“Too much smoke. This black and thick and you know something bad is burning. Don’t wanna breathe that shit in.”
Ben didn’t want to follow any of Simms’s suggestions, but he couldn’t ignore the ringing in his head, and his visibility was virtually zero.
The outline of a police cruiser was just ahead, and he pulled in behind it. The deputy sprang from the car and jogged south, perpendicular to the flow of the smoke. Hudson didn’t want to leave the car, but Ben hoisted him off the backseat and followed Deputy Simms as well as he could.
The air was relatively clean just a few yards from the road, and Ben dropped Hudson to the ground and coughed the noxious smoke from his lungs. He saw that the plume came from the shed just across from the kitchen. The shed was close enough to put the main house in danger, but Ben still couldn’t see any flames. Upslope, out of the flow of smoke, he saw Caroline and Charlie standing with Chief Stanton. She held Bub tight to her chest. He ran toward them as she ran to meet him.
“Are you all right?” he asked before starting to cough again. He took Bub from her to make sure the baby felt the way he was supposed to.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she said. Her face was pale, her skin like marble. But it crumpled as she began to cry.
Ben pulled her close. Her sobs set her body shaking, and she seemed thin and brittle in his arms.
“Hi, Dad,” Charlie said. He pulled on the pocket of Ben’s jeans.
“Are you okay, buddy?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. He wore his faraway look. He walked back a few feet and sat in the tall grass so that only his blue eyes and shag of black hair were visible.
“What happened?” Ben asked Caroline again. Bub smiled tightly, his little face intent upon the task of placing his lips on Ben’s cheek.
“I don’t know,” Caroline repeated. She didn’t look up from Ben’s shoulder, where her head was still buried.
“That smoke’s no good,” the chief said. The chief had a dusting of black soot all over him. Ben saw that they all did. “What’d you have in that shed?” he asked.
“Tools, lawn equipment—we store all of kinds of things in there.”
“Could be some varnishes caught on fire on account of the heat.”
“You think so?” Ben asked.
“It’s been known to happen. Especially anything with linseed oil if it’s not stored just right.”
“So damn hot today, too,” Simms said. “Would’na taken much to set her off.”
“The cussing, Simms,” the chief said. He gave Ben an apologetic look.
“Sorry, Chief,” Simms said, and spat into the grass. “You think we need an engine out here?”
“I called ’em, but that shed’s a goner no matter what.”
“Could be worse,” Ben said, more to Caroline than to anyone else. “Could be a lot worse.”
The pickups from the village began to arrive. They parked downslope from where Ben had pulled over.
“Get rid of them, Simms,” the chief said.
“They’re just tryin’a get a better look, Chief,” Simms said.
“This isn’t the circus,” the chief said. “They’re not going to be any help with a fire like this, and this smoke’s probably toxic. Tell ’em that, and see where it gets us.”
Simms headed down to the trucks.
“Much smoke inside?” the chief asked Caroline.
“The air-conditioning was on in the south part of the house, so the windows were closed. And I turned off the air before we came out here.”
“Smart thinking,” the chief said. “If the air’s still good in there, why don’t you head back in with the boys? Thank the Lord, they’re safe.”
Caroline nodded. She took Bub from Ben and threw him over her shoulder. “I’ll make something to drink for everyone.”
Ben squeezed her arm as she moved away from him.
“I know they’ll appreciate that, ma’am.”
Caroline pulled Charlie up out of the grass and started to make her way back to the house. She gave the smoldering shed a wide berth.
“Engine should be here in twenty minutes,” the chief told Ben.
“That long?” He watched the shape of Caroline diminish as she trudged for the house.
“Things are far apart up here. They take longer to happen, especially if you’re in a spot like this—a place in between places.”
A place in between places described it well, Ben thought. He wondered if the Swanns had ever thought like that when they first settled the Drop. He wondered if they also sometimes woke up in the dark of night forgetting where they were and why they had come here.
“I’m so sorry that this is so much trouble,” Ben said. The sky above the mountains was heavy with smoke. He saw more cars from the village heading up the drive. This was the most exciting thing to happen in Swannhaven in a long time.
“These things happen. Likely just an accident. But we’ll poke around tomorrow to be sure.”
Ben nodded. “You should know that this isn’t the first strange thing to happen to us up here.” He wanted to believe that the fire happened precisely the way the chief guessed, but he couldn’t take the chance that there was something more to it. He told the chief about the eviscerated deer.
“Maybe coyotes,” the chief said.
“Then its head showed up on my doorstep that night.”
The chief nodded. “A prank. I can talk to the boys. Even with all the trouble with the cows, there isn’t enough to do around here.”
But when Ben told him about the pit in the north woods, the chief’s eyes widened.
“A lot of carcasses?” he asked.
“At least five deer and dozens of smaller animals.”
“The boys might be poaching,” the chief said. “If they have blinds nearby, they might skin and butcher their kills in the woods and throw the rest into the ravine. Never an excuse for trespassing, though. And not safe for your little ones. Yep, I’ll have a long talk with them, Mr. Tierney.”
“Thanks, Chief.” It had been a relief to talk to him about it. “Please call me Ben. And my wife doesn’t know anything about any of this, so if we could keep it between us…I don’t want to frighten her if it’s just some guys blowing off steam in the forest, you know?”
“Misleading the womenfolk. Ugly business, but sometimes necessary. You don’t have to worry.” Chief Stanton smiled and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. Ben turned back to the Crofts. He hoped to glimpse Caroline and the boys making their way home, but he couldn’t see them through the haze.
When he turned back to the chief, he saw that the older man’s eyes had strayed to mountains. His hand remained on Ben’s shoulder, but the smile had fallen from his face.
December 10, 1777
Dearest Kathy,
Jack is gone, and I do not know what to do.
He stood the watch at the edge of the south woods with Stephen Harp and William Lowell. The men fear the south watch and most draw lots for it, but it did not bother Jack to go. After midnight they heard a high-pitched chattering noise from the wood. You know how the sounds from the trees play tricks in the cold empty spaces here, but they say that this noise was of a different quality. At first it sounded near, and they moved beyond the tree line to observe its origins. William Lowell said that they walked into the wood, listened to ascertain the direction of the sound, and then walked a bit farther, then listened again.
Lowell does not know how long they went on like that, but they soon found themselves lured beyond the edge of the Drop. And when they dared not go any farther, a hint of smoke and meat tempted their noses. We have eaten nothing but small measures of wheat flour for some days now, and I know well the craving of which Lowell spoke. My mouth waters at the thought of it.
It was then that they came upon a clearing with the embers of a fire still smoldering. It had been an Iroquois encampment, but the Indians were de
ad. They counted the remains of five. Our men searched the camp, suddenly so hungry for meat that they could scarce think of anything else.
The site stank of food, but they could not find the source. Only then did they examine the bodies of the Indians, thinking that one may have fallen into the fire. The corpses were torn apart, with ragged pieces ripped from the legs and chest. Lowell believed it to be the work of wolves. It is the hungry season, and all creatures are emboldened by necessity. Upon looking at a body, Jack cried out. By some miracle, one of the Iroquois still clung to life. The man’s lips were stained with blood, but he tried to speak, his eyes rolling to their whites. The men clustered around him.
Lowell’s account becomes confused here. He said that Jack bent down to listen to the man’s last words, and the Iroquois bit deep into his forearm. Startled by the attack, Harp fled into the woods. Lowell struck the Indian with the butt of his musket, and Jack was able to tear himself free. Then the Iroquois faced Lowell and bit his leg. I have seen the wound. With his uninjured arm, Jack threw the creature off Lowell, and it turned upon him. Lowell says the Indian tore out our dear Jack’s throat with its teeth, and when that happened, Lowell ran, following the noise of Harp’s escape from the woods.
Father has not left his study since Lowell was brought to him. I have comforted Mother and little James and Emmett as best I can, but you and Jack were always better at that than I. I’ve told them that I believe he didn’t suffer, our Jack. A throat wound is so very swift a death. I’ve told them that he registered a moment of surprise and a brief sensation of pressure on his neck before unconsciousness took him. This is what I have told them.
If you ever read this, sitting in the sun on a cobblestone street in free Boston, you will think me mad, dear sister, and you may be right. Like hunger, once madness is in the air it is likely to take root anywhere. Perhaps my madness might be in continuing to write these letters. For all I know, Boston, New York, and Philadelphia have all burned and this war has been the undoing of us all. What else is there to think with demons at our door and our beloved brother taken from us?
Pray for our dear Jack, Kathy. Pray for all of us, as I shall continue to pray for you.
Your Bess
22
Caroline held the brittle nook of Mrs. White’s arm as they surveyed the frost-glazed garden. The fall herbs had long since been harvested, but trudging through the rows was a habit they’d carried from warmer months.
“Birthroot,” Mrs. White said, pointing at one bed. In its prime, the plant had boasted beautiful crimson blooms, but it was now little more than a frozen stub of frayed leaves. The garden had been glorious in the summer and fall, but the weeks of cold had beaten most of the plants back into the earth. “When eaten, it speeds a baby along. And in a salve it clears insect bites right quick.”
Caroline hadn’t known anything about herbal medicine before spending time with Mrs. White. But over the course of many visits, she’d become a convert. Specially blended teas had eased her moods, broken her headaches, and calmed her nerves. These remedies had proved so effective that Caroline had completely phased out her medications a few weeks ago. Gone were the feelings of flatness and suffocation she sometimes felt on the drugs, and gone, too, was the sense of victimhood that came to her each time she had to obediently count out her pills. The transition hadn’t been entirely smooth, but she and Mrs. White had experimented to find a combination of herbs, teas, and tinctures that worked. Ben’s head would probably explode when he found out, but Caroline didn’t plan to tell him until they’d gotten all the kinks worked out.
“For every problem, God offers a solution,” Mrs. White said.
Lately, her soft voice had dropped to the volume of rustling leaves. Caroline was not the only one for whom the dark days of winter were difficult. Under the spell of cold, Mrs. White had withered along with her plants.
“I meant to tell you, that balm you made for Bub’s teeth has been a blessing. He’s sleeping right through the night again.”
“Such a darling baby,” Mrs. White said. “And how is Charlie?”
“He’s fine,” Caroline said. Maybe this wasn’t strictly true, but he was Charlie. There was no easy answer.
“And Ben?”
“A bit distant, but he’s always like that when he’s working on a book.” Unfortunately, he’s always working on a book, was what she didn’t say. Mrs. White had become the only person she could talk to about such things, though she tried not to complain much about Ben. Caroline didn’t want to be one of those women who constantly whined about her husband. It wasn’t appropriate in so small a village, especially considering that Ben and Mrs. White were both active in the Preservation Society and the Swannhaven Trust.
“It’s a hard season,” Mrs. White said. Caroline had often heard that said about the holidays, and she couldn’t disagree.
After negotiating a good rate with a manufacturer, Caroline had ordered dozens of beds, tables, couches, and dressers for the Crofts. She’d also commissioned larger pieces of furniture for the rooms on the first floor. As much as they’d already bought, they still needed linens, rugs, curtains, dishes, towels, art—and that was just for the interior. Though Caroline had big plans for an herb garden and other landscaping, she and Ben hadn’t even begun working on the grounds. And unless it involved moving furniture or holding picture frames against the wall, she knew Ben would be of little help. As usual, Caroline would find herself shouldering the burden. It would take a massive amount of time to get everything right. Time and money. Always money.
“I like the holidays,” Caroline said—though saying this aloud made her remember that she still needed to cajole Christmas lists out of Ben and Charlie, buy the presents, wrap them, get more ornaments for the trees, bake cookies, bake more cookies, plan a menu for Christmas Day, write out cards, address the envelopes, and decorate the house nicely for the kids. The Christmases of her youth had seemed magical, and she wanted her sons’ to be the same. If she couldn’t be a banker, she was going to be the best mother anyone had ever seen. She wanted the holidays to be perfect, just as she wanted the Crofts to be. Ben thought that this was part of her problem, but Caroline believed in striving for excellence. Still, that left her with a lot to do and little time in which to do it. They hadn’t even taken their Christmas card photo yet.
“It’s right to look forward to happy times, but the winters here have their hardships, too,” Mrs. White said. Coming to the end of a row, they turned back to Mrs. White’s small house, where they would share a cup of tea before Caroline headed home.
Whenever Caroline visited Mrs. White’s cottage, she felt as if she were stepping into the pages of a fairy tale. Inside, the embers of a fire glowed in the hearth, and the ceiling beams burgeoned with bundles of dried herbs. A wall was covered with narrow shelves that held an entire apothecary’s worth of tinctures, oils, tonics, and balms.
Mrs. White fired the stovetop for the kettle and examined the small mounds of bespoke teas on her workbench. Caroline knew hers would have St. John’s wort and lady slipper for anxiety, while Mrs. White’s often had some milkweed and yarrow for her arthritis.
“Maybe you should include some blessed thistle and wormwood in yours,” Caroline said. “For appetite.”
Mrs. White nodded. She had grown frighteningly thin.
“It’s nice to be by the fire,” Caroline said. “I wish we had fires more often at home. Ben usually makes them only on special occasions, but they’re so comforting.”
“Best way to beat the cold,” Mrs. White said. “Now, I’ve made you a new blend, dear. Something that will chase those December blues away.” She took the whistling kettle off the stovetop but, in doing so, knocked over a plate. It shattered against the floor like an eggshell.
“No, no, let me,” Caroline said. She practically dove for the shards to keep Mrs. White from bending over.
“So sorry, dear. Must be a little light-headed.”
“You’re so busy taking care of e
veryone else that you forget to take of yourself,” Caroline said. She brushed the broken fragments from her hand into the garbage. It was a relief, really, to be able to dispose of a mess so easily.
“It’s a hard season,” Mrs. White said again. She handed Caroline a steaming mug. The old lady had also repeated herself many times on Caroline’s last visit as well as confided that she’d been getting confused at night. Caroline hoped this wasn’t the beginnings of dementia. “Up here, the winter months are filled with trials. But our days in the sun wouldn’t count for anything if we didn’t know what life was like in the shadows. And always remember that for every problem, God provides a solution.” This was Mrs. White’s mantra, and one that Caroline had tried desperately to believe. It was good to think that she only had to find the right way to repair herself and her family. It was good to think that it wasn’t impossible for them to have it all again. She sipped at the tea and winced at its bitterness.
“The hard times make the happy times better, I think,” Mrs. White said.
Caroline sighed. If contemporary misery was a down payment on future contentment, then she could look forward to some very good times indeed.
23
Ben leaned in to the chain saw even as the blood glazed his eye guard.
“That’s good,” Jake yelled behind him. “You can cut bigger, if you like.”
Old man Robards had called in the carcasses at noon, and Ben and Jake had been the first to arrive. Five Holsteins in a rough circle, frozen solid to the ground, their puddles of icy guts and blood glowing like red glass in the sun.
Ben had been helping with the cattle cleanup for the last month. Some days, cows at four or five farms need to be chopped up and hauled away. If they’d lain there through the night, the coyote packs left their marks. They tore chunks from the hulking bodies, emptying their contents onto the frosted grass. Tangles of intestines often trailed for many yards toward the trees, as if they’d tried to haul their mighty bounties back to their lairs.
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