Peter Loon (11 page)

“But Mr. Barrow said Parson Leach was a Congregationalist and a devil,” she added in sudden haste. “I'm not supposed to talk with you.” Nora rose from her little niche in the bankside like an animal poking its head from a hole. She did not try to reach the worn path, which would have meant passing by Peter, but scrambled instead up the little bluff of slope, grabbing hanks of grass and roots to pull herself up. Her bonnet bobbed above the crest of the bank.

“I don't think he's a Congregationalist,” Peter called after her, but his voice was so weak, the wind must have carried it away.

PARSON LEACH WAS STANDING ON THE SMALL PORCH BEFORE THE ALE
Wife when Peter came up from the shore; the young man had the feeling that he was being looked for.

“I thought you had pressed on,” said the clergyman.

Peter told Parson Leach where he'd been and the man nodded, glancing back at the tavern door, then at Peter again, as if he were connecting Peter's explanation with something else. Peter wondered if the parson had seen Nora Tillage come up from the lake before him, and
What would he make of that? “There's
another supper inside, if you can tolerate it,” said the preacher with half a smile.

Peter was sure he could. The shank of the evening came hard on the heels of this meal, which lasted through a thicket of conversation and debate over the recent events in New Milford. Nathan Barrow and Nora Tillage were not on view, but Mr. Tillage–a widower, as it happened–put his younger children to work serving the crowd.

Peter was not used to eating so royally, and though he had slept in the middle of the day, he felt himself growing drowsy again. The glimmer of firelight conquered the room as the sun set and the few windows dimmed, and pipe smoke filled the air till there was a blue haze tumbling against the low beams. Parson Leach himself smoked and with his lanky legs stretched out before him, he drew on his long clay pipe whether he remembered to keep it lit or not.

The room grew crowded as evening drew on; Peter didn't know when he'd seen so many people; many of them were from outlying farms, come in to get the truth of recent events in New Milford. Land agents had been in the vicinity, some said, and while news was bandied about and rumor spread thickly, the ale and the sharp cider and rum flowed, and the warlike opinions of many in the assemblage grew apparent. Peter heard the name of Nathan Barrow on several lips, as if that man might appear at any moment to lead them against their oppressors.

As the belligerence of the crowd increased, Parson Leach became quiet and even watchful from behind the smoke of his long pipe. Others tended to listen more than talk, and one of these–Mr. Flint–turned to Zachariah Leach, during a lull in the general discourse, and asked if the parson had any words to inspire them. There was a chorus of assent and several slurred exhortations to the clergyman to stand and speak.

Parson Leach looked at his pipe and he looked at the tankard before him. The latter he pushed to one side and the former he lay down upon the table before he rose. Peter, sitting next to the parson, craned his head back to watch him.

Through those clear gray eyes and over that large nose, Parson Leach regarded the gathering before him.
“ ‘Letyour moderation be known unto all men,' ”
he said quietly.

Several men peered skeptically into their tankards, one or two croaked their disregard for such wisdom, and one in particular fired a hard gaze at the parson. There was only the briefest lapse, however, before several voices called out “Philippians,” and “Philippians, four, five.”

The preacher raised his head a little higher, as if enlargened by these remembrances. “And I say,” he continued, “Moderation in all things save these: Love for God, love for your neighbor, and love for yourself. This last may sound strange to you, when so often we are counseled to accept discomfort and denial as the hallmarks of religious increase; but the human heart is the temple of God, and you would not invite such a Guest into an unkempt house. Therefore you must care for yourself as you would your Master's quarters.

“So, moderation in all things save these; and the love for God is love for the father, and the love for your neighbor is love for Christ, and the love for yourself is love for the Holy Ghost. In all other things, let even your enemy understand your temperance.”

This last statement generated a fairly particular silence. Peter had never heard Parson Leach preach, and this taste of it and this sight of the man standing before the tavern crowd moved him to wonder if he had, until this moment, been looking at the wrong person.

Parson Leach did not fill the room as might an overwhelming personality, but drew all eyes and ears, and even hearts in his direction with a force of magnetism that had hitherto in Peter's experience lain not entirely dormant, but had rested beneath a deceiving and amiable surface. Peter could never look at his new friend so simply again.

“How shall we prove moderate,” said someone nearby, “when men of force covet so
im
moderately the very land we have labored into small success?”

Some gave wordless agreement to this, but others were a little shocked that anyone would argue with the clergyman. For his part, Parson Leach showed no vexation; this was not a church, after all, and he had not delivered of a formal sermon.

“It is easy enough,” said another man by the door, perhaps emboldened by the first man's words, “easy enough for you to preach moderation, sir, traveling from place to place on your horse, gaining your suppers by sermons and the clothes on your back by your books; but what of we who live in hovels while we clear the land and watch our children half starve for all the rocky ground can flourish and be half eaten by swarms of bugs and gnats in the fields and burned in the summer and chilled in the winter for lack of clothes? And we who bring down the wilderness with our bare hands are supposed to approach moderately the enemy who wields unjust power in the courts, and with his wealth, raised perhaps in the service of King George himself with whom so many of us have fought, and with this wealth buys what friends he needs and purposes he desires?”

The man by the door was standing before he was finished, and those around him cheered when he sat down again. He may have been unused to speaking up among so many, however, for he appeared embarrassed and exhausted by the effort.

All eyes turned back to Parson Leach, and he said, “I am not in great sympathy with the so-called Great Proprietors of Maine, but as long as the law, by whatever influence, takes their part, I would not see any of you become outlaws. I hear men beside me advising that Henry Knox's mansion be burned, or that land agents and surveyors be hung at the crossroads; and I ask: What reply will Boston send but the State Militia in an attitude of war?”

The parson now leaned, with his fingertips upon the table before him. “My friends, I believe that a man who carves the wilderness of his own main strength has greater claim than does a grant countenanced by a king who never set foot upon it or rightly understood the size and weight of the gift, or yet had the moral right to give it at all; but since England was expelled, revolutions in other parts of the land have been duly crushed, and it is only the distance between yourselves and the seats of power that keeps your cause balanced with that of your adversaries.”

Another man spoke up, then. “Preacher Barrow says it is our duty to rid the nation of evil men.”

“I know what
Mr
. Barrow says,” said Parson Leach. “And he will drive you up to desperate acts, but will he lead you?” Some low pools of discussion were raised by this question, but Parson Leach added, “This will be a hard fought war, won by time and generation as much as by design and plan. I warrant, some action is justified, but for the love of God, your neighbors, and yourselves, it is enough to take the land agent's and the surveyor's labor and not their lives. Rather stake your claim by good work, than destroy another man's by fire and ruin. This is the moderation I argue, my friends.”

It was not a speech to quell anyone's spirit but to make a man think, and by the faces before Parson Leach, it was, in this office, successful. He was himself, it seemed, a man of moderation, which in this instance meant knowing when he had said enough on one subject. He picked up his pipe and before sitting down he turned to Peter and indicating him with a nod, said, “This young fellow, by the way, is looking for his uncle.”

Peter's head came up. It was a moment, however, before the crowd could take in this sudden digression. Some were amused by the parson's new tack, some relieved, but some were for the moment nettled that their own thoughts on the matter had not been expressed.

“What's his name, young fellow?” asked one of the men at the parson's table.

“Winslow,” said Peter. “Obed Winslow, I'm told, though I've never met the man, and know almost nothing of him.”

“And what is that?” asked Mr. Flint.

“What?” Peter gaped.

“What is it you know of him? If it's little, it should be quick to tell.”

There was a long moment, during which the snap of the fireplace and the drawing on pipes took precedence. “I guess I
do
know nothing of him,” said Peter, turning red. There were some smiles and a few quiet chuckles.

“Obed Winslow,” said Mr. Flint. He shook his head.

“I seem to remember a Winslow,” said a man far enough away as to be hard to make out in the dark, smoke-filled room. “Not sure if he was Obed, though. Came through at harvest time, years ago, when I was still at my folks place. Worked there for a few days, before moving on. Don't know where to.”

Another fellow spoke up. “There's the Winslow, over the other side of Balltown, who talks to his hens.” This did raise a good laugh. “Claims he gets two eggs a day from them. Gathers eggs in the morning, then goes back in the afternoon and talks his hens into believing they haven't laid a thing since the day before.”

“Perhaps he could come by tonight and have a talk with my wife,” called out someone from the far end of the room, and a great roar of laughter filled the tavern. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Leach,” came the voice.

“If he's such a fine talker,” said the clergyman, “you had better be careful what he says to her,” and this was spoken so offhandedly past the stem of his pipe that the laughter redoubled, and the man at the other end of the room half-choked on his ale he was so delighted. But when the hilarity subsided, the preacher took the pipe from his mouth and pointed to the back of the room with the stem. “Now you've gone and made me speak disrespectfully of a good woman, George Clary.” Peter thought that the preacher's concern was not entirely feigned.

“I'll ask her pardon for the both of us, Mr. Leach.”

“That's the spirit!” Parson Leach stood. “Gentlemen, good night to you. Peter, you look ready to drop.” Peter nodded. “Come along. Then I shan't embarrass them, and they won't corrupt you.” There was laughter again, but Peter gratefully took the lantern handed him and followed the parson outside and up the stairs. His head ached again.