Peter Loon (35 page)

“I will
burn
it down before I'm done,” said Barrow.

“You'll break and burn nothing, that can be taken peaceably,” said Manasseh, and there was a perceptible wariness between the two bands of men that suddenly focused into something more dangerous as Barrow jerked the head of his horse around and faced the old woodsman.

“When I give the word,” said Barrow through his teeth, “you had better stay out from between.”

“It's a wonder,” maintained one of the veterans in Manasseh's company, “if there aren't guns in those slots, just waiting for the first attempt on that door.” He pointed to the window slits in the eastern wall, which did indeed look like the gunslots used in forts and barricades. The notion appeared to dispel somewhat the enthusiasm of Barrow's men, and Barrow himself cast an uncertain look at the jailhouse. There was a moment of near silence. Elspeth's horse shifted its feet. The torches crackled in the breeze.

“It
was
a woman,” said Crispin Moss, who was still weighing his earlier impressions of Elspeth Gray.

Most of the men in the yard considered the jail as if its walls were ready to bristle with musket barrels and pistol bores at the slightest threat. The building itself seemed to grow, looming in the night, as it loomed in their thoughts.

“We didn't come here to serenade,” said Manasseh Cutts finally, and with Peter and Crispin beside him, he moved up the last of the slope. The two companies tensed like nervous horses as they closed. Peter considered the great timber that lay before the jail, and to the men who had carried it there he said, somewhat amazed, “That's a battering ram!” He almost laughed to recall the image of a large goat he had conjured only a few days ago. He stood before the jail with Manasseh and Crispin, and with a nod the older woodsman gave the young man the opportunity to remain true to his word. Before he properly knew what he was doing, Peter had raised his fist and banged upon the door.

The room beyond the door resounded with three hardy thumps. There was a moment's near silence, and then there came a voice from inside that sounded remarkably cordial. They could not quite hear what was said, and Peter thumped again. “We're here to collect our fellows as peaceably as we can,” he shouted.

“Don't make any pledges you can't keep,” said Nathan Barrow from his horse.

Then, very distinctly, the voice repeated itself, saying “Come in, come in! The door's unbarred.”

Nervously, Peter reached for the latch and Manasseh grabbed his arm. “There might be a trap gun, or
any
sort of trap inside,” said the woodsman, who mistrusted something so easy.

“Come in,” came the voice again. Peter thought it sounded familiar. Elspeth had wormed her way to the fore and she said something silently to him when he glanced her way. The two companies waited in the light and crackle of the torches.

Barrow, however, leaned over his horse's neck and scoffed at Peter. “You
did
say you'd be the first through the door.”

“The door is unbarred,” came the voice from within.

“We'd cherish greatly to see it opened from the inside,” called Manasseh Cutts and this raised a laugh from the other side of the door.

A long interval followed, then the outside latch jumped and the door swung out. Peter stepped to one side and several men moved back. Like a father gripping the arm of a child who insists on peering over a great height, Manasseh had not let go of Peter; with a tug, he encouraged Peter to step back from the door, which opened to reveal a man standing at the threshold of the jail.

“I'm not sure you didn't come at a bad time,” said the fellow pleasantly. “The old knight was about to attack a flock of sheep.”

Very little could have disarmed the mob outside the jail as surely as this extraordinary pronouncement, and perhaps it was meant to do just that, for the man smiled at the effect.

“Poppa,” said Elspeth, and there was more reprimand than surprise or relief in her voice.

“Elspeth?” said the man, and it was his turn to be surprised. “What are you doing here with these Indians?”

“I've come for you, Poppa. Momma is about fallen out of mind.”

Sam Gray appeared touched to hear it, but he said, “Whose clothes are those you're wearing,” and to the rest of the company, “What are you fellows about, taking my daughter on such a business?”

“We didn't know it was your daughter,” said Manasseh. “She's dressed like a man.”

“Did you think a boy was that pretty?”

“Poppa!”

“You come in here, now, girl. This is too rough a venture for any of my children.”

“Are the prisoners guarding themselves these days, Mr. Gray?” asked Manasseh Cutts.

“The jailers here have proved a pleasant lot, in the end, sir,” said Sam Gray. “But, come in, two or three of you, and we can all go home, it seems, when this is done.”

There were uncertain looks cast about the company, and Manasseh was tugging at Peter's arm again–pulling the young man back as he pulled himself forward; Peter resisted and said, almost wryly, “I
did
say I'd be the first through the door.”

Manasseh nodded then, and said softly, “I don't suppose he would invite his daughter in if there were any danger.”

Sam Gray stepped aside, and Peter and Elspeth and Manasseh entered the jailhouse. Barrow, looking uncertain, chose to remain atop his horse.

Inside, the guard room was cheerily lit by a fire in a large hearth, and an older man sat there in fine clothes and an oldfashioned wig. He had a book opened in his lap, and he was just in the act of laying a ribbon between its pages before closing it. “Come in, come in,” said this elderly fellow, “I am acting the host at jail tonight.”

Peter was astonished to see Captain Clayden sitting there, and it was his first thought to pull his father's hat over his eyes and hope that his father's coat disguised the clothes that must be familiar to the old man. There were two other men sitting nearby, and they looked a shade less certain than Sam Gray and a good deal less certain than Captain Clayden.

“Do you know Moses and Enoch Donnell, gentlemen?” asked Captain Clayden. “I hear, from your conversation, that you know Samuel Gray. Pardon me, I beg you, if I don't stand; I suffer the gout some in this old foot, and the ride from Newcastle has set it to shouting.” He pointed to one shoeless foot that was raised on a rude-looking stool. He shut the book in his lap and held it up, saying, “I couldn't bear to leave this behind, as I just obtained it, so I've been reading selections to my companions here.”

“He was quite a man, that old Long Jaw,” said Sam Gray, who apparently admired the reading. The Donnell brothers continued to look less definite about matters in general.

Peter took off his hat. “Good evening, Captain Clayden,” he said.

“Who's that?” said the old man. “Who's that?” and then, surprised, he leaned forward a little and said, “Mr. Loon? Is that you, young man?”

“It is, sir. It's Peter Loon. I left Beam in New Milford so no harm would come of her.”

“That's very good of you, lad, but Mr. Leach tells me that
you
were supposed to stay there yourself. Were you the fellow banging on the door and bellowing about peaceable means?”

Peter was stunned to hear that Parson Leach had, as some suspected, returned to Captain Clayden's after leaving New Milford, and he could imagine the muttering outside if Barrow's men caught this revelation. “You saw Parson Leach, then?”

“Yes, and it was he that convinced me to get these Liberty Fellows out of here. And what's this?” he said, taking note of Elspeth. “A young woman?”

“She's my daughter, Captain,” said Sam Gray.

“Well, this is an odd mob, make no mistake,” said the elderly captain.

“I don't understand, sir,” said Peter. “Where are the other prisoners?”

“Drifting down the Sheepscott, I shouldn't wonder. There's a brig waiting for them off Macmahan, on which they'll run to the South Seas, I've been told. But what does that crowd intend, out there? Those fellows behind you seem more warlike than peaceable. Is that a ram they have ready?”

Peter was aware of torchlight casting his shadow before him on the plank floor, and he looked over his shoulder to see several heads peering in after him. “It's Nathan Barrow and his men,” said Peter.

“What?” said the old captain, suddenly bristling. “The villains who chased after little Nora? The devil you say! This is not the company I expected you to keep, young man.”

“It's that company and yourself that the lad has put himself between,” said Manasseh Cutts.

“He's come only because I insisted on coming myself,” explained Elspeth.

Peter flinched slightly, for this was not entirely the truth, though the effect upon Captain Clayden was gratifying, as it seemed to corroborate his opinion of Peter.

“So Mr. Leach has arranged for the other prisoners to take ship?” said Manasseh, who was weighing what Captain Clayden had already revealed.

“He is a persuasive man, is our Mr. Leach,” said Captain Clayden, “and he was himself persuaded that the backcountry was suitably roused–and in enough numbers–to break the jail by violent means if the prisoners were not first released by peaceful ones. He spoke rather eloquently in favor of Mr. Gray and the Messrs. Donnell as well, and it was decided by several of us, including the sheriff and the jailer, that justice might best be served if these three were not chased so far away as their Liberty Fellows.”

“Is this what happened?” asked Manasseh of Sam Gray.

“The lot of them took horse after dark,” said the man.

Manasseh Cutts found the matter pleasing.

“Captain McQuigg never consented to this,” said Peter.

“He knew nothing of it,” said Captain Clayden, “though, fortunately, Mr. Kavanagh was amiable to the design.”

“Was he?” said Peter, startled by the thought.

“Mr. Kavanagh does love to altercate,” said the old man, “but he's a fair sort of fellow. And he's more than a little fond of our Martha, so he was amenable to my theories upon the matter.”

“What's going on in here?” demanded a peevish voice. Nathan Barrow had finally raised his courage, it seemed; he strode into the guard room and focused his displeasure on Captain Clayden. “Let's free our men and burn this place to the ground.”

Manasseh Cutts, who had no desire to reply directly to Nathan Barrow, walked past the man to speak to the mob outside. “It's all been done before us,” he called to them. “Parson Leach has arranged freedom for them all. The seven will be aboard a brig presently, and the three who were not present at the incident with John Trueman have been given leave to go home.”

Nothing could have confounded the entire company more than to discover that their principal mission had been accomplished without them. They gaped at one another, amazed, and embarrassed perhaps that such pains and such energy had brought them far from home for so little reason.

“Why didn't he say something and save us the trouble of coming here?” wondered someone nearby.

“Who among you would have let him go to Captain Clayden's and discuss it?” returned Manasseh.

Nathan Barrow followed Manasseh among the waiting men, and he was yet filled with fury and spite. “It's a lie,” he said, then, “Let us burn the place!” he shouted, and snatching the torch from one of his men, he would have laid fire to the jail, however successfully, if Crispin Moss had not clutched him first by the shoulder, the wrist, and finally by the scruff of the neck. Barrow tried to drive the end of the torch into Crispin's face, but the weapon was knocked from his grasp and the big woodsman shook the preacher as a dog would a rat.

There was a general uproar; some of Barrow's men rushed to the aid of their chief, and the mob shifted from uncertainty to separate levels of outrage and movement when a rider crossed from the road before the jail to the perimeter of the crowd, raised a pistol, and fired it in the air. Captain McQuigg's militia followed him like a flood tide, and there was a confusion of rearing mounts, shouting men, and cocked weapons.

Captain McQuigg thrust the discharged pistol into his belt and retrieved a second weapon. His horse had shied back at the report, and the old warrior nudged the animal back against the line of Liberty Men. Having pushed through the other riders, Edward Kavanagh now anxiously spurred his horse before the Captain, so that the old fellow drew back his extended arm for fear of striking his own man with the muzzle of his pistol. “Fall back, man!” ordered the Captain. “I'll blow down the first who points a weapon at us!”

“They are
all
pointing weapons, Captain,” said Kavanagh.

And indeed, despite their surprise, the Liberty Men looked more ready to serve a volley than did the Captain's militia. Elspeth had hurried from the jail after her father, and Peter wrestled himself in front of her, though he was himself unarmed.

Crispin Moss had unshouldered his own musket and Nathan Barrow took advantage of this to scurry away, screaming, “So much for your Mr. Leach! Here we are betrayed!”

“It's your torches betrayed you,” pronounced Manasseh Cutts evenly.

“No, it was I,” said Edward Kavanagh grimly, “and Mr. Loon's aunt.”

None of the company was familiar with Peter's aunt and they looked to him for an explanation. Peter was dismayed by the attention and attempted to say something.

“You did very well by him,” interrupted Kavanagh, “till he claimed to be carrying the alarm to the wife of his lost uncle. There are no Winslows in Wiscasset, to my reckoning, Peter, so I turned us around. It was a close thing.”

Peter was not proud of himself for having lied to the man, no matter the reason, but Kavanagh's expression was not hard when it fell upon him.