THE SUGGESTION OF DANGER DRIFTED AWAY IN THEIR WAKE AND ALL but disappeared when they came to the road that Parson Leach had described–a convergence of roads, actually–and he hurried them along the track northwest again. Soon they reached the ford at Dyers River. The current there was salty, but the tide was near to ebb and they were able to splash across on the backs of their mounts without getting very wet.
They saw two or three scattered farms on that side of Great Meadow, as they passed over a road that had been built up on marshy ground; at the top of a hill, they sighted lights in the distance, along the Sheepscott River not half a mile away.
“Does the town look very awake?” said Parson Leach.
Peter thought it did. Lights glimmered from almost every house, and there looked to be a fire in one of the streets. They rode down the slope and when they crossed the wooden bridge over Benjamin Brook–their horses’ hooves clumping loudly–a light glared in their faces and several figures stepped from the side of the road beyond and barred the way. Two or three of these persons wore something over their heads, and the others had blackened their faces.
“Stand!” came the nasal twang of a voice from one of them, who stepped ahead of the lantern light. “Who goes there!” and for the second time that night, the travelers found themselves the object of a musket bore’s attention.
“Since you are pointing the gun,” said the parson, almost with a laugh, “Perhaps we deserve to be answered first.”
“What?” said the man, and a second said, “Get down, now.”
Peter, who was startled almost as profoundly by the parson’s reply as from the original sentry-call, was ready to comply, but the parson put a hand out and touched his arm.
“If you’re here to rob us,” said Parson Leach, “we can hand over our valuables and stay mounted.”
“We are Liberty Men!” declared one of the figures.
“We’re the White Indians!” said another.
Shielding his eyes from the light of the lantern with one hand, Parson Leach leaned forward and peered past Mars’s large head to inspect the foremost of these figures. The man’s face was disguised as an animal of some sort, but he drew back, as if the parson could see who he was beneath the mask. When the parson said, “Are you afraid your wife will come out here and recognize you, Martin Church?” the whole group of them expressed astonishment and dismay.
“Who is that?” came a third voice, and one of the men stepped up and peered up at the riders. “Is that you, Mr. Leach?”
“Yes, and I’ve been greeted with less threat and more flattery when I’ve come to New Milford.”
Some wordless sounds of apology were interrupted by the first man, who came to the fore again and declared, almost in a chant, “The powers of oppression are upon us, and we must be watchful!” Then he considered the two horsemen and added, “Not to speak that the two of you are dressed like gentlemen.”
“The sheriffs been about,” said a fellow further back in the crowd.
“He’s jailed ten men and swears to keep them!” said another.
“Do pardon us, Mr. Leach,” managed one man, whose face was black with charcoal.
“Do we take his gun?” said someone.
“The parson?” said another.
“He’s one of us, isn’t he?”
“You are, aren’t you, Mr. Leach?”
“A man for Liberty, I might be,” said the clergyman lightly, “but I won’t join you for the pleasure of accosting simple travelers.”
The Liberty Men replied in harmony of meaning, if not voice. “We’re only protecting our own, Mr. Leach,” said the one, and “Ten men they took,” insisted another, “and not all of them part of the frolic the other night.” Still a third broke in with, “Roused them from their fields and hearths, Mr. Leach. Put them in irons and marched them to Wiscasset.”
The man who had first challenged the travelers took another step forward, shook his musket at Parson Leach, and announced with a degree of belligerence not yet heard in that colloquy, “Mister, you are either for us, or against.”
Parson Leach swung one foot over the front of his saddle and dropped from his horse in a single motion. The man with the contentious musket was surprised by this movement and didn’t step back as much as he simply leaned away. The bore of the musket leaned away as well and Parson Leach snatched the gun from the man’s hand in as quick a move as Peter Loon had ever seen.
There was a great deal of discussion about this, but Parson Leach broke through the uproar with the following quiet, if earnestly felt dissertation. “Step ahead, any man who can say he’s seen me demonstrate other than sympathy for backcountry folk. If I speak of moderate means, so much more should you listen to me, rather than follow some mad ranter. But as for being for or against, I feel good will, as a general thing, toward any man not pointing a gun at me. Why have I come here, if not to discover circumstance and offer what stands by my command?” The masked men drew back from this even-spoken lecture, and Parson Leach offered the first fellow his musket back, saying, “I seem to remember writing a successful answer to writ for you last spring, George Chaff.”
The parson did not wait for anyone to grant permission, but mounted Mars, spoke to Peter, and rode past the group of men. Peter did not immediately understand what was happening, but then he urged Beam forward, with his heart charging in his chest. There was no further challenge or outcry from behind, but ahead of them, the voices of men were raised in shouts and raucous song. There was a bonfire in the midst of the village and the masked and costumed figures milling about it were silhouetted into strange shapes against the flames.
