The Body In The Bog (15 page)

“The state police have been notified. We're taking this very seriously. They'll provide extra coverage and someone will be with you at all times. Now, don't say anything.” He held up his hand as Pix began to protest. “No choice here. Nothing's going to happen and we want to make sure it doesn't.”

Faith was relieved by the illogic of the statement. She planned to be at her friend's side every waking
minute of the day, too—no matter how early that minute was.

“What about the kids? I haven't told them. I don't want them upset.” Having given in on one thing, Pix was taking a stand on another.

She was going to lose this one, too.

“We don't know anything, so we have to assume all of you are targets. If you don't tell your children, they're not going to be able to look after themselves—or accept our looking after them.”

Faith remembered that Samantha, a class officer, would be riding in one of the classic convertibles. Charley had used the word and it had stuck in Faith's mind:
Target
. Sitting duck.

“Can we move the senior class officers to a closed car?” she suggested.

Pix winced. They were right. These were her kids.

Charley nodded and took out his scruffy spiral memo pad. “Okay, let's get it all down. They're in the youth parade and the big parade, right? And what about Danny, is he marching with anything?”

“DARE, but that's just the big parade. He'll want to ring the bell at the belfry in the morning, though. He always does. And we all go to Millicent's pancake breakfast. I'm in the kitchen and Sam passes out the food. The kids help clear and set up.” The Millers' Patriots' Day routine was unvarying—and exhausting.

“Well, at least when he's marching with the DARE group, he'll be surrounded by cops,” Faith observed.
DARE was the drug education program the police ran for the upper elementary and middle school kids.

Charley took some more notes. Pix appeared to feel better. She was quilting. Chief MacIsaac stood up to leave and Pix had a sudden thought.

“I can see how you'll be able to cover us, but how on earth are you going to keep track of Millicent?”

It was just what Charley had been thinking, too.

 

Faith sat in church the next morning wondering if they would ever get back to normal. Once again, the peace of the sanctuary was gone, replaced instead by a tension so palpable, you could taste it. A kind of a morning mouth taste, a taste even a good toothbrushing couldn't entirely dissolve. Last Sunday, it had been the first letters. Today, Margaret's death—and more letters. Plus the undercurrents—Lora's calls, the brick through her window, and Lora herself. Faith tried to find a spot on the pew cushion that still had some stuffing.

She planned to spend the afternoon with Pix. They were going to take all the kids up to Crane Beach in Ipswich to fly kites. Tom had calls to make, but Sam was coming. Faith had already packed a picnic. They needed to get away, and the idea of sitting and watching a large expanse of water appealed to her. Pix had agreed.

Faith stood up for the last hymn. Yes, it would be good to spend the day outside—and away from Aleford. Aleford—overnight it had become a place of
danger. They'd be away, but they'd be marking time. As they sang “Amen,” the bells rang in the steeple. It was noon.

In twelve more hours, Patriots' Day would begin.

The sky was pitch-dark when Faith woke. Unlike other Patriots' Days, this morning she had no trouble getting out of bed. The trouble had been getting to sleep at all. She felt muzzy. She needed some coffee, a lot of coffee.

“Tom, Tom, wake up.” She leaned over her husband. He smiled and reached for her, then remembered the day and what it might bring. The smile faded and he kissed Faith hurriedly.

“I'll get Ben dressed while you get ready. Mrs. Hart should be here soon,” Tom said.

Amy was at the age where any change in routine produced disastrous results. Eloise Hart was a parishioner who'd agreed to stay with the toddler until a more reasonable hour.

When Faith returned from brushing her teeth, she found a gleeful Ben bouncing on their bed in his Minutechild garb.

“Did you remember his thermal underwear—and yours?” she asked Tom. “It's freezing out, as usual.”
Faith most enjoyed Patriots' Day after the sun rose and her toes thawed.

Tom was struggling into his homespun frock coat and Faith took his mumbled reply as a yes. She looked at her own costume and pitied those poor women who had had to struggle through their onerous chores weighted down by layers of heavy petticoats and coarse woolen hose. Normally, Tom delighted in his role as the Reverend Samuel Pennypacker. Aleford tradition more or less demanded that whoever Samuel's modern-day counterpart was at First Parish join the Aleford Minutemen Company and participate in the reenactment. Star of several college productions and George in Norwell High's staging of
Our Town,
Tom hadn't needed any urging, and he read Samuel's diaries in the Aleford Room at the library each year to get into the role.

Faith played his wife, Patience. Patience didn't leave any diaries, nor did she figure in her husband's except for an occasional reference, “Patience with child again.” Faith had seen both their headstones in the cemetery and noted that Mistress Pennypacker had outlived her husband by fifteen years. Maybe Patience
was
a virtue. Patience didn't have to do much at the reenactment except rush onto the green when the smoke cleared and tend the wounded. Faith didn't do anything to prepare. This was Ben's first reenactment. He was little Elijah Pennypacker. Faith reminded him that children in those days were extremely obedient and that he must stay by her side at all times.

The bell rang and Faith went to answer the door,
nearly tumbling down the stairs, encumbered by skirts as she was. It was Mrs. Hart. As Faith let her in, the lights in the Millers' kitchen went on. None of the Millers were participants in the reenactment, but they all took turns ringing the alarm bell in the old belfry and would join the spectators lining the green. Faith wondered if they had company for breakfast, company who might be packing something more modern than a musket. Charley had promised protection, and if there wasn't anyone there yet, Faith herself resolved to stay by Pix's side. Patience might miss the battle this year.

Each year, the Aleford Minutemen met for breakfast before the event, gathering at the parish hall of the Catholic church. This third Monday in April was always a very ecumenical day. Besides the DAR pancake breakfast, the Baptists and the Episcopalians hosted them. Faith made coffee for Mrs. Hart and put out some apple crumb cake, bagels, cream cheese, and lox. Let her choose from these all-American favorites. Hastily drinking some coffee herself, Faith went into the living room and called softly up the stairs, “Tom, Ben, we have to be going.” They came immediately, Tom's heavy boots clumping noisily.

“Sssh, you'll wake Amy!”

Ben was so excited, he was hopping from foot to foot.

“Go pee, Ben. One more time,” Tom instructed.

“I don't have to,” he protested—one more time.

Faith was anxious to get over to the Millers'. She needed to see Pix.

“Come on. They have bathrooms at the church. And it's getting late.”

They said good-bye to Mrs. Hart and put on their woolen cloaks. Tom draped a plaid blanket over his shoulders. He'd seen a print of a New England minister of the time so attired and had adopted the garb himself. It meant he was the warmest person on the Common, too.

They stepped outside. The moon, full two days earlier, was still large and bright. The cold early-morning air seeped through their clothes. Faith was chilled. It was 4:15.

The Millers were ready to leave, too. You had to get in line early if you wanted a turn at pulling the bell rope. Faith was relieved to see Patrolman Dale Warren was with them. As she did every year, Pix was urging her family to pretend that they actually
were
on their way to sound the alarm.

“It was cool, maybe not as cool as today, but definitely not warm. Everyone who lived close to the green, the way we do, would have been gathering at the tavern, waiting for information about the British troops. Keyed up—something was finally happening—but scared, too.”

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 prejudices encouraged by myth had obscured this fact long ago and Minutemen they were.

The first person Faith saw was Gus Deane devouring 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 reminiscences 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 way. 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.