Body in the Bog ff-7

by Katherine Hall Page

  Faith had heard it all before, yet this year she thought Pix’s voice held real fear. They left them at the bottom of Belfry Hill and walked briskly toward St. Theresa’s. It was still pitch-dark, but Aleford was filled with activity. Cars were parked on the side streets; Main Street was blocked off. Figures, some in period dress, passed by, flashlights illuminating them for an instant. Despite the numbers of people about, the town was quiet—lying in wait, as Pix had said. Inside St. Theresa’s hall, the contrast was immediate.

  All the lights were on. It was warm and noisy. The Minutemen kept up a steady stream of conversation as they ate. Faith blinked at the sudden change and grabbed at Ben’s cloak as he started to race off.

  The Aleford Militia had been founded in 1773 and was still going strong, an uninterrupted history documented by their meeting records. It was open to any U.S. citizen over the age of eighteen and, unlike other Aleford institutions, a number of its members actually lived out of town. Just as there had been several generations from the same family on the green over two hundred years ago, there were several generations of various families represented in the Minutemen. In 1775, Aleford had, strictly speaking, not organized a company of Minutemen, members of the militia who would be ready to fight at a moment’s notice, but it kept the militia as such. The mists of time and preju-dices encouraged by myth had obscured this fact long ago and Minutemen they were.

  The first person Faith saw was Gus Deane devour-ing a large mound of scrambled eggs and sausage, using his toast to help. It looked delicious. Faith got her own plate, parked Ben and his at a table with some other children, then went over to chat with Gus, who was Capt. Ebenezer Sewall, the head of the militia today. He was regaling a small group with reminis-cences of Patriots’ Days past.

  “Remember the year George came round the bend at the tavern during the rehearsal, riding his daughter’s little hobbyhorse instead of a real one? I thought I’d die laughing. Don’t know how we made it through the actual thing without cracking up. When he came riding up to the tavern shouting, ‘The Regulars are coming!’ everyone kept picturing him on the damned toy!”

  Faith looked at the men around her, who had joined in Gus’s merriment. The room was at a fever pitch of excitement, as if they really were preparing to defend their rights, their village. Besides the talk, there was a continuous bustle in the adjoining rooms. The women and older children were managing the breakfast things. Miss Lora, dressed as a servant girl, a long checkered kerchief crisscrossed over her bodice, came by with a platter of piping-hot sausages, the steam curling up to her face. She paused to say hello.

  Ben was in heaven. Others were putting the finishing touches to their costumes, adjusting hats, garments.

  One man was handing out the muskets from the small stage at one end of the hall.

  “The British are coming!” Bonnie Madsen called from the door, and the company from Boston that assumed this role each year filed in. They were impressive. Bright silver buttons gleamed on their red coats, silver gorgets at their throats. Their wigs were elaborately coiffed. Anything that was supposed to shine did. Tom had told her each outfit cost upward of a thousand dollars, all made by hand. In contrast, the farmers and artisans who made up Aleford’s force got away cheap—fringed homespun shirts, rough jackets and vests. Some wore the tricorne hat. The only gleaming metals aside from a buckle were a few pewter flasks slung from their shoulders on leather thongs. Others had canteens, homemade wooden ones. Many of the men had full beards. Faith’s own son was sporting a red mustache from the fruit punch put out with the orange juice. She went over to the table to get a napkin.

  Ben’s eyes grew wide as he watched one British major pour himself some coffee and select a doughnut. The drummer boy came up next to him and grabbed two. “Don’t sneeze on the doughnuts, Nathan,” the major bellowed as the young man reached for a pocket handkerchief. Ben ducked behind his mother’s voluminous skirts.

  “Is it time?”

  “Almost,” she answered, and looked about the room for Tom.

  He was talking to Nelson, who was dressed like the others, except he wore a black armband. Millicent, already at the green, might fuss that it wasn’t authentic, but even she wouldn’t say he couldn’t wear it. Last year, Margaret had been here, too, helping with serving. A man Faith didn’t recognize stood beside Nelson. Though he was dressed for the reenactment, she was willing to bet this would be his first and only one.

  His chest, with a noticeable bulge, was covered with straps; he was carrying a powder horn and shot pouch.

  Tom’s pouch held his Bible and a hunk of bread—he’d read that was what Samuel had carried—in addition to his ammunition. Faith thought it more likely this Minuteman was toting some kind of cellular phone. Nelson left the room, his flask clanking against his powder horn, and the unknown Minuteman followed him out.

  As dawn approached, tension mounted. Her first year, Faith had been amused to note that the British and Colonial troops did not fraternize. Tom said it was because they didn’t know one another, since they only got together for rare events like today’s. She’d watched every year—the same people, the same place—and decided he was wrong. It might be a reenactment, but soon these men would be facing one another on the field of battle. Captain Sewall hadn’t taken a cup of tea, or noggin of rum, with his British counterpart that morning and he didn’t now. There were nods and greetings, yet that was all.

  “It’s almost five, time to get to the tavern, and those of you who are on the green better hurry,” Gus commanded. Joey Madsen came into the room and grabbed his musket.

  “Ramrods out!” shouted Gus. “Ramrods out!” This reminder was made each time a group left. There had been a reenactment, not in Aleford, of course, where one of the participants had forgotten to remove the ramrod from his gun; when he fired, it shot into the crowd with deadly force. Miraculously, no one had been injured.

  “Let’s go, Mom. Everyone’s leaving.” Ben was pulling on Faith’s hand. She had been postponing the moment—the hall was so nice and warm.

  “Go to the bathroom first,” she bargained. He ran off and she decided she’d better do the same. They’d be on the green for a long time.

  Outside the kitchen, she found Brad Hallowell, next to his drum, wolfing down his breakfast.

  “Overslept,” he said between bites. “Damn alarm didn’t go off and my mother didn’t want to wake me up. Thought I needed my sleep.”

  Faith reminded herself that Mrs. Hallowell was a relative newcomer to Aleford and Patriots’ Day activities. In some households, her behavior would have caused her to be labeled a Tory spy. She certainly doted on her son, her only child, Faith thought as she waited to get into the bathroom. Several of her homespun sisters had had the same idea. Mrs. Hallowell had been extremely put out with Lora Deane for breaking up with her darling boy. Put out enough to make the calls? Lora had said it was a man’s voice, but it wouldn’t be hard to imitate one for those few words. Some mothers would do anything for their sons.

  Her own was approaching, annoyance shadowing his little face. “Aren’t you done yet?”

  “Ladies take longer, and I don’t care for the way you’re speaking to me.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  She gave him a quick hug. It was her turn. “I’ll hurry. We won’t miss anything. I promise.” Anything for their sons.

  It was twenty after five. There was a glow at the horizon and the dark sky was now deep purple. Here and there, a lighted window shone. Faith watched the silhouettes of the leafless trees surrounding the green become more distinct, until she could see the swelling buds on the branches. The steeple at First Parish pierced the sky. She looked around for her husband.

  Samuel Pennypacker had been one of the first to muster on the green. She spotted the blanket. He stood next to a lantern with a flickering candle inside. Faith took Ben’s hand and went over.

  “Be careful, Tom.” She was filled with foreboding.

  Patience must have felt the same w
ay. Faith was having no trouble getting into the mood this April morning.

  “I will.” He squeezed her hand and gave Ben a kiss. “Now you’d better get off to the side.” As he spoke, the alarm began to toll. Steady, loud, the sound quieted the crowd of spectators. Tom blew out the candle in the lantern. It was daybreak. Two geese flew silently overhead.

  He looked about for Nelson. He planned to stay as close as possible to the man.

  Faith joined the other women and children at the far end of the Common. The spectators were kept from the field by ropes. Some had brought stepladders for a better view. Small children were hoisted on their parents’ shoulders. The bell kept ringing. Faith pictured the Millers grabbing the rope in turn and pulling hard.

  She remembered the time she had rung the bell herself. She’d had to use her whole weight to get it started.

  At six o’clock, they heard hoofbeats. Soon the rider appeared calling for Captain Sewall, who emerged from the tavern, followed by a stream of men. “The Regulars are coming!” Faith had been surprised the first year. No one said, “The British are coming.” Her fourth-grade teacher had been wrong.

  Two shots were fired in the air—the alarm guns.

  The alarm bell fell silent. Gus turned to Brad Hallowell and ordered him to start drumming. “Men, we are going to muster on the green,” the captain called out.

  Although she had seen it before, Faith was caught up in the drama, and the crowd pressing against the ropes a few feet away seemed not to exist. Ben’s hand was in hers, warm and warming. She was vaguely aware how cold she was, her breath a cloud. She wished she knew where the Millers were. The shots had startled her.

  “Watch closely,” she told her son. “Everything happens very fast.” All these spectators, some from far away—and it would be over in a flash. A flash and puffs of smoke. But at the moment, Gus was calling the roll—slowly, dramatically, drawing out each name. He stood before the rude band and one by one they answered.

  The British drums could now be heard, approaching from farther down Battle Road, its name later changed to Main Street. Inexorable. The drums were terrifying. Gus ordered his men to march to the far end of the green and form two lines. “Load and stand ready,” he ordered. He was born to lead, Faith thought. Standing straight as a ramrod himself, he was not wearing the rough clothes of the farmer he’d been, but Captain Sewall’s bright blue militia uniform. Sewall and Deane, centuries apart, yet with this curious link. Faith had a sense that they were both men you’d want on your side.

  Now the sky was pale yellow at the horizon, the color of a good Chablis, and faintly blue above. The Minutemen were saying their lines, all documented.

  “There’s so few of us, it’s folly to stand here.”

  “Easy. Stand your ground.”

  The British appeared, transformed from the doughnut-eating crew of an hour ago into an efficient war machine. Their bayonets glittered. They reached the green. Their red coats—bloodred coats—were a splash of color against the grass, glistening with dew.

  Marching all night through unfamiliar terrain in 1775, the Regulars had been fatigued, wet, hungry—and frightened. Numbers of the size of the forces on both sides had been greatly inflated.

  “Disperse, you damn rebels! Disperse!”

  “Go back to Boston!”

  The Minutemen stood their ground. A rude band, but not untrained, Faith had learned. Many had fought in the French and Indian Wars. They were dressed as the farmers and artisans they were, but they kept their weapons cleaned and knew how to shoot. The drums kept beating. For a moment, time stood still. There was indecision on both sides. Then the shot rang out.

  No one knows who fired first. It may not even have been someone on the green. One recent theory attributes it to a restless Aleford teenager crouched behind one of the nearby stone walls. An accident? Deliberate? Whatever the motive, it caused the green to explode in a barrage of noise and smoke. Ben put his hands over his ears. The smell of black powder filled the air.

  “Disperse! Disperse!” Gus ordered, and the men fled, leaving two fallen from their line. The British pursued relentlessly. Faith closed her eyes as the all-too-realistic reenactment of the use of a bayonet occurred in front of her. The smoke was so thick, it was hard to pick out anyone. Men were screaming in pain and terror. The British commander frantically ordered his troops to stop, but, out of control, they continued to attack the damned rebels. Finally, the drum sounded. They had been trained to obey it instantly: the carnage was arrested. Slowly, they marched off the Common and down the road to Concord, accompanied by the drums. It would be a long day, and when they returned, they would face double the number who had gathered on the green, a force that would exact its price, shooting at the easy red targets from the woods, behind stone walls, their houses.

  Now it was Patience’s turn, and she rushed onto the green with the others. At first she couldn’t see through the thick smoke; then as it began to lift, carried by the breeze, she located Tom. He was bending down next to Nelson. Faith ran faster.

  The man Nelson Batcheldor played wasn’t supposed to be injured.

  “Get the EMTs over here,” Tom screamed. “We need help! Someone’s been hurt!” He had rolled Nelson on his back and was starting mouth-to-mouth.

  The unknown Minuteman was speaking into his phone. Sirens abruptly dragged the scene into the twentieth century and real panic set in.

  “Someone’s been shot for real!” Faith heard a spectator shout. “A ramrod, it was a ramrod!” People began to run away. She knelt next to Tom. There was no blood. Nelson hadn’t been wounded. His eyes were closed and his skin had a deathly pallor.

  Charley MacIsaac got on the public-address system, which normally would have been used at this point to talk about the day’s upcoming events.

  “One of our company has been taken ill. There is no cause for alarm. Please, everyone stay where you are so we can provide medical attention. The program will proceed in a few minutes.”

  “Taken ill”? Nelson wasn’t ill. He was scarcely breathing. It appeared that, like his wife, Nelson had been murdered.

  “I’m going with him. Go home and stay there. I’ll call you.” Tom sounded frantic.

  “How could this have happened? No one has left his side!” Faith suddenly remembered Ben next to her and pulled him close. “Sweetie, Mr. Batcheldor is sick and Daddy’s going with him to the hospital. We’re going to go home, but first I want to find the Millers and ask them to have breakfast with us.” She willed herself to stay calm. Her voice sounded like someone else’s—someone who spoke very deliberately.

  Charley was still instructing the crowd to stay put, but people continued to press forward to leave.

  “What about the pancake breakfast. I thought there was a pancake breakfast.” Ben’s lower lip quivered.

  Patriots’ Day wasn’t turning out the way he expected.

  “We’ll have our own pancake breakfast. Now help me find them. See if you can spot Samantha.” Ben adored Samantha and brightened at the thought of breakfast with her.

  Faith turned away as the EMTs rushed Nelson off the green, Tom close behind. Nelson—was he the intended victim, or did the poison-pen writer plan to pick them all off, one by one? She had to find Pix.

  The Millers were by the large oak near the Centennial Monument, obeying Charley’s request. Dale Warren was saying something into his two-way radio.

  Pix ran toward her. “What’s happened, Faith? What did Charley mean? Who’s sick? Dale doesn’t seem to know anything.”

  “It’s Nelson.” Faith fumbled for words. What could she say? She didn’t want to alarm her friend, but she wanted her to get the hell out of here. “He may be gravely injured, and it may be the letter writer, although I don’t see how. You’ve got to leave here immediately. Tom went with Nelson in the ambulance and he’s going to call when he knows what’s happened. Please”—she reached for Pix’s arm—“I think you should come to my house, all of you, and stay there for a while.”


  Sam agreed, but Pix protested, “We said we would help at the breakfast.”

  “These are unusual circumstances. People will understand.”

  Dale Warren decided things. He’d put the radio back in his belt. “Chief MacIsaac says you’re to go home and stay there. The Fairchilds’ will be all right, too, I guess. Anyways, he wants you off the green.” Pix gave in. Her face had grown pale. Samantha held one of her hands; Sam grasped the other. “This can’t be real,” Pix said to no one in particular.

  Danny and Ben were running ahead. Faith lost sight of them in the crowd and rushed the others forward.

  “You must stay where I can see you!” she said to the two boys angrily, driven by fear.

  They looked sheepish and slowed down. Danny was wearing a tricorne hat, as was Ben. Both carried flags. Patriots’ Day. This modern-day reenactment was fast becoming the nightmare it had actually been in 1775.

  Back at the parsonage, Amy was still asleep. So was Mrs. Hart.

  “Was it a good one?” she asked, sitting up at the sound of their entrance. “A big turnout? No surprises, I expect. We still lost this round, eh?” She laughed.

  “Yes, we lost,” Faith said soberly.

  “Never a peep out of the little angel, and unless you need me, I’ll go over to help my sister at the DAR breakfast.”

  Faith thanked her and headed into the kitchen to make her own pancakes. Sam, Pix, and Dale Warren were sitting silently at the Fairchild’s large round table.

  Samantha, Danny, and Ben were in a small room off the kitchen, watching an instant replay on the local cable channel. Faith went in, drawn by the noise of the battle.

  Reaching into his pocket, Danny gave Ben one of the pieces of paper that held the powder charges. At the end of the battle, children always rushed onto the grass to pick these up. Ben smelled it. “I didn’t like the guns,” he said. “They made too much noise. But I wasn’t scared. My sister would be scared, but I wasn’t.”