Abiding Peace

by Susan Page Davis

  “That will pass when she’s woven a few yards of cloth,” Samuel said. “All is at peace here?”

  “Aye. I’ve somewhat to tell you, though.”

  They reached the doorstone, and Samuel set Ruth inside the doorway. “There, now, tell Abby that Father would like some tea.” He turned back to evaluate Christine’s sober expression. Her hazel eyes held suppressed excitement tinged with anxiety. “What is it?”

  “Stephen Dudley found Goody Ackley’s market basket near the outlaw’s camp in the woods. But he and Richard had been there yesterday, and he’s certain the basket was not there then.”

  Samuel inhaled deeply and looked out over the village. The outlaw again. Christine must care more for McDowell than she had admitted, if she could think and speak of nothing else. He had been gone a day and a half, yet the first topic she broached when he returned home was that worthless thief.

  He sighed. “Well, the magistrate will come as soon as he can.”

  “When?”

  “Probably not next week. He’s holding court in Portsmouth and has several cases scheduled. He told William Heard to hold the prisoner until he comes. A lawyer will come, too, to represent the accused.”

  He wished this business was over with and McDowell gone.

  “That is well,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Aye, but the supper hour is past, and I must get to my studies.”

  “You shall eat something first. I saved portions for you and Ben.” She went inside.

  Lord, truly, she seems just what I need. Give me patience.

  Samuel followed her and let the comfort of home refresh his tired soul.

  twelve

  On Sunday morning, since Brother Heard had not returned from Portsmouth, Samuel allowed Ben to blow the shell and call the people to worship. They came from the farms, from the fishermen’s cottages, and the garrison houses. Samuel preached with passion, although his hours for preparing the sermon had been severely curtailed that week. His words on justice thundered through the rafters.

  Christine sat very straight and still in the new boxed-in pew, center and front, just below the pulpit. Her eyes were fixed on him so intently that Samuel had to force himself not to look down there too often. When he did, though, he saw that John was wriggling, and Christine paid the boy no mind. Half of Samuel’s mind hoped Brother Wentworth would see and rap John smartly on the head with his staff. The other half hoped he wouldn’t, and thus save him the embarrassment of having the entire congregation know that his son had misbehaved in church.

  At the noontime break, he shook hands with each of the church members and greeted them. Several of the men asked about his journey to Portsmouth and when the magistrate would arrive.

  At last he left the church doorway and found Christine on the green with the children about her. “Why don’t you invite your friends to eat their dinner at the parsonage today?” he asked.

  “Oh, Father!” Abby cried with shining eyes. “We’ll get to play with the babies again.”

  “Hush now.” He looked only at Christine. Her hazel eyes met his gaze with confusion.

  “But this is a quiet hour for you, sir, when you can eat your dinner in peace and meditate on your message for this afternoon.”

  “I thought you might like to ask the Gardners and the Dudleys over. You’ve not had a chance to visit with them lately.”

  “Only if you wish it, sir. I can wait.”

  “I wish it.”

  She did not bounce about laughing, like Abby and Constance, or giggle in glee, like Ruth, but he thought her quiet smile showed a pleasure he seldom saw on her face. Why did he not more often seek to please her?

  “Thank you. I shall invite them.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he found himself at his table surrounded by Richard Dudley, Charles Gardner, and their wives. The mothers held their babies on their laps while they ate the food they’d brought in their baskets, and his own children waited for the plates to be washed. When Christine began to serve them, Samuel said swiftly, “Sit down, Christine, and enjoy the company. Let Abby and Constance do that.”

  The unaccustomed fellowship brought a glow of pleasure to her face. He had not always been so stern that his family thought it ungodly to enjoy the company of other believers on Sunday, Samuel reflected. When Elizabeth lived, they used to have large groups of people into their home for Sabbath-day lunches, especially in the cold winter. But lately he had pleaded the need to rest or study.

  Seeing the three young women together again brought back memories of the days they had all lived in his home. And now two of the young captives were settled, with good, God-fearing husbands. He smiled as he thought how Elizabeth had despaired of ever finding a husband for Christine. She had been so withdrawn, so aloof, to the point of being prickly. And women like Goody Ackley had whispered that no man would ever offer for the tall, homely girl.

  Odd how one’s perspective changed. He no longer noticed how tall Christine was, except perhaps when she stood beside one of the young children. When he spoke to her and their eyes were not more than a few inches off being level, it didn’t bother him. And would anyone call her homely now? She seemed to have softened somehow.

  Perhaps it was the more becoming hairstyle she had adopted under Jane Gardner’s urging, or the gentle manner she exhibited with his children. She seldom scowled, and when she smiled, her features smoothed into lines, if not pretty, then at least agreeable. He only knew that lately he’d begun to think she had improved her appearance. Her deportment was almost regal. Her features … why, a man could look at that honest, straight nose and those thoughtful eyes every day and not tire of it. In fact, he did!

  Richard Dudley nudged him with his elbow. “That right, Pastor?”

  “What?”

  Richard chuckled.

  “I’m sorry,” Samuel said. “I was lost in thought, I fear.” He hoped they did not see the flush he felt reddening his face beneath his beard. A sidelong glance at Charles Gardner told him otherwise. He’d been caught, no question. Caught staring at Christine.

  She jumped up suddenly. “Let me get the teakettle.”

  Samuel thought her ears had gone quite pink. Yes, she had a most interesting face.

  As they walked back to the meetinghouse after dinner, Sarah Dudley caught Christine’s elbow and leaned close to her.

  “The parson seemed quite preoccupied at dinner.”

  “I expect he was thinking of his sermon,” Christine said. “He usually studies during the noon hour.” She felt an annoying blush returning to her cheeks. Of course she had noticed that Samuel, in his reverie—whatever the topic—had stared at her while he let his thoughts roam. And her friends assumed they were centered on her. How awkward for the pastor. Jane and Sarah wouldn’t gossip about it, though. At least she hoped not.

  “Somehow I received a different impression,” Sarah said.

  “Hush. You mustn’t put about such a whisper. It would damage the reverend’s reputation horribly.”

  Sarah squeezed her arm. “Oh, my dear, forgive me. I was only teasing. I do love the pastor. We all do. And we’ve felt so miserable for him this past year. It would cheer us all to think he might be ready to …”

  “Don’t even think it!” Christine glanced quickly about to be sure none of the others had heard. “Sarah, please. It would be painful for me and for Samuel if you entertained such ideas.”

  “Oh, for Samuel.” Sarah smiled. “Very well, I shall be quiet. But you must come and see me on a weekday, when there are no listening ears about, and tell me straight to my face that you have not thought of this.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Sarah stared at her in mock horror with innocent blue eyes. “My dear Christine! I’ve never known you to lie before, and on the Sabbath!”

  Christine’s face went scarlet, she was sure, as she passed through the portal of the meetinghouse and into the welcome shadow of the pew.

  The opening pr
ayer gave her twenty minutes to calm herself and turn her thoughts heavenward. This was followed by the singing of a psalm. When Samuel at last began to preach, she found her mind riveted to his words.

  “Our God is a God of great mercy.” Samuel’s text was 2 Samuel 24:14. “And David said unto Gad, I am in a great strait: let us fall now into the hand of the Lord; for his mercies are great: and let me not fall into the hand of man.” Samuel pleaded earnestly with his congregation to exercise God’s mercy toward one another and to all creatures.

  Christine felt a tight kink in her chest slowly loosen and unknot. Samuel truly did want to see McDowell treated fairly. To see justice done, yes, but not to see punishment meted out where it was not deserved.

  As they left the meetinghouse again two hours later, her heart was full. She hoped for a chance to talk to Samuel in more detail about the implications of the scriptures he had expounded.

  She passed a small group of men who clustered outside at the bottom of the steps. Roger Ackley was in their midst, and his angry voice came clearly to her.

  “I tell you, the parson’s too soft on that evil man. He wants us to go easy on the man who murdered my wife!”

  Samuel walked to the Heards’ garrison in the late afternoon. He could not stop Roger Ackley from spouting hatred among the people, but he could show an example of charity. He’d stopped at his house only long enough to see the children settled under Christine’s care for a few more hours. He’d promised her that he would return ere nightfall and left again carrying a couple of her soft, light biscuits wrapped in a scrap of linen and a pair of his own clean stockings. Let it not be said that he hadn’t been evenhanded in his sermons this day. Justice in the morning, mercy in the afternoon. Surely none could find fault with that.

  Yet Roger Ackley did.

  Samuel petitioned God for wisdom and entered the gate at the garrison. “Is the prisoner still in the smokehouse?” he asked William Heard’s son, Jacob, who met him in the fenced yard. His voice was hoarse from speaking most of the day.

  “Aye. We just took him his supper.”

  “Ah. I should like a word with him.”

  Jacob led him to the small building between the barn and the woodshed.

  McDowell sat with his back against the wall, with an empty pewter plate on his lap and a corked jug beside him. His feet were fettered, though where Goodman Heard had come up with the irons Samuel couldn’t imagine. He’d never seen a man chained in Cochecho before. Perhaps Captain Baldwin had supplied them, or maybe the blacksmith had made them specially for this man. Another chain, stout enough to hold a yearling calf, ran from the anklet to a ring in the wall. The man’s shoulders slumped, and his spine curved in dejection, his chin resting against his chest until he raised it to see who might be opening the door of his cell.

  Samuel thanked Jacob and stepped in. The confined space smelled of bacon and wood smoke and unwashed humanity. He remembered Christine saying the prisoner ought to be allowed to wash. Had they offered him a basin of water, soap, and a towel? “Good evening,” he said.

  McDowell shifted, and Samuel saw that his hands were linked, too, but with a chain at least two feet long so that he could move them about.

  “You be the preacher.” McDowell’s eyes glinted for a moment.

  “Aye.” Samuel then stood in silence, seeking God’s leading in how to proceed.

  “Why’d you come? I suppose she told you what I said I’d do if she gave me away.” McDowell squeezed back against the wall, as though afraid the enraged father would beat him for the threats he had made against his children.

  “She did, if you mean Miss Hardin,” Samuel said. “But that is not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here then? Come to save me?”

  Samuel sat down on the straw opposite the prisoner. The dim light gave him a poor view of McDowell’s face, but the man was watching him warily. “I couldn’t do that if I wanted to,” Samuel said. “Only Jesus Christ has the power to do that.”

  McDowell looked away and raised his hands, with a clanking of the chains, in a gesture of futility. “I suppose they’re going to hang me t’morra. Sent you to tell me to repent.”

  “I hope you will repent. But no one sent me. No one but the Almighty.”

  “They’re saying I killed a woman.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  They sat in silence for long time.

  “Thought I was in here for thieving,” McDowell said at last.

  Samuel peered at him. “Only that?”

  “When you all came after me, I thought she’d told, and you were going to drive me out of your township.” The man ducked his head and changed his position again. “That girl they call Christine—she brought me food, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “That weren’t stealing. She gave me things.”

  “Because you threatened her and those she loves.”

  “Not I.”

  Samuel stood. It was no use trying to reason with him.

  “Wait, Parson!”

  He turned back. “Well?”

  McDowell raised his hands in supplication. “I never meant it. I only said it so she’d bring me enough victuals to keep me alive, and I wouldn’t have to go and rob someone. I were desperate, you know.”

  “You could have asked the elders of the village for help. You could have come openly to the parsonage when I was at home. I would have given you sustenance.”

  “We can’t undo what is done, now, can we?”

  “Nay, we cannot. But you can still have forgiveness. Even the vilest can repent and experience God’s mercy.”

  “I didn’t kill no one.”

  Samuel sighed. Lord, show me what to do.

  He sat down again. “You say you didn’t kill the woman we found murdered.”

  “Not I.” The prisoner’s eyes narrowed. “It weren’t the homely girl, were it? She treated me nice, mostly. She got mean at the end and said she wouldn’t bring me no more. But she’d given me enough to get by on for a week or two.”

  Samuel stared at him in disbelief. Was it possible he didn’t know who the victim was, or was he cleverly seeking to gain Samuel’s trust? “Nay, it was not Miss Hardin. But …”

  “What?” McDowell asked.

  “She wasn’t nearly so tall as Christine, and she’d darker hair.” That at least was true when Mahalia Ackley was younger; he did not mention that her raven hair had lately been cloaked in gray. “She’d been to the trader, and she carried her purchases home. Are you sure you didn’t attack her and steal the bundles that she carried?”

  “Nay, sir. I’d remember that, surely I would.” His furtive, dark eyes skewered Samuel, and his upper lip curled. “Were she pretty?”

  Samuel felt ill. He wanted to flee the felon’s presence, but he felt the Lord’s leading to stay put. “McDowell, you need Christ, whether you killed that woman or nay.”

  “You think God Almighty would forgive the likes of me?”

  “I know He would.”

  Again they sat without speaking.

  Samuel felt drained of energy and emotion. Did he really want the man who had said he would mutilate his precious little daughters to repent? If he were honest, he would have to admit he wanted the man to hang. But would he wish to see even such an evil person condemned for eternity?

  thirteen

  Three days later, Christine sat at the loom, throwing the shuttle back and forth through the threads of the warp. Ben and John had both hired out to help with the corn harvest at the Gardners’, and John was excited to leave that morning with the prospect of earning half a shilling. She had packed lunch for both of them in a tin pail, which John carried, and Ben took a jug of water for them to share. Samuel had seen the boys off and then gone to the meetinghouse, as usual, to study for his next sermon.

  Christine went about her tasks methodically, but her thoughts flitted here and there. She knew that later in the day, Samuel would go to the garrison to visit McDowell. He had gone every d
ay since Sunday. He told her almost nothing about these visits, but Abby had confided to her that in the evening, after she had left, when he read scripture to the children, he instructed them to pray for the prisoner.

  She kept praying for McDowell as well, though she had not been told to do so. She prayed for his soul and the magistrate’s speedy arrival, and she persisted in asking that justice be done.

  While the girls sat on the front step—Abby and Constance with their samplers and Ruth with her doll—Christine wove. The length of gray wool grew daily. Most afternoons, she let Abby put in an hour or two. But the cloth must be finished soon so that she would have time to make all of the clothes the men of the family needed before winter. Her hands flew, and in comparison to Abby’s pace, Christine produced material at lightning speed.

  While she wove, she brooded. She knew she shouldn’t do that, but her thoughts drifted often to Samuel and his somber mood. Was he sorrowful because of the evil McDowell had done or because the man would not repent? Or perhaps it was because of her own part in the drama.

  Christine wished she knew what she could do to lighten his heart and take things back to where they had been a month ago, before the outlaw first appeared, before she had accommodated his demands, and before Samuel had ever called her “my dear.”

  That was it, she realized with a start. Not once, but twice, the minister had spoken thus to her, and each time her pulse had raced. She had allowed herself to imagine that he was conscious of his choice of words, not accidentally using in those moments of tension an endearment that he formerly had bestowed on his wife.

  Of course, he called his daughters that as well. He might call any female acquaintance “my dear” in a moment of affection or even out of respect, she supposed. Aye, she had heard him call Tabitha “dear lady.” So why should she have felt so giddy when he used the term toward her? But she had.

  For the last week, he had gone about with a grave face, never laughing and hardly even playing with the children, something he’d always loved to do. It was almost as if they’d regressed to the weeks after Elizabeth died, when Christine feared Samuel’s heart would break with sorrow.