shatter glass and then began to wring her hands, crying, “Portsmouth? However could he have got there? Kidnap! It’s kidnap, I tell you! My Harry has been kidnapped! He’ll be impressed into the service! He’ll be drowned! He’ll be blown up!”

The children began to scream in sympathy, Herbert or Albert jumping from his stool to throw his arms about his mother and Molly tumbling from hers, only to break her brow on the corner of the table.

Wails were added to the cacophony, and such was the noise that Frances and Maria and Irving came running, Frances with Bash in her arms.

“What is it? What is it?”

“Kidnap! My Harry has been kidnapped!”

“Careful of the hot sap! Mrs. Barbary—Mrs. Barbary—Harry is not kidnapped—”

“Molly’s head is bleeding!”

“Who kidnapped Harry?”

At last Sarah was driven to beat a spoon against one of Reed’s copper pots, surprising them all into silence. Even Molly left off her wailing.

“Mrs. Barstow has received a letter from Mr. Langworthy,” Sarah explained to the newcomers, “in which he says something about Harry.” Mrs. Barbary sucked in a breath, preparatory to another outburst, and Sarah quickly added, “May we hear it, please, madam?”

“Thank you, Sarah. Mrs. Barbary, this will ease your mind somewhat. Your Harry has been found. It seems he ran away to Portsmouth. He was not kidnapped. Mr. Langworthy did not even realize Harry was there until the ship’s surgeon told him he had found them a new cabin boy, and that boy turned out to be Harry! ”

“He was pressed, then!” shrilled Mrs. Barbary. “The press-gangs got him!” She looked in danger of swooning, and Reed firmly pushed her back onto one of the stools.

“Do they impress such little boys?” asked Maria.

“But how did he get to Portsmouth?” Frances wondered.