Peter Loon

by Van Reid

  Almost a mile above Wiscasset the woods began to thin away, till the head of the company halted and they gathered atop a low ridge to consider the open fields and the port town lying in neat rows along the shore. The moon had risen over the opposite hill, its reflection fractured in the river currents. This was a landing of some significance and several vessels of various sizes and descriptions shadowed the water with their hulls.

  Peter was not alone in his curiosity and wonder; there were others in the company who had never seen the town, or anything like it–younger men, who had been born and raised in the back-country. Most had not seen anything like it for a long while. The surrounding fields were clear of stumps; the center of the settlement was populated with fine houses and one or two official buildings, and in the moonlight, even the ruder constructions along the outskirts looked neat and orderly. The wind was in the northwest, but a salt tang permeated the air even so far from the water; it left Peter with an odd melancholy, which emotion brought his mind to Nora Tillage and he wondered how she fared since the parson and he had left Clayden Farm. He looked over his shoulder for Elspeth, and thought he could pick her out, astride her horse, some distance behind the crowd.

  “It looks quiet enough,” said Crispin Moss. Few in the troop, including those disposed to trust Zachariah Leach, had entirely left off the idea that the saddle-parson had raised an alarm against them.

  “Is that a tavern down there?” asked Manasseh. From his crouch he pointed toward an imposing building near the northern margin of town. Smoke roiled from the chimneys atop the house, and lights burned in its windows, but Peter knew that the horses tethered outside the building were the source of the woodsman’s concern.

  “There’s your alarm raised,” said someone, and the effect of this thought ran through the company like the rumble of a dull and distant storm.

  “What do you think, lad?” asked Manasseh. “There must be twenty or thirty horse down there.”

  “It’s Captain McQuigg and his militia,” said Peter, even as the thought came to him. “They were leaving for Wiscasset two days ago, before the parson and I ever came to New Milford.” They were a hundred yards from the horses, with only moonlight to illuminate the scene before them, but Peter could almost place the broad-shouldered mount of Martha Clayden’s admirer Edward Kavanagh.

  The company retreated into the forest behind, and as Manasseh mustered his men together, Mr. Pelligue rode up among them–a gray old man, hardened by his years in the wilderness–and he dismounted and threw his reins to someone. He hunkered down beside his chief men, including Manasseh Cutts, and considered the horses below.

  “Peter says that Captain McQuigg gathered a troop together days ago,” said Manasseh, before the question could be asked.

  “I know the man,” said Mr. Pelligue.

  “What will they do?” wondered another fellow. “Will they come out and shoot at us?”

  “I would lay wager they’re not carrying hoes and shovels,” said Mr. Pelligue.

  “Well,” said the man, “I don’t want to be shot, and I’m not very anxious to shoot at them.”

  Mr. Pelligue looked over his shoulder at the company behind him. “We won’t, if we can help it,” he whispered, and Peter wished the whole body of men could hear this, though more as directive than comfort.

  “What house is that?” asked someone.

  “It’s the Whittier,” said the old man, and when the fellow frowned, Mr. Pelligue added, “Some know it as the Three Sisters, after the elms out front of it.” Mr. Pelligue turned to Peter and said, “You saw McQuigg at Captain Clayden’s?”

  “I met him there,” said Peter.

  “You’re dressed for it,” said Manasseh, which was not meant unkindly. An odd expression crossed his face when he said it, though. “There were others there, you said.”

  “There was an Edward Kavanagh, a Mr. Flye and a Mr. Short-well . . .”

  “Kavanagh,” said Mr. Pelligue. “He’s a big man–knocked down the two Mulligan brothers last harvest fair at Newcasde.”

  “They’ll be down there as well,” said Manasseh.

  Peter considered the horses outside the Whittier Tavern.

  “Did you make a good impression, lad?” asked Mr. Pelligue.

  “I don’t think I made any impression at all.”

  “That will do, as long as they remember where they met you.”

  “Mr. Kavanagh, perhaps . . .”

  “Will you do it, then?”

  “Go down there?”

  “Set them off course,” said Mr. Pelligue. “Up the river road to New Milford, if you must.”

  “What if he raises the alarm?” asked someone, meaning Peter, but Mr. Pelligue paid the man no heed.

  Peter set his jaw and gave the fellow a hard stare. “What will I tell them?” he asked.

  “What you will. But you must have a horse. No, not that beast of mine. There must be a creature that better suits your clothes.”

  “The fellow who was knocked from his horse,” said Manasseh, almost as to himself. “I see him over there.” Before Peter could say nay to any of it, Crispin Moss had gone off to collar the man and take his mount.

  “What will I tell them?” asked Peter again.

  “You’re only there to warn them,” said Mr. Pelligue. “Tell them a troop is coming, but don’t make it so big as it will frighten any of them away or encourage them to raise the town.”

  “We just want them to head north and out of sight,” said Manasseh.

  Peter was thinking that after this adventure he would never be able to set foot in Captain Clayden’s home again; and he had hoped to remain unseen and unchallenged. The uncertainty might have showed upon his face, for Mr. Pelligue said to Manasseh Cutts, “Do you trust the lad?”

  “As I trust Parson Leach, and as I don’t trust Barrow.”

  This seemed enough for Mr. Pelligue and he did not pursue the subject. Peter was unoffended by the question, coming from the old man, and thought it only sensible, couched in such simple terms.

  “I might have mistaken that fellow for a woman,” said Crispin Moss, when Peter and Manasseh met him below the woods. “If I didn’t know better,” he added. Manasseh had given him an odd look, and out of shock Peter had himself looked astonished by the idea. Crispin glanced back at Elspeth, who managed to look angry though she was some distance away and her face was in shadow; Crispin was uncertain yet what to think of the small figure at the edge of the company. “He didn’t want to give up his horse, but he didn’t hit me very hard.” He passed the makeshift bridle to Peter.

  “Who told folks about my climbing out from under that buck you shot?” wondered Peter suddenly.

  “That was me,” said Crispin, a little abashedly. “Did it cause you any difficulty?”

  “Well the story hasn’t gotten any less strange, and the buck hasn’t gotten any smaller in the telling.”

  “It’s too good a story to let go, lad,” said Manasseh, then falling to more immediate concerns he said, “Just send them north. But don’t, for Heaven’s sake, get dragged along with them.”

  That was an awful thought, and Peter did not linger over it as he led the horse along the wooded ridge above the road. At one point he hurried down the slope opposite the river and traveled a creek for some yards before cutting right again and making for the trail.

  He followed moonlight through the skeletal branches and the underbrush, leading the horse till they broke onto the hall-like aspect of the road, north of town.

  He stood for some time, gazing up the dim path in the direction from which they had come. He could quite easily take Elspeth’s horse back to New Milford, gain Beam at the pasture above the Star and Sturgeon and never be seen again outside Sheepscott Great Pond. He considered the other direction and Wiscasset and the conflict he would enter therein. It was not at all what his mother had sent him for. If there were this many people between here and home, how many were there on the way to Boston, or on the way to the prairies
of which Parson Leach had spoken? He was both daunted and compelled to consider it.

  23

  How Peter Came to His Third Tavern, and How He Put the Night’s Adventures into Motion

  THE WIND MET PETER FROM THE NORTHWEST–AT HIS BACK, AS IF hurrying him along. He did hurry Elspeth’s horse, hoping to give the animal some appearance of having labored to get him there. He rode down through the fields, into the air of the port town, which was heady with the scent of salt and water and mudflats; except for the smell of burning wood, the air itself was alien to him who had only known the inland forests.

  The town of Wiscasset seemed immense as he neared the outlying houses and barns. Prosperity was evident–there were regular wooden fences before some of the homes, and the streets were straight and barely muddy. The horses outside the tavern stirred as he rode among them. He took a moment to count twenty-eight before tying Elspeth’s horse to a lilac bush at the corner of the building. He crossed the pools of light cast upon the ground by the brightened windows, patted a horse’s nose along the way, and though he could hear voices and laughter within, he approached the front door of the Whittier Tavern as he might a sleeping giant.

  The board by the door said: DRINK FOR THE THIRSTY, FOOD FOR THE HUNGRY, LODGING FOR THE WEARY, AND GOOD KEEPING FOR HORSES. Obviously there was not enough keeping for all the horses tonight, though Peter imagined that the men inside wanted their mounts saddled and close to hand in case of alarm.

  Well, he thought, I shall give them one.

  Like a small breeze, knowledge of the front door opening and of Peter’s consequent presence touched the men in the common room one at a time; the nearest of these ceased to talk as they turned their attention to him. Islands of conversation persisted, however, in the further corners of the tavern, though all eyes considered the well-dressed young man with the roll slung over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Loon,” came a voice by the fire and Peter recognized Edward Kavanagh, lit like Vulcan by the nearer hearth. The brawny fellow’s shadow seemed to cover half the ceiling, but he himself called out to Peter with that same wry smile he had used to such advantage with the Clayden’s women.

  “Mr. Kavanagh,” said Peter.

  “Loon?” came another voice. “Loon? Who is Loon?” And at the other end of the room, Captain McQuigg half rose out of his chair to look at the new arrival.

  The tavern was of finer workmanship and filled with finer things than either the Ale Wife or the Star and Sturgeon. The hand-hewn beams had been smoothed with care and the wainscot along the lower half of the tavern common room walls was paneled and stained. Bright brass fixtures caught the fire light and fine tankards of more precious metals than pewter hung behind the counter.

  The men themselves seemed of finer stuff, dressed as well or better than Peter, and he recognized several from their visit at Captain Clayden’s house. It was a moment before he could speak beyond greeting Edward Kavanagh. “The backcountry is risen,” he said, in a low choked voice, at first, then more loudly he repeated himself. “The backcountry is risen.”

  Anything else he might have said was drowned in the sudden chaos of exclamations and questions, and Mr. Kavanagh proved a surprisingly calming presence when he shouldered his way through the sudden press and made a way clear before the young man. “Get the lad something to drink!” shouted Kavanagh, and he almost pushed Peter to the back of the room.

  “Loon?” Captain McQuigg was saying still. “Loon? Who is he?”

  The tavern keeper put a tall, highly wrought tankard on the counter, where the head of froth splashed. Peter was thirsty as it happened, and he used the excuse to drink deeply as an opportunity to arrange his thoughts.

  “Where have you been, Peter?” asked Kavanagh.

  “I’ve been to New Milford, looking for my uncle,” said Peter, and thinking this was a good start, he took another draft. The ale was sharp and vigorous; it stung the nostrils, and it roused his mind as well as his tongue. He couldn’t say anything about the parson, whose position in this struggle might be questioned among these men as it was among the company Peter had recently quitted.

  “His uncle?” some were saying, but Captain Clayden had unknowingly laid the foundation of Peter’s next fabrication two days before.

  “He’s been sent to find an uncle,” said Mr. Shortwell. “That much Captain Clayden did explain.”

  Peter nodded to the man.

  “You stepped right into the hornet’s nest, if you went to New Milford,” said Mr. Flye.

  “Winslow was the man’s name, wasn’t it?” asked Mr. Shortwell.

  “There are Winslows in Bath,” said someone.

  “But the backcountry is raised,” said one of the younger fellows, who looked as pale and frightened as Peter felt. “He said the backcountry is raised.”

  “What of it, Peter?” said Kavanagh.

  “I was in New Milford and there was a mob gathered at the tavern.”

  “The Star and Sturgeon.”

  “That was it.”

  “How many, do you reckon?”

  “Oh . . .” Peter cast his mind, not to the actual scene before the tavern but to Mr. Pelligue’s admonition to raise an alarm without frightening these men into mounting barricades and raising the town. “Fifty or sixty,” he calculated aloud.

  “Fifty or sixty!” came the general cry, and “That’s twice our number!” followed a more specific one.

  “Were they mounted, Peter?”

  “Only two or three, I think. The leaders had horses, it seemed.”

  “How did you ever get out, once you discovered their plans?” wanted to know Mr. Flye.

  “In the fog, this morning,” said Peter, which did not go a long way to explaining why he was only now showing up. “I’ve never been to Wiscasset,” he added hastily, “and got lost on the way.”

  “You’ve gotten here on time, it seems, lad,” said Mr. Marston, and this was meant as praise.

  “Is this the boy at Captain Clayden’s the other day?” demanded Captain McQuigg as he pushed his way to the counter. He leveled a hard stare at Peter. “You were with Zachariah Leach, weren’t you? Where is he in all this? He spoke like an Indian himself?’

  “Parson Leach is in Newcastle, I think,” said Peter, which was close to the truth. He put his tankard down after another draft and met the Captain’s eye.

  Captain McQuigg was accustomed to being addressed with his rank or sir, and it was a moment before he realized that Peter had finished speaking. “I wouldn’t trust that Leach,” the old warrior inveighed.

  “You could with your life, I am quite sure,” said Peter.

  Neither was the Captain accustomed to contradiction. “What?” he said, sounding a little like an outraged mallard.

  Edward Kavanagh found this exchange amusing; he gripped Peter’s shoulder as he might a younger brother’s, and chuckled deeply. Peter could not hear the laugh, but he could feel it through the man’s ironlike arm.

  “But the backcountry!” said someone again. “Tell us what is happening!”

  “Fifty or sixty? Are you sure?” asked one of the younger men.

  “I couldn’t count them exactly, no,” said Peter, afraid that he had overtaxed their resolve. “But no more, surely.” What would they have said to two hundred?

  “It’s barely enough, by my reckoning,” said Kavanagh.

  “Bah!” said Captain McQuigg, as if he disdained the grit of his opponents.

  “Barely enough?” cried the young man.

  “It’ll hardly be worth the effort to go out and meet them,” assured the brawny fellow. “There won’t be half of them armed with anymore than squirrel guns, nor will they be prepared to take on a force of mounted men. We’ll drive them back to New Milford with no more than a good shout.” And he laughed and appeared so confident that Peter almost believed him, and almost felt sorry that his lie would deny Mr. Kavanagh an enjoyable quarrel. “I thought better of them,” finished the big man. “What road are they traveling, or do y
ou know?” he asked Peter. “By the river or in the woods?”

  “By the river,” said Peter, and he was immediately sorry for it, for Mr. Kavanagh and Captain McQuigg looked as if they doubted it. Perhaps the question was meant as a trick to find him out.

  “They’ll raise the alarm themselves,” said Mr. Flye.

  “Perhaps that is what they meant you to think,” said Mr. Whitehouse.

  Peter decided to stick with his story, rather than look unsure and cast doubt upon it all. “No, sir, it was all the talk.”

  “They aren’t very careful with their talk, we know that,” said another man, who was almost as tall as Mr. Kavanagh.

  “Nor very clever, it seems,” said a bearded fellow beside him.

  “They can move quietly, when they want, I think,” said Peter. “It’s why they call themselves Indians”

  “It is the quickest road,” admitted Kavanagh.

  “Certainly John Trueman didn’t know they were coming,” said Mr. Flye.

  “Let’s break this frolic up!” exclaimed Captain McQuigg. He raised a tankard above his head like a weapon.

  Most of the men were ready for this order and let out a happy shout. The tavern keeper and several other fellows outside the group cheered them on.

  “Come along, Peter,” said Edward Kavanagh, amid the noise, and with a companionable hand on the young man’s shoulder, he led Peter with the rest of the militia to the door. “You’ll have some excitement to tell your lady friends about. They’re not bad men really, these Liberty Fellows, but they’re a rough lot. They know enough to keep out of trouble, as a general thing, but take cover if you see a musket bared. Have you a gun?”