Peter Loon (16 page)

PETER LOON HAD NEVER SEEN SUCH A HOUSE AS CAPTAIN CLAYDEN's before this day, and certainly he had never seen the inside of such a magnificent home. The back stairs, leading to the humblest quarters, might have been marble steps, and the unfinished chamber above–filled with chests and old furniture–a palace room. The chamber was colder and darker than the kitchen, but enough light came through the gable window, and enough heat rose from the hearth below, that Peter could look about him and not quite see his breath. Rain pounded noisily on the roof above and streaked the small panes of the single window; the weather was almost pleasant, seen and heard from inside. Peter sneezed.

“Devil behind,” invoked James, then considering Peter's dripping state, he said, “Perhaps you had better stay here. I'll bring you some of my father's things.”

While James was gone, Peter listened to the sounds of conversation and laughter belowstairs, muffled beneath the rain. He tried to recall the welter of circumstance that had led him from the little cabin his grandfather had built–a splendid enough affair by their neighbors' standards–to this extraordinary manse with its lively people and handsome children. He had been particularly taken–puzzled really–by Emily's insistent stare, and quite glad that Mrs. Magnamous had not let the girl retrieve clothes for him.

“Is Mrs. Magnamous your mother?” asked Peter when James returned with an armload of clothes and a pair of boots.

“Good heavens, no,” said James. “She's our cook.” But the boy took no offense. “Captain Clayden is my grandfather,” he added. “My father and mother are at sea, and Mr. Magnamous, too, who's third mate aboard the
Duration
. My father is Captain James Clayden,” finished the younger James with evident and (to Peter) merited pride.

“I'm Peter Loon,” was the simple reply, which almost seemed presumptuous, speaking to the offspring of such grand folk.

James put his hand out and shook Peter's firmly. “James Clayden,” he said, though that was now clear to Peter. “You are traveling with Parson Leach, then,” said the younger boy, with the indication in his voice that this sounded exciting.

“Yes,” said Peter, but without conviction.

“Emily thinks you've been in dire circumstances, I can tell. She came into the den, shouting ‘Pilgrims! Pilgrims are coming!' and didn't Grandfather laugh.”

Peter gaped, not quite understanding the jest.

“The girl with you . . .” began James.

Peter shivered in his wet clothes. “Nora,” he answered.

“She did seem distressed.”

“She was being chased when she found us,” said Peter. He heard the door below opening and footsteps on the treads.

“Chased? By whom? And you and Mr. Leach found her?”

“And Mr. Cutts and Mr. Moss,” added Peter; when James frowned, he added, “They're woodsmen.”

This was beginning to sound as good as anything Emily could imagine, and James was zealous with curiosity. The presence of two woodsmen in a tale of chase and rescue only deepened the story's promise.

But Parson Leach appeared at the head of the stairs and perceived the tenor of the conversation immediately. “James,” he said evenly, “perhaps you would allow Peter and me to change into some warm clothes.”

James nodded his way out of the room and closed the door behind him, but it was obviously a torture to him. They could hear his footsteps hurrying down the hall beyond.

“I should have told you, Peter–the less said, right now, about our recent adventures, the better. I will tell Captain Clayden what has happened, of course, since I believe he will be of help to us. But we don't want rumor bandied about before we've had a chance to take our first breath. I fret what might be said of Nora if the wrong notions took wing. Don't concern yourself,” added the preacher before Peter had the opportunity to ask the parson's pardon. “Now, let's get dressed.”

Peter looked at the heap of clothes that James had transferred to his arms and the parson indicated a chest where he could lay them. Parson Leach slung his own gear into a corner and pulled dry clothes from one of his bags. He gave out some instructions to Peter, who was a little mystified by some of the buttons and loops and ties. The young man wasn't accustomed to so many pieces to his wardrobe.

“You're a canny young man, Peter,” the parson said, as he adjusted the collar of his young companion's coat here and tugged at a sleeve of his shirt there. “You ask questions when you don't know, which is the first sign of thought, my father used to say. Never trust a man who doesn't question you, he told me. But there is a thing or two you
couldn't
know to ask about. The first thing is that these are very good and gracious people, and they will be pleased if you compliment their house and their circumstances, but they will think you a bit of a bumpkin if you act as if you've never seen such things before–so don't gape, when you're not speaking, even if you haven't.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The next thing is that the women here, I believe, are going to see you as something of a champion, before long.” Parson Leach laughed at Peter's wide eyes. “I don't think the girls will get
very
much from Nora, but they'll surmise enough to carry their opinion of you. Remember, a little modesty is an admirable thing, but let them think highly of you, if they want, for you behaved very bravely out there this morning.” The parson nodded gravely.

Peter only blinked. He was still shivering, in fits and starts, and longed to linger by the fire downstairs.

“Stand there,” ordered the clergyman, and he retrieved a brush from his kit. With this he combed back Peter's long wet hair and stood back. “You had a bath today, at any rate. I haven't given you a good stare till now, Peter Loon, but you are a stalwart-looking fellow.” And it was true, Peter had taken after his mother's handsome features. The parson chuckled, “Captain Clayden is liable to give you a place on one of his brigs, just to hie you away from his granddaughters. Here, we'll hang these wet things on the beams.”

“One of his brigs? But I'm looking for my Uncle Obed.”

“Yes,” drawled Parson Leach. “We'll ask after him.” He considered Peter, as a painter might his nearly finished canvas, and seemed satisfied with the work. “Just remember, keep your compliments short. If it's masculine, it's grand; if it's feminine, it's lovely.”

Silently, Peter tried out these adjectives.

“Now, pull on those boots. I'm throwing these moccasins of yours in the midden.” They made a wet slap in the corner of the room. When Peter was ready and had gone to the head of the stairwell, the parson motioned him to the other end of the chamber, saying, “Come this way, down the front stairs like any guest.”

Peter now got his first view of the palatial end of the house, and it was suddenly difficult to put the parson's advice into use. He did close his mouth, after a bit, and tried not to stare at the paintings along the broad staircase, or touch the flocked wallpaper. The parson led him to the room that young James had dubbed the
den
. A happy fire roared at the hearth in argument to the rain at the windows, and Captain Clayden–wearing an old-fashioned wig now–was perusing his book-lined shelves, as if hunting for a place to put whatever volume Parson Leach may have brought him.

“Zachariah,” said the Captain, greeting his guests as if he had not seen them half an hour before. He shook the preacher's hand and then took Peter's. “Mr. Loon, welcome to Clayden Point.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I have ordered supper early,” said the Captain, “so we will gather in an hour or so and you shall be introduced properly, young man. Zachariah, what is James telling me of this poor young girl having to be rescued? What is happening to the District? Sit down, sit down!”

The guests did as they were told. Peter sat by the fire in a wide, hardwood chair with dark broad arms. He'd never sat in anything like it, but did his best to appear complacent. Above the mantle was a semicircle of wood on which had been painted the scene of a house that might have been the Clayden estate from the opposite shore of the Damariscotta.

“The young woman's name is Nora Tillage, Captain,” said the parson, when he and the elderly fellow had settled themselves.

“It's an old name,” said Captain Clayden. “There were Tillages in my mother's genealogy.”

“Perhaps she is related, sir.”

The Captain's eyes flashed with knowing humor. “Where did you come by her?” he asked.

“She's from Balltown, in the northeastern hamlet there. Her father has a tavern known as the Ale Wife.”

The Captain grunted. A connection to Balltown was not promising to his mind. The Ale Wife he had never heard of.

“Lately, Mr. Tillage has come under the preaching of a man named Barrow.”

“Barrow.”

“Nathan Barrow,” said the parson and he could not keep some level of his prejudice against the man from affecting his pronunciation of the name.

The Captain grunted again, less happy still. “I know the man, by reputation. Wasn't he one of the chief agitators in New Milford the other night? Or perhaps you haven't heard.”

“Yes, I have. There was some unfortunate business, there, I know.”

“Unfortunate! They stripped an honest man to a sock and a sleeve and beat him with sticks! I dare say
he
thinks it unfortunate!”

Peter was alarmed by this outburst, but the Captain's temper quickly cooled, if only in time for a further explosion.

“Mr. Barrow, as it happens, has some power over Mr. Tillage,” explained Parson Leach.

“Is it debt, then?”

“No, worse, it's religion.”

The Captain, it would soon be revealed to Peter, had known Zachariah Leach for years, and it was only because of this that he was not shocked or surprised by this strange pronouncement. “And the young woman is meant as some devotion to this Barrow?”

“She is considered part of his due, yes.”

“Well, then, this Barrow is a
bastard!”
shouted Captain Clayden, and he leapt to his feet and seized a poker from the hearthside, as if he would fight the man then and there. “And her father is a more bastard
still!”

Peter's eyes went wide and he stiffened in his chair. Parson Leach was unperturbed, however, and he did not stir an inch; a twinkle of humor glanced from his eyes to Peter to reassure the young man.

The old man showed no embarrassment for his sudden fit of temper, but sat down again, growling all the while.

“I have met the girl, once or twice before,” continued Parson Leach. “She and her father came to a sermon I gave a year or so ago. Peter spoke with her briefly, just yesterday, under no guise but cordiality, but he understood her situation quickly enough and advised me of it.” Some of this was news to Peter, or the clergyman credited him with more understanding than he owned.

“And you whisked her away!” declared the Captain. “As was the thing to do!”

“I did not,” said the clergyman, perhaps a little abashed. “I spoke to her father about this arrangement with Barrow, but it was her father, after all, who had agreed to it in the first place, and I had wider concerns at the time. I had to think of Peter, who was with me, and we were not among long-standing friends in Balltown, though the folk there are as decent as any.”

The Captain made a noise that left room for doubt on this position.

“But, soon after we left the village, she ran away, it seems, with only the clothes on her back; and some miles outside of the settlement–on our way to New Milford, actually–she caught us up with Barrow and a dozen or so men in full chase.”

Peter half expected Captain Clayden to leap up and call for his horses, but he had wrested control of himself, and merely let out a fuming sigh and glowered at the fire. The poker he held, like a weapon, across his lap.

“There were two good men with us–two woodsmen–Manasseh Cutts and Crispin Moss, and thank God for it, for we were able to dissuade a stronger force and their fairly persuasive leader from pursuing her further.”

“You turned them about.”

“The
cloth
has some mortal advantages,” said Parson Leach wryly. “They were not bad men, the most of them, and as taking Nora from us would have necessitated some violence, they were loathe to press the point.”

“Still, you stood your ground and gave her protection from those scoundrels.” Captain Clayden prodded a footstool under his heels and scowled at his boots. “But you will continue to defend these people, Zachariah,” he said more thoughtfully.

“I will speak for men, though not always of necessity, for their actions.”

“A man
is
his actions.”

“A rich man who steals is more guilty than a poor man who steals to feed his children.”

“So you say,” grumbled the old man, though he mounted no argument against the parson's opinion. “I have wealthy friends, Zachariah, who are among the Great Men in our district. Do you intimate they are thieves?”

“They believe they are sole proprietors of Maine, of that I am certain, and therefore incapable of stealing what is rightfully their own.”

“Righdy so!” said the Captain, as if finding a correct opinion in the parson for the first time.

“And I believe their claim ends with the wilderness, where the labor of common men must tell for possession.”

“It is the proprietors' by
Right of Grant
, Zachariah!”

“Grants from a king whose will and power we have deposed. Grants to landed men who, in some instances, fought
against
our revolution.”

“And by deed,” continued Captain Clayden.

“From Indian contracts that contradict one another. Are the great men of this district not wealthy enough?”