SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12
There is blood in the snow.
A crowd has gathered outside the tavern, and two men scuffle at its heart, arms and legs flailing. Amos and Moses Pollard stand on either side of the shrinking circle, arms out to block anyone from interfering. Abigail has wisely situated herself on the front steps, mug of steaming cider in hand, a safe distance from the fray. She looks on with disdain.
I have just come from delivering Grace Sewell and am ready to be home, but my curiosity wins out, and I cross the street to see what all the fuss is about.
“Men are a right bunch of fools,” Abigail mutters when I reach her side.
“Yes. But which ones specifically?”
“The one that’s bleeding is James Wall.” Before I can ask a question or jump to any conclusions, she adds, “And the other is an officer of the court from Vassalboro. Came here to bring James in on charges, he did.”
“Charges for what?”
She shrugs. “Dunno. But James doesna want to be brought. So they’re deciding it amongst themselves. Like I said, fools. James shouldna resist, and the officer shouldna let him.”
“Let?”
“Ye’ll see.”
And I do, soon enough, when the officer grows tired of the debacle. He’s an average-size man, under six foot, and not so much thin as sinewy. It is clear he’s been trained to box, however, and is quick on his feet. A left hook makes contact with James’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the frozen mud. The officer is on him in a moment, tying his hands behind his back with a length of rope.
“As I said,” the officer pants. “You are to report to Fort Western immediately to face charges for failure to pay your debts.”
James spits a glob of blood onto the ground. “I already told you! We got stuck in the river and couldn’t make our delivery. So I didn’t get paid. And therefore I couldn’t make my payment last month.”
The young officer does appear sympathetic at this. But he straightens his back and stands over James. “The why of it is none of my business. That’s for the court to decide.”
The crowd watches as he pulls James to his feet and leads him to a wagon parked beside the tavern. They step aside as James is hoisted onto the seat and has his bindings tied to an iron loop attached to the wagon’s sideboard. It’s a sailor’s knot, meant for rigging, and there’s no chance it will come loose on the journey. Once satisfied that James is secure, the officer unties the reins and climbs to his seat.
He tips his hat to the crowd, then flicks the leather straps and shouts, “Ha!”
The horse turns onto Water Street and toward the north as the residents of the Hook stare silently after them.
“He lodged here last night,” Abigail says, pre-empting my question again. “Said his name was Barnabas Lambard, but we didna know he was an officer of the court or why he’d come.”
“He looks to be quite young.”
“Aye. About twenty, I’d say. And that probably worked in his favor.” “How’s that?”
“Moses told me he was asking around about James. Where he lives and what he looks like. Everyone thought they must be old acquaintances. But it was the horse he was most interested in.” Abigail takes a sip of her cider and turns to me.
“Why?”
“A man’s a man. But every horse is unique. That’s what he told Moses, at any rate. And ’tis well known that James rides a Narrangansett Pacer. He boasts of it often enough—says it comes from Washington’s own herd. Lies, probably. I couldna pick one out of a herd, mind you, but that officer could. Charged right out of the tavern the moment he saw James tie up at the post.”
I look to where the horse stands beside the hitching post—confused and jittery thanks to all the excitement. It’s of middling height with narrow hindquarters and, like so many other horses, is a warm chestnut brown. Black mane. Black tail. Black socks. The head and tail are held high, though, and I think that maybe a good horseman would know a Pacer from a Hackney.
“What will you do with it?” I ask, nodding to the horse. “Board him, I guess. James can settle the bill later.”
The wagon is gone now but I look in the direction it left. “I thought debtors’ prison was a thing of the past. How much does James owe?”
Abigail shrugs. “There wasna much opportunity for asking questions once the punches started flying, was there? But I have heard James intends to start a distillery.” She turns those moss-green Scottish eyes on me. Gives me a look filled with import. “And that he went to Judge North for the loan.”
“Why him?”
“A wealthy man is North. Likes to have a finger in every pot. Or so I’m told.”
I turn my head to the side. Take in the hulking form of the tavern behind us. “Has Amos…?”
“He would never.”
The crowd starts to disperse, and I see John Cowan—the young blacksmith’s apprentice—saunter over to say a few words to the Pollards’ oldest daughter, Catherine. We observe the pair in silence. Bowed heads. Low voices. At one point John leans closer and lightly touches Catherine’s elbow when she says something. They both laugh. Blush. Then he says goodbye and walks away.
“And what do ye make of that?” Abigail asks. Once again, she sips her cider, then passes the mug to me.
It’s good and rich. Tart and strong. I swirl it around my mouth, carefully choosing my words. “John is kind and hardworking. Charles Clark depends on him greatly. He’s strong. Responsible.”
“But?”
“I didn’t say ‘but.’ ” “Not out loud ye didna.”
I flash Abigail a quick smile. “He’s a good man. I believe that. But not the brightest I’ve ever known.”
“Your standards might be too high, Mistress Ballard. Not every man can be Ephraim.” She looks at me with a smile of her own. “Or Amos.”
“Sadly, no.”
“Ye ken my meaning. If he was to come knocking on your door would ye let him court Hannah?”
Abigail and I have never discussed Moses’s interest in my daughter, but it can’t have escaped her notice. “It isn’t John Cowan who plans to come knocking. Or at least if he did, your own Moses would knock him down.”
We assess John’s retreating form. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, but neither of us say it aloud. We both like Moses too much.
“Aye, he would try,” Abigail says with a rueful twist of her mouth. “Regardless, Hannah appears to be spoken for, and Dolly is still a bit
young for courting, but if the circumstances were different on either count, yes, I would open the door for John Cowan. And I believe Ephraim would as well.”
“That’s about how I reckon things, but I wanted to make sure,” Abigail says. Then, as I turn to go, she reaches for her mug. “Martha?”
“Yes?” I hand it back.
“Dinna be surprised if Moses comes knocking a bit sooner than ye expect.”
*
I set my quill on the desk and stretch my hand. It aches. From cold and age and the strain of small muscles put to work guiding a child into this world.
Friday, December 11.—Birth. David Sewell’s son. Cloudy. At Mr. Sewell’s. I was called to attend Grace Sewell yesterday evening. Her travail was mild. But she and her mother were intimidated and called Dr. Page who gave my patient fifty drops of laudanum which put her into such a stupor that her pains (which were regular and promising) became scant until she puked. Her pains returned and she was delivered at the seventh hour of a son, her first born. I received twelve shillings as a reward. Left her cleverly at ten and walked across the river.
Cyrus and Young Ephraim have long since crawled into their beds on the second floor, and I can hear their snores rattling down the stairwell. The girls have also retreated to their room and whatever dreams the night might bring. Jonathan, as usual, is sleeping elsewhere.
My brows pinch together in frustration at the thought of him, but I continue writing:
Saturday, December 12.—Clear and cold. James Wall
was carried to Fort Western by an officer today. I hear a charge was given against him for failure to pay debts.
I stretch my back, listening to the wind in the pines and the creak of the house as it settles around me. I can hear a coyote yipping in the pasture and an owl hooting near the barn. The fact of the matter is that I am lonely.
And then I laugh. If anyone had told me two decades ago, when I was buried in small children and endless chores, that one day I would sit at my desk in a warm, quiet house while the snow fell outside and complain of loneliness, I would have slapped them. That future seemed as far away as Constantinople.
I blow a long, cool breath over the new entry to set the ink, then put aside my quill. I would very much like to join the rest of the house in slumber, but I can already feel the creeping wakefulness that often assails me at night. This is a new affliction, something that began once I rounded the corner of forty-five. I never understood what a gift sleep was until it vanished. Whereas, in all the decades before, I slept deep and heavy, soaking up every morsel of rest that was offered, I now skim the surface, fitful, easily woken, and unable to drift off again. On nights like this, no amount of physical exhaustion can induce my mind to shutter, so I read by candlelight instead. It is the only time I allow myself this indulgence. The joy of falling into another life, another world, is the one thing that mitigates the frustration of a sleepless night.
I change into my nightgown, brush my hair, slip under the covers, and reach for the candle on the bedside table. I scoot it closer, then open Emmeline by Charlotte Turner Smith. Ephraim purchased the novel on his last trip to Boston. The cover is tattered—I am not the first owner—but the print is clear, and there are no missing pages, which is more than I can say for most of the novels I’m able to get my hands on. Within seconds, I am immersed in a make-believe world of English aristocracy. But it does not escape my attention that, had my own ancestors enjoyed such comfort, I
would be living across the sea, and not here in the vast wilds of the new world.
