WHEN HE CONSIDERED RECENT DAYS AND THE MILES HE HAD TRAVeled, not to mention the people he had seen–more people than he had known his entire life–Peter was amazed that he could make his way home in a day and a half’s ride; and though he was concerned that he might lose his way he was glad of another route to travel home as he had no desire to return by way of the Ale Wife Tavern and Nora Tillage’s father at the head of Great Bay.
He reached the western settlement of Balltown before noon, and here he crossed the Sheepscott by an ancient ford and found a tavern, where a meal could be had for the price of his story concerning doings in Wiscasset. He related the business as if he had been but a witness, and raised the reputation of Parson Leach and Captain Clayden whenever opportunity arose. His tale was good for commerce there since the tavern keeper and those of his patrons who heard Peter could tell the tale again, and many were the tankards filled that night as others received the story at second hand or more.
In his leisure at the tavern Peter thought to ask after his Uncle Obed, and was amazed that several of his listeners knew of someone named Winslow, that each of these Winslows was someone separate from all the others, and that each of them had some extraordinary story attached to them. One had tried to murder his wife in a jealous rage, and another had owned a horse that could pick apples from a tree and drop them into a basket without breaking the skin, while yet another had had a vision of the devil on a lake up north and hadn’t known his right mind since. There were a peculiar lot of people in the world, Peter thought, and a lot of peculiar people.
Peter had no idea how far spread were Nathan Barrow’s companions, and as he continued his way home he was uneasy of being seen when he found himself nearing farms and houses. He hoped his horse was outstripping most of the Liberty Men on their way home, or that they were from other towns, or that he and Mr. Gray had already passed them the day before.
His path took him along the Sheepscott River Valley, and he traveled most of the afternoon in sight of the stream. A short storm of wind and rain rose out of the southwest and wet him thoroughly before it blustered off. From a low hill overlooking Pleasant Pond he could see the dark cloud and its attendant rain as a shadow racing away, north and east.
It was here, riding the perimeter of a small acre of hardwood, that he first saw a thread of smoke to his right. He hesitated before riding from behind the cover of the trees, but could see no direct way to avoid whoever was responsible for the fire. The smell of smoke reached his nose when its source was not yet apparent, and before he was properly ready, he came round a rocky knoll and into the presence of Mr. Klaggerfell and his dog Pownal.
The old man sat with his back against the granite protrusion of the hill and his dog stood opposite him by the fire. The animal was already waiting for Peter before he appeared, its hackles up, its throat rumbling ominously. Peter pulled Beam up, with a surprised “Ho!” and let her shift back a step or two.
“Don’t mind old Pownal,” said Mr. Klaggerfell.
“You will pardon me, but I do,” said Peter.
The old man gave him a serious look then, and said, “You’re the young fellow with the preacher I met the other night.”
“I am.”
“Yes. Well, all is for nothing. The people here are not up to fighting, it seems.”
“I would guess that that was more than nothing,” said Peter.
“You would?” said the old man with hardly an inflection.
“And to many purposes, in fact.”
“They are not mine.”
“I hope so,” said Peter, and he was startled by his own words.
Mr. Klaggerfell rose to his feet; the motion held no threat in it, only the activity of an old man using sore bones. He looked off to the northeast. “That squall, just went by, didn’t damp my fire,” he said, which observation the young man could not immediately connect to their conversation.
“Goodbye, Mr. Klaggerfell,” said Peter. The old fellow set Peter’s teeth on edge, and he wanted to quit him as soon as was polite–or sooner, if possible.
“That preacher of yours is a lucky man,” called the man after Peter.
Peter did not wait for the old warrior to explain his meaning. Beam happily (and even thankfully, Peter thought) took him down the slope in the direction of a small settlement between the river and Pleasant Pond. Peter did look back, now and again, and though he could see the old man and his dog and the smoke of the fire dwindling behind, he had the uncanny feeling that something of them clung to his back like a leech. Peter was glad to be rid of even the sight of them.
In the hamlet below there was less offered in the way of victuals and more in the way of suspicion concerning Peter in his fine Clayden clothes, and he did not stay long. He had only to follow the Sheepscott north, skirt the Deadwater Slough, west of Great Pond, and he would be within a quarter mile of home.
Night came on and he found a bed of leaves. Beam was tethered nearby, and he hoped the horse would whinny if there were other creatures in the vicinity. It rained in the gray hour before dawn and he rose from his soaked bed and, walking Beam, picked his way alongside the river.
All the way he had only the company of his own thoughts, and he spent many a stretch considering Nora Tillage, and Emily and Sussanah Clayden, and Martha, and Elspeth Gray. He was old enough to think of the rest of his life, but he was not wiser for his deliberation. His life at home occupied him as well, and he was increasingly anxious to see his family, and particularly little Amos.
It was mid-morning, with the skies overcast and peevish with fitful rain, when he rode Beam up a stump-covered slope and came upon the fresh grave. Three other markers lay beyond and he knew them by the names of his sisters and a brother who had died in years before.
The new mound dismayed Peter, however, and he fell off Beam as much as he dismounted. Someone had taken the time to fashion a presentable headboard, with his father’s name, his age, and the date of his death. Peter recognized the work of a neighborhusband by the handsome willow tree carved into the wood above the name of Silas Loon. What would his father have made of Peter being away? What would Silas Loon have made of the clothes his son wore beneath his own coat and hat?
Peter hunkered in the misty rainfall and shook a little. His eyes were closed tight. How his father would have liked Parson Leach, he thought, and he wept for that missed meeting as much as anything else.
Some time later, he rode down the eastern slope, picking his way among the stumps and tromping over the harvested furrows. There was a small barn, where he put Beam, and he wondered that no one had seen him and come out to greet him.
On the short porch of the house, he scraped mud off his boots, opened the door and stepped inside. He knew immediately that something was strange within. It was as if he had come to the wrong house–as if he had only dreamed of his family here, and of his mother sending him away.
The first face to greet him was that of a young man his own age, who sat at the kitchen table. Then he saw his sister Sally Ann, standing by the hearth. He could not tell if she were more astonished to see him or the clothes he wore. The day was dark and little light penetrated the tiny windows; they seemed to cast more shadow than light and Peter squinted into the main room of the house after his other siblings and his mother.
Sally Ann moved across the room and put her arms around Peter with something like a sob. Looking over his sister’s shoulder, Peter recognized the young man at the kitchen table as Job Winslow from the bottom land north of the Loon’s farm.
“Where’s Mama?” asked Peter. “Where’s Amos and Deborah and–”
“Peter,” said Job Winslow, looking uncomfortable. He nodded formally.
“They’re gone,” said Sally Ann. “Peter, what happened to you?”
“Gone? Where could they be gone?” He hardly hugged his sister back, he was so dazed.
“They’ve gone off with Job’s Uncle Obed,” said Sally Ann. She stood back from Peter and searched his face for a reaction to this news, then looked more closely at Captain Clayden’s clothes.
“Job’s Uncle Obed?” he said.
Sally Ann and Job exchanged glances before she looked back at her brother and said, simply, “Yes.”
“Obed Winslow?”
“Yes.”
“But Mama said he was our uncle. I asked her if he had anything to do with the Winslows down on the bottomland, but. . .” He thought back on the business between himself and his mother that night, and tried to remember what had been said. “But she didn’t really answer me,” he decided aloud.
“Job went to him when Papa died,” said Sally Ann.
“Why would you do that?” wondered Peter in Job’s direction; then to his sister he added, “Why would Mama send me off looking for him if he was one of Job’s people?”
“She didn’t know . . .” began Sally Ann. “Oh, she knew he was Job’s uncle, of course. But she didn’t know that Obed had been taking news of Mama and our family for years. Job’s father used to send word or go down to Bowdoinham himself sometimes. But he sent Job in late years and when Papa was killed, Job took his father’s horse and raced down to tell his uncle.”
“But what’s this Obed Winslow to us?” wondered Peter. He sat down at the kitchen table and leaned toward Job. “What did he want with news of us?”
“He knew your people, I guess,” said Job. “He’d known your mother and been friends with your father, when they were boys.” The young man looked up at Sally Ann for help.
“He was in love with Mama, years ago, when she and Papa married, and she might have married Job’s uncle but for some decision he and Papa made. And Obed left Sheepscott Great Pond for Wiscasset, then Bath, and then Bowdoinham where he owns some land and a shingle mill. But Mama never knew, and when he came the other day, while you were gone, she packed up the children and left with him.”
“To Bowdoinham,” said Peter quietly.
“Bowdoinham,” she said, and their voices had descended almost to whispers.
Peter looked about, as if he might yet catch sight of Amos, or Deborah, or Hannah running to jump into his lap.
“I would have gone with them,” said Sally Ann in a sudden rush, “but Job was here when we were getting our things and he asked if I’d be his wife and Mama said you were to have the farm if you wanted it, and we were to take the stake you began up north, betimes, but you’d let us live here perhaps while Job set up a little cabin for us. And Job and I are together now and we’ll have the first preacher that comes through do it proper . . .”
“Did she think I wouldn’t let her go?” wondered Peter aloud.
“She’d have gone anyway,” said Sally Ann. “And you never saw her so strong on anything, Peter, I swear it. But she was going to take us all.”
“Did she think I wouldn’t have let Amos go, or Hannah?”
“It wasn’t why she sent you,” said Sally Ann.
“She never knew where he was,” said Job, and Peter believed him. “Uncle Obed never let us tell a soul. She couldn’t know he was coming for her.”
“She wondered if you’d even come back,” said Sally Ann in a guilty hush. Clearly their mother had passed this doubt along.
“She’s so lost herself,” said Peter a little bitterly, “I can’t imagine what she thinks she knows about any of us.”
“She said you were to have the farm if you want it.”
Peter truly saw his sister for the first time since he came into the house, and he turned to look at her new husband, who was sitting at what Job might have more obviously hoped would become his own kitchen table. Job looked unconcerned, however, and Peter liked him for it. His sister, he thought, was beautiful and clever and a good catch for a backcountry boy, but if Obed Winslow owned land and a shingle mill, he would have been able to put a stepdaughter in finer clothes than she was wearing now. Put Sally Ann in a new dress and she would have held her own against the Clayden women. She would have had a mob of suitors, no doubt. She could cook, as well, and she had inherited their father’s good nature. She smiled, as a rule, but now she only looked distressed and uncertain.
“I feel a little lonely,” said Peter in a matter-of-fact way.
“The house does feel still without the little ones,” she said. “It’s a wonder you didn’t pass them on your way.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to bury Papa,” said Peter.
“We could hardly figure where you were,” admitted Sally Ann. “When Mama finally thought to explain it all, I thought I would hit her, sending you out in the middle of the night.” She sat at the table beside Job and her husband took her hand, which made Peter like him more. “I think she was a little sorry for it,” said Sally Ann.
“People understood, though, when they were told,” Job assured Peter.
“What did you do, Peter?” asked Sally Ann. “Have you made your way so fast?” she wondered, amazed all over again at the fine things he wore. She was filled with questions. “What did you see? Mama says that there’s a powerful lot of people out there in the world.”
Peter did not respond to this immediately, but when he did it was with surprise, as the meaning of Sally’s words struck him. “Did she?” he said. “It wasn’t what she told me. But God knows, there are. There are a lot of people out there.”
