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Monday 18 April 1768
"MY UNCLE SILAS is older and more experienced than I,” John Martin told the councilmen of Martin’s Village when they met in the church two days after Homer Martin’s funeral. “Should he not be the one to lead this meeting?”
Silas wondered if John really meant it. Somehow, he doubted it.
“That makes a great deal of sense,” the crotchety Reverend Anders Russell said. “I know that if Robert Hastings were still alive, he would agree, for he and I spoke a number of times about what would happen if Homer Martin should die. What say you, Silas?”
Silas felt a moment’s amusement at the minister’s use of the word if. As though there had been a question as to whether the esteemed Homer Martin might cheat death. Why had they not discussed what would happen when Homer died? No one else seemed to have noticed the strange word usage, though.
He briefly studied the faces of the assembled men. He knew them all, some better than others, and had indeed travelled those four long years with many of them. Now the older men were beginning to die, and their sons were taking their places in these monthly meetings. What had begun as a practical necessity had taken on the aspect of tradition.
They did not always agree, but had managed over the years to present a unified stand after arguments had been discussed, sometimes at great length. Did he, as the last living son of William Martin, want to take on the leadership role his brother had held for so long? Did he want to step forward now and do openly what he had all these years been doing quietly in the shadow of his brother?
When it was discovered that Worthy Endicott had settled his family—successfully it seemed—barely a mile south of Martin’s Village, beyond the Gorge, below the cliffs that bounded the town, Homer’s eyes had bulged out in disbelief, and Silas had been hard put to make him see reason. “We have no reason to confront Worthy Endicott,” he had explained repeatedly and at some length as Homer’s wife went about her quiet business in the house.
“He and those brothers of his will try to take our women,” Homer had insisted.
“That is a long mile indeed,” Silas had countered, “and few will travel it willingly.”
Homer had been angry, too, when Willy Breeton first talked in 1754 of leaving Martin’s Village with his wife and children—and multiple dogs—to settle five miles up the valley. It had taken Silas almost a week to talk Homer into some sense. Like all youngest sons, Willy had felt there was not a place for himself here in Martin’s Village. When he finally left, with the grudging blessing of Homer and the rest of the town council, as the leaders had begun calling themselves, Willy had taken with him three of the other youngest sons—Lucius Hastings, Abner Russell, and Able Garner, with their wives, their goats, their chickens, and their children.
There had been countless such times, when Homer’s ready anger had threatened the peace of the village, but always Silas had been there to temper his brother’s impetuous nature.
Now, though, Homer was dead and Silas was forty-nine. He had begun to feel the winter’s cold in his swelling knees and wrists. He hoped to continue for many years, but knew that his chances were slim. It was enough now if he could still sketch the daily life of the town, if he could still draw the lovely strong lines of his wife’s dear face.
He chose his words carefully. “My brother Homer served as your leader for the past twenty-eight years, and many of you know that he and I often discussed the route we would take on the journey here and the ways in which our town should be ordered once we had settled.” He cleared his throat. He did not want to utter a falsehood. “My brother’s voice was always the one that spoke, and I was content to serve as an advisor.”
“And a fine one you were to him,” the elderly minister said.
Silas nodded a quick acknowledgment. If only they knew. “I—we all—have watched John Martin from the time he was born that first winter on the trail, and he has grown into a fine man. He is my brother’s legacy to this town.” Silas had often wondered why his brother’s wife, Mary Frances Martin, had never had any other children, for he could tell—anyone with eyes could see—that she loved her son. That was none of his business, though. “I would fain relinquish any leadership role and serve as an advisor to John.”
“He is not yet thirty,” Willem Breeton said in his raspy voice, ignoring John as if he had not been sitting within an arm’s length. “Should he not learn from you and then follow you when you—I mean, after you—that is...”
“When I die?” Silas’ tone was sardonic as he stressed that first word. There was no if about it. No one seemed to question whether Silas was immortal. “Lest you worry, I have no immediate plans to do so. And John has had almost thirty years to learn from his father.”
“Still,” Willem insisted, “meaning no disrespect to John Martin, but many of us are twice his age.”
“My father was but twenty when you left on your journey here,” John Martin pointed out, “and still you followed him.”
Silas had been right to think that John had already decided to step up as the town leader. John was indeed Homer’s son in that respect, although Silas was always amazed that nobody seemed to see how little of Homer was in the boy. John had not his father’s narrow eyes or his pugnacious chin, his sloping forehead or his squared jaw.
Silas could almost narrow his eyes and see, not John Martin, but Hubbard Brandt sitting here before him. Hubbard Brandt the way he had been before. John Martin’s eyes were the same shape as Hubbard Brandt’s had been, and his forehead had the same high rise. He would never say anything to impugn the reputation of so fine a woman as Mary Frances Martin, but that drawing of his showing father and son—John Gilman and John Martin—had been true.
Fortunately John did not seem to have Homer’s fondness for strong drink, but he did have his supposed father’s drive to be in charge, and Silas could see that John had no intention of letting the leadership of the council go to anyone else. His apparent deferral to Silas had been, as Silas had suspected, but a ploy. He did wonder what John would have done had Silas accepted the position. Now, that would have been most interesting. He was almost sorry he had not thought of it earlier.
“I would be pleased to have my uncle serve as my advisor,” John said, smoothly assuming the concurrence of the men present. “The rest of you, as trusted members of the council, will be ready to put in your opinions, as we all well know.”
That gained him a laugh, and Silas could see the current of their thoughts turning aside from Silas to his nephew.
The next Sunday, Reverend Russell announced the decision of the council that the only son of the late revered Homer Martin would lead the council. As he spoke, Silas happened to be looking at Homer’s widow, Mary Frances Martin, and he thought she looked inordinately pleased with the result of the men’s deliberations. But then, she would. John was her only son. Her only child.
There was something else in her face, though. It wasn’t pride, although it was clear she was proud of her son. It almost looked like—no, he thought, that would not be possible. He looked again with his keen artist’s eye and could not help but think that her face showed a great deal of amusement, for which he could think of only one reason.
~ ~ ~
JULY 1997
MEETING HUBBARD MARTIN was no difficulty whatsoever. All she had to do was attend a few town council meetings. It took her a couple of days of easy observation to discover that he liked to walk along the cliffs up above the town. For exercise, he said. After that, she trailed him, making sure nobody else was around.
Some exercise, she thought that first day she followed him. All he did was sit on a fallen log and smoke a couple of cigarettes, littering the ground with the butts.
He was a little surprised to see her that first time. She could tell he knew he’d seen her somewhere, but she didn’t give him any sort of hint—just let him bumble around until he finally said, "The council meetings. I’ve seen you there."
"That’s right."
He extended his hand. "Your name is...?"
"Charlotte Ellis. Your father knew my grandmother, I believe."
She thought it was funny how slack his face went. So he did know about it.
"Why are you here?"
"I think you know, Hubbard. Can I call you Hubbard? Since we’re going to be in a cozy business setup."
"No, we’re not."
"I met your wife, and I’ve had several nice friendly conversations with her. I noticed how proud she is of being married to the latest in that direct line of Martins." It didn’t take long for him to see her way of thinking.
With Hubbard’s help, she found herself a little house to buy—with his money, of course—and she gradually fit into the day-to-day operations of the town. They met once a month on the cliff-top so Hubbard could hand over a tidy package of bills. She never said a word to Clara about the arrangement.
Neither, apparently, did he.
~ ~ ~
2000
MADDY WENT TO the next drawing. “Here’s the one from 1768. Looks like two different weddings. One’s labeled Brand and Parley. The other one says Louise and Frederick.”
"I love this drawing," Glaze said. "There’s so much character on each of these faces, and you can just see how much Silas loved them." She grinned. "Brand never did get his hair to lie down flat, did he?"
“He had two kids get married the same year? They were his kids, weren’t they—Brand a stepson and Louise his daughter with”—Dee nodded at Melissa—"Melissa’s great-great-blah-blah-grandmother."
"Louetta Tarkington Martin," Melissa said unnecessarily, since by this time we all were pretty familiar with that amazing woman. "Bear-killer," she added.
Ida nodded at Dee. “You’re right. Two marriages. That was a busy year.” Her voice seemed to indicate something more, and I spread my hands as if to say Yeah? What else? but Melissa anticipated me.
“Seventeen-sixty-eight was the year Homer died,” she said.
“That’s right,” Rebecca Jo said. “I wonder why Silas didn’t draw a picture of his brother’s funeral.”
“Maybe he drew one and didn’t keep it,” Melissa said in a suitably funereal tone.
"I bet he didn’t even bother to draw one," Maddy said.
“Look at that building in back of the two couples,” Glaze said. “Is it the barn?”
We studied the drawing for a moment, and then Melissa laughed. “Of course! Parley and Louise were the first two barn babies.”
“So that’s where they got married?” Maddy sounded dubious.
“I doubt they could have done that,” Carol said. “People took weddings much more seriously back then. They would most likely have been married in the church, but maybe they had a feast beside the barn afterwards.”
"Or inside it." Sadie pointed at Parley. “She’s wearing Brand’s bear claw.”
“That would be my bear claw,” Melissa said.
~ ~ ~
FRIDAY, 3 JUNE 1768
PARLEY GRINNED AT Louise as they walked up the lane. “I do not see why we can not.”
“Yes you most certainly do, Parley. Reverend Russell would never allow us to hold our marriage ceremonies in the barn.”
“But why not? That is where you and I took our first breaths.”
“You are being a foolish goose if you think he would ever agree.”
“You just think your Frederick would be scandalized.” Parley twiddled the ends of her bonnet strings. “He is far too proper, more like an old man.”
Louise sprang to the defense of her intended, even though if truth be told, she did agree somewhat with Parley’s description of him. “Frederick has ever been ready to stand by me.” She began to chuckle. “Remember how he rammed his head into”—she looked around to be sure they weren’t overheard—“into Barnyard’s stomach and pushed him into the river?”
Parley dissolved in laughter. “I was so sure you were going to die that day.”
“Not with my Frederick to protect me,” Louise maintained staunchly, although she knew it had been her own legs that had pushed off the bottom of the deep pool and propelled her toward the shallower water.
“So, you will not consider the barn?”
“I do not wish to upset Frederick by suggesting something as ... as unusual as being married in a barn. I am not even sure the marriage would be legal.”
Parley scoffed. “Of course it would. The banns have been read. There will be plenty of witnesses. Think of all the people who were married along the trail while our families traveled here. Even your parents were married beside a wagon. As were mine.”
Louise pursed her lips. “That is only because a fine church building was not available.”
When they reached the Martin house, Parley embraced her friend. “I will see you on the morrow at the”—she heaved a long whooshing sigh of resignation—“at the church.”
Louise reached out and touched the bear claw that hung, as always, around Parley’s neck. “Do you intend to wear this through the ceremony?”
Parley looked aghast. “Of course I do. If you won’t let the weddings be in the barn, you must at least allow me to wear my necklace.”
“I used to chew on it when I was a baby,” Louise said.
Parley gasped theatrically and pulled it from her friend’s grasp. “Not during the wedding, please!”
Louise laughed yet again and walked inside, still chuckling, to find her parents looking at her in mild query. “Parley insists on wearing that claw of hers during the wedding. And she suggested that since we both began our lives in the barn that perhaps we should be married there as well.”
One of those looks passed between her parents that Louise could not interpret.
~ ~ ~
SATURDAY, 4 JUNE 1768
EVERYONE IN TOWN came to the weddings of course, and there was fine celebration throughout the day. Brand and Parley were the first to be wed, as was only right, since Brand was the older of the two grooms. Silas could feel the love pouring from his wife for her fine son. Brand would make any mother—and any stepfather—proud indeed.
That first ceremony was followed within minutes by Louise and Frederick Breeton’s joining. Silas could barely contain himself as his daughter—his and Louetta’s—looked with shining face into the eyes of her dear Frederick.
That evening, Silas lingered over a drawing of the two wedding couples. Brand had not been able to tame his wild fluffy hair. Parley’s eyes had twinkled with bedevilment as she fingered the bear claw necklace. Frederick, despite his wide smile, had retained something of the staid storekeeper about himself, and Louise—ah! Louise. Silas poured as much of his love for his daughter as he could into the drawing of her. Of them all. He felt proud indeed.
He debated whether or not to follow his fancy and finally decided that he could indeed sketch the barest outline of the barn in the background. He thought about drawing Barnard Surratt, the third barn baby, off on the side as well, but chose not to. Barnard was a surly sort, and Silas wanted only the happiest of faces in this precious scene of his two children and their loving spouses.
When he showed the sketch to Louetta, she laughed at the suggestion of the barn. “I love you, my Husband,” she said. When he touched her cheek, his finger left a smear of ink.