Peter Loon (9 page)

THE ESTABLISHMENT BEFORE THEM WAS KNOWN AS THE ALE WIFE'S
tavern, though some simply called it the Fish Wife. Above the door there hung a sign, painted with the image of an alewife, a common enough fish thereabouts in the spring and early summer, though this one was dressed as an old woman, with a bonnet and rolling pin besides. Peter gaped at the sign while he approached the door, but was soon taken by the sight of Parson Leach's long, gaunt frame entering the premises before him. He was then more conscious of the preacher's height and his broad shoulders as the man followed three respectable looking fellows inside, and Peter marked the unexpected ease with which the parson moved his lanky form.

The young man thought then to take the deer thigh with him, since it appeared to be the expense for their meal; he trudged up the tavern steps and into the dark interior.

There was a single broad room in front, with immense beams crowding low over the rough tables. Stools and a few chairs ranked these trencher-boards, and nothing was very far in construction from the raw wood as it had come from the sawmill. There was a broad fireplace at the other end of the room, but the fire was left small during an October day like this, and Peter could see a puff of steam when he let out a deep breath. He smelled something cooking, however, and guessed that the hearth taking up the backside of the chimney would be livelier as the evening meal was prepared.

A man appeared in the doorway to the rear of the tavern and acknowledged the new patrons with a wave. “Knock this fire up,” he said to someone behind him, then he stepped forward and spoke cordially to his guests. “How be you, Mr. Leach.”

“Hungry, Mr. Tillage. We've some venison we'd trouble you to cook, and those that share it with us will throw in for the dinner to go round it, if you please.”

Tillage met them halfway across the tavern floor and shook the parson's hand before taking the leg from Peter. “I've some pies and a thick soup cooking, and should I carve this up fine enough, it'll all be ready before you're much more hungry.” He hardly glanced at Peter, but took in the other men accompanying them. “Take the table by the hearth,” he suggested. “It's cold as church in here, now, but Nora will stoke the fire and we'll have it sociable before you know it.”

Peter then noticed a girl kneeling before the fireplace. She was a thin creature with straight russet hair falling carelessly from beneath her cap. Her pale dress–more of a shift, with an old cloth belt around the middle–was a little large for her and more of a summer garment than something to wear when winter was on so close an approach. She stirred the coals and stacked kindling wood over them, then took a crude pair of bellows and blew up the flames, leaning close to the fire as if she were glad for a warm task.

The girl looked over her shoulder for a moment, not regarding anyone in particular, but Peter saw that she was older than he had thought–a young woman, really, rather than a girl–and closer to his own age, perhaps. Peter was used to the look of hunger in the faces of children. Life in the backcountry was backbreaking and more often than not hand-to-mouth; it was a common enough practice, though by no means universal in those parts, to feed the parents and older children first, as they were the workers who kept the farm neck-above failure. Younger children learned quickly the art of scouring the dinner table once their elders retired, and scoured the countryside as well for the odd rabbit they might snare, for berries, and even birch bark when there was nothing else.

But Peter had lived with the notion that a tavern keeper's household was fat and jolly, and he was moved by the small, serious features, the high forehead and the large blue eyes before the young woman returned to her chore. She had not looked behind her above a moment or two.

A few more things were said between the taverner and his guests before Tillage turned back and disappeared into the kitchen with the leg of venison. Peter lifted his hands and he had blood from the venison on them.

“Follow him and there'll be a tub to wash your hands in,” suggested the parson.

Peter felt awkward and out of place, not knowing anyone, and never having been inside a tavern before. He did follow Mr. Tillage, however, and was directed to a bucket and a rain barrel just outside the back door. When he returned, chilled by the cold ablution, Mr. Tillage inquired where Peter hailed from.

“Sheepscott Great Pond,” said Peter. Nora, the young woman at the fire, came in then and went out past him for an armload of wood. She gave Peter only a glance, and he looked after her for a moment before volunteering “Should I help bring in some wood?”

Mr. Tillage glanced into the corner to Peter's right, as quickly as a stone skips on water. Then he turned back to the venison, which he was cutting up, and said “If you like.”

Peter followed Tillage's quick look and was surprised to see a dark-haired and bearded man sitting in the corner by himself.

“This is Nathan Barrow,” said the taverner. “Mr. Barrow, this is . . .”

“Peter Loon.” The young man was half out the door, but he looked back at the man in the corner and nodded. Nathan Barrow only stared back, but like a man who is not sure he sees well. He was a medium sort of fellow with an unpleasant expression on his hairy face, such as one might wear if he smelled something bad, or was bound up in the privy.

Peter stepped out into the sun, drying his hands against his breeches. Beyond another building and a narrow field, he could see the lake. To his left there was a crude lean-to and a neat pile of wood. The young woman was just finishing the stack in one arm. She looked strong enough, despite her thin carriage, as she hefted the load in both arms. When she turned, Peter found himself nodding to her, almost as an extension of the nod he had given to Nathan Barrow, but he averted his gaze and stepped aside for her. He looked back at Nora as he approached the woodpile, wondering what was so obviously feminine about her narrow bones in that shapeless shift. When she passed him this second time, he caught a glance of her wrist and thought he could span it with his thumb and forefinger.

“There are a great lot of sinful men up to Sheepscott Great Pond,” said Nathan Barrow to Peter when the young man nudged open the door with his shoulder. He had taken a stick or two too many and was in fear of losing the balance of his load and looking a fool.

“There are?” he said, for lack of any other response. “When were you there?” he asked.

“I've never been,” said Barrow, but with an odd degree of in-difference in his voice. “That's why I know.”

Peter could hardly make sense of this statement as he hurried back into the tavern room.

“Put you to work, did they,” said Parson Leach.

Peter lay the wood upon the small stack beside the hearth as carefully and quietly as possible. He straightened a tipping length or two, then brushed the dirt and loose bark from his shirtfront. Nora, who was feeding the lengthening flames, turned her face up hardly an inch, and without looking at Peter, said, “thank you,” so quietly that he almost didn't hear her.

He nodded some more, then retreated to the nearest table, where the preacher and three other men sat and several others gathered round. Once she had the fire snapping, Nora returned to the kitchen.

“I heard they stripped him clean,” one of these bystanders was saying, “and strapped his arse with branch bundles till he brayed like an ass himself.”

“I heard they left him a sock and a sleeve,” said one of the men at the table. “And Isaac Prince told him, ‘Never let it be said we left a man naked, like some we know have done.'”

The first man laughed at this, and there were any number of reactions round the long table. Parson Leach made a face that a parent might make at a child who behaves foolishly.

“How do you think it will fall out down there?” wondered another man aloud.

“I always thought the Barrows had more claim than Knox and those among them. It's not old Tory land, but Indian deeds, though mixed up with one another, one deed contradicting the next, to keep the courts busy for years.”

“But they do lay claim, and Prince was served a formal writ, though he tore it up and says he's never seen it”

“Do they know down in Wiscasset that it was Prince?” wondered Parson Leach.

“They all blackened their faces,” said the first man sitting at the table, “but Jemmy Bligh came in this morning and said that Trueman recognized Isaac's voice and could place a dozen others.”

Peter listened to this conversation and it was not long before he was able to piece together the story that these men were so anxious to tell Parson Leach, and the reason for such a crowd hanging about the tavern.

First of all, he understood that
White Indians
had been abroad in the settlement of New Milford;
White Indians
was the epithet given to any group of settlers ganging together to raise each other's ire against the Proprietors who claimed great tracts and miles of land based on the grants of King George and his antecedents, or in the light of Indian deeds. The latter, it had been argued, might be considered null with every other agreement with the Indians, and to be reneged upon; the former declared void since King George and all his rule and law had been driven out of the country these eighteen years past.

The White Indians were not always content to fan each other's anger with talk and rum, however, and if any of the proprietors or their agents were more active than usual in pursuit of their suits, violence was almost sure to erupt. One John Trueman, as the story was told, had discovered this truth the hard way, and upon serving a writ of summons to Isaac Prince in New Milford, he was stripped, beaten, and sent home for his troubles.

All about the surrounding countryside–miles beyond the limits of New Milford–in tavern and meeting house, church and den, there would be men and women gathered to discuss the meaning of this new instance of revolt.

More details of the incident were laid out, till Parson Leach leaned back and said, “You know a lot about the whole business. There weren't some of you boys among them were there?”

“No, no,” said one, clearly troubled by the notion.

“Upon my word!” said another.

“There ain't none of us been to New Milford for a thing, Mr. Leach, and that's the God's honest truth. But Nathan Barrow came last night and told us all about it.”

“Barrow!” said Parson Leach. “What's Barrow to do with it all?”

“He drove them to it, if you believe the man,” said someone.

“Do you think?” said the preacher dryly, for obviously
he
could easily imagine it. “Is he still hereabouts?”

“He's in the kitchen,” said Peter.

Parson Leach looked surprised. “Do you know the man, Peter?”

“Not at all,” said Peter, and glad to deny it. He recalled what Barrow had said about sinners in Sheepscott Great Pond. “Mr. Tillage just introduced him to me.”

“Did he?” said the parson.

And then, as if having heard his name–and perhaps he had–Nathan Barrow opened the door from the kitchen and stepped into the tavern room. Peter was surprised to see the young woman Nora standing behind Barrow, watching his back soberly. She put a hand up to pull aside a lock of red-brown hair. She had a spray of freckles across her nose.

Barrow was dressed well enough, though nothing seemed quite put together on him. One leg of his breeches was torn at the thigh, and his stockings were dirty. He was of medium height and broadly built at the shoulders. He had a sure way of moving that had nothing to do with Parson Leach's easy manner; he stepped up to the occupied table without expression on his face, and regarded the preacher for a moment before speaking. “Mr. Leach,” said Barrow. “Have you come to preach to these people? They are quite beyond it, I promise you.”

Some in the room looked discomforted as Barrow spoke.

“They're good indeed, if a sermon is of no use to them,” said Parson Leach wryly.

“Sinners learn nothing from a sinner,” said Barrow with conviction.

The rest of the room was silent, and men at the periphery of conversation were looking to see if they could drift away.

Parson Leach did not blink at this, but said simply, “I have heard your creed, Mr. Barrow.”

“It is the creed of Christ, Mr. Leach,” said Barrow with slightly more heat.

“I have but your word for it, sir,” said Parson Leach. He barely shifted in his seat, but suddenly Barrow seemed at a disadvantage, as if he had been deigned an audience with the preacher.

Peter would quickly understand that Nathan Barrow was himself a self-styled preacher, and more besides, if he were to be believed, for he claimed a terrific vision of Heaven and Hell and that his guide had been none other the Lord himself. “It is
the
creed, I promise you,” said Barrow.

“It is a creed the apostles did without,” added Parson Leach.

“I care nothing about the apostles,” said Barrow, losing his previous mein to a sneer.

“Nor the Word of God itself, if I am to understand you.
‘If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book.' ”

“Nor
your
Word of God.”

Parson Leach hardly stirred. “Well, the
written
Word is of little use to a man with no letters,” he pronounced.

“You sound like a good Congregationalist,” answered Barrow, and his sneer deepened. If the insinuation that he could not read bothered him, he hid his feelings well.

“I say it with no shame that the Congregation and I share the same word,” said Parson Leach, “though we may quibble over its details, now and again.”

“You'll have time enough to quibble, Mr. Leach, in Hell.”