THE WINTER HERO
James Lincoln Collier and
Christopher Collier
For our Massachusetts connection, Lydia, Willie, Paul, and Susan
No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 1978 by James Lincoln and Christopher Collier. All rights reserved.
Ebook Copyright © 2012 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-482-9
Library ISBN 978-0-7927-9524-7
Cover photo @ Bonnie Schupp/iStock.com.
More great historical fiction ebooks by the Colliers:
My Brother Sam is Dead
Who Is Carrie?
War Comes to Willie Freeman
Jump Ship to Freedom
With Every Drop of Blood
The Clock
The Bloody Country
THE WINTER HERO
Chapter One
I RAN ACROSS THE BACK FIELD AS FAST AS I could go, heading for the woodlot where Peter was cutting firewood. It was late in the afternoon, but it was hot, the way it can be in August in New England. As I got up toward the tree line I could smell the grapes on the vines climbing up through the branches. I couldn’t see Peter, but I could hear the saw going buzz, buzz on each stroke. “Peter,” I shouted.
The saw stopped for a few seconds and then it started up again. I was nearly at the woodlot now. “Peter,” I shouted. The saw stopped again. I got to the fence at the end of the field and climbed over it into the woods. Now I could see Peter through the trees, standing there with the bucksaw in his hands, three-foot logs scattered on the ground around him. He stood watching as I ran through the trees. “Peter, he’s taking the oxen.”
“What? What’s happening?”
I came up to him and stood in front of him panting. He was more than six feet tall and I wasn’t but five-foot-five. “The oxen. He’s taking them.”
“Who’s—”
“The sheriff. Sheriff Porter.”
His head snapped back as if he had been hit, and then his jaw jutted forward the way it did when he started to lose his temper. “Let’s go,” he said. He flung the saw off onto the woodpile and started running. I picked up the saw. It would rust if it was left out overnight. You could spend half a day sharpening the teeth if that happened. I couldn’t even guess how many shillings a new blade would cost. I put the saw over my shoulder with the teeth facing away from my neck so I wouldn’t get cut if I tripped. Then I began to run. Peter was far ahead of me. He was strong and he was a fast runner, and by the time I got clear of the shade of the woodlot he was nearly across the back field. I ran on. I saw him vault the fence into the barnyard and disappear around the side of the barn. By the time I got to the fence myself I could hear him shouting at somebody. I climbed over the fence carefully so as not to get nicked by the saw, went around the barn, and leaned the saw against the barn door.
The barn was about fifty feet behind the house. In between there was the hen house, the hog pen, and a patch of ground where Molly grew her squash and beans and pumpkins and such. The sheriff was standing in front of the barn next to his horse. He had got the oxen out of the barn, yoked them together, and was running lines from the yoke to the horse’s harness. It was going to take him hours to lead the oxen anyplace that way.
Peter stood there, standing as tall as he could to loom over the sheriff. “Take your hands off them,” he said.
“Peter, don’t give me trouble,” Sheriff Porter said. “Do you think I like this?” There was a musket hanging down next to the horse’s saddle, and he gave it a quick look.
Peter reached out, grabbed the sheriff’s forearm, and squeezed it. “Mattoon sent you.”
The sheriff looked back at Peter, pretty calm. “Never mind Mattoon,” he said. “I have a legal order to take these oxen.”
“Signed by Mattoon.”
“He’s a justice of the peace. It’s legal.”
“It may be legal, but it’s not right. How am I going to plow without oxen?”
Molly was standing at the back door, watching. She was holding the baby in her arms and the other two little ones were peeking out from behind her. “Peter,” she hollered. “Hold your temper.”
Peter gave her a look, and then turned back to the sheriff. “I’m warning you, Porter,” he said. “Cut these oxen loose or I’ll break you in half.”
He could do it, too; he was that strong. The sheriff stopped tying the rope and stared at Peter. “Look,” he said, “I don’t like this either. It’s the law. You borrowed money from Mattoon and you didn’t pay him. He’s got a legal right to take the oxen.”
“As the law he signs the order; as my creditor he takes my oxen,” Peter shouted. “How can I pay anybody anything when every time I turn around Mattoon and his kind in the General Court have plastered on another tax?”
“Peter, hold your temper,” Molly said.
“You’re not the only one,” Sheriff Porter said. “Yesterday I took a horse and a plow from James Bacon and the day before, a hundred weight of flax from Hezakiah White. And last week we had to foreclose on a farm down in Amherst. I didn’t like any of it, either, Peter, but that’s the law.”
“Mattoon’s law,” Peter shouted. “How come the high and mighty have got the laws on their side and the plain man hasn’t got any on his? Who makes the laws?”
“The General Court—”
“The General Robbers. The General Lawyers. The General Liars and Cheaters.” He spit. “No, sir, Porter, you’re not taking my oxen. I’m warning you. Untie them and get off my farm.”
“Peter,” Molly said sharply.
I was kind of scared. When Peter lost his temper, he was likely to do almost anything.
“Now, Peter,” the sheriff said calmly, “you prevent me today, and they’ll just send four of us up here tomorrow to pick up the oxen and maybe take you along as well for interfering with the law. There’s no use in it.”
Peter grabbed his arm again. “I’m warning you.”
“Let go of me, Peter.”
“By God, I’m warning you, Porter.”
“Peter,” Molly shouted. He swiveled his head around, and at that moment the sheriff did a little side skip and broke loose from Peter. He swung up on the horse, jerked the musket from its boot, and leveled it at Peter. Peter stood crouched, his arms at his side, about to charge.
Molly raced out of the doorway. “Justin,” she shouted at me, “take the baby.” I grabbed it out of her arms. She leaped up on Peter’s back and grabbed him around his head, covering his eyes with her hands so he couldn’t see. He staggered forward from the sudden weight, then righted himself.
“Get off, Molly.”
“You just calm down, first,” she said. He grabbed her hands with his, unpeeled them from his face, and shook her off. She jumped around in front of him. “Calm down,” she said.
He stood staring at her, panting. Porter still had the musket leveled. He looked at the gun and then at Molly. Finally he said, “You’d better learn which side you’re on, Porter, ours or theirs. We’re not going to stand for it much longer. There’s trouble coming and it’ll be coming soon.” Then he spit again, and walked off full speed toward the woodlot. I snatched up the saw from the side of the barn where I’d left it, and ran after him with it.
“Peter, I brought the saw in,” He turned and stared at me. Then he took the saw and, without saying a word, turned around again and walked away. I knew he was going to work off his temper cutting wood.
This was in a
town called Pelham, in the western part of Massachusetts. Peter’s farm is on East Hill, about nine miles east of the Connecticut River. Molly is my sister. My mother and father are dead. My father got killed in the Revolution. My mother was always sickly, and trying to run the farm without my father was hard on her. Especially with only two kids to help her. When she died, Molly and I moved in with my Uncle Billy. His name is Conkey, same as mine, and he owns a little tavern a couple of miles down the road. I kind of liked working at the tavern. But then Peter McColloch came home from the Revolution. Being as he was a hero, Molly fell in love with him, and they got married and bought this farm. Then, after the little ones started to be born, they needed help on the farm, so I came out here to live. I liked it. It was hard work, but Peter made it fun.
You never knew what Peter was likely to do. If he decided to do something, he’d go right ahead and do it. I mean, for example, once he was down at Uncle Billy’s tavern drinking cider brandy with some of his friends and a peddler came in with a lot of thread and buttons and ornaments. Well, the peddler had a set of silver buttons that struck Peter’s fancy. He said that they were pretty enough to be on Molly’s best dress. The price was ten shillings, and my Uncle Billy Conkey said he shouldn’t buy them—ten shillings was a lot of money and he couldn’t afford it. But Peter didn’t pay any attention to what Uncle Billy said, he just pulled the money out of his purse and gave it to the man, then he went on home and gave the buttons to Molly. Well, of course she was surprised and happy, but when she found out what they’d cost she hit the ceiling. It was too late to take them back, though—the peddler had already gone. That’s the way Peter was. He was always doing something on the spur of the moment.
Of course, he lost his temper on the spur of the moment a lot, too. That part of it was bad, because sometimes he got into trouble for swearing at somebody, or even getting into a fight. But he was just as likely to do something nice as lose his temper. I mean, if I happened to be down in Amherst with him and we went by Kellogg’s store where there was some candy or something in the window, he was likely to say, “How would you like some of that candy, Justin?” and take me in and buy it for me. So you can see, even if he flared up at me sometimes, he was fun, too.
One reason why Peter flared up so quickly was because he was big and brave and not afraid of anybody. He was a hero in the Revolution. He was in Major William Hull’s Fourth Regiment, which was part of Anthony Wayne’s Brigade. Once, during the Battle of Stony Point, a British squad had built a parapet on top of a hill where they could shoot down at the Americans at the bottom of the hill in perfect safety. The Americans were completely pinned down. So Major Hull called for volunteers for a “Forlorn Hope Squad.” They were supposed to charge up the hill, leap over the parapet, and drive the British out with their bayonets. He promised three hundred dollars to the first man over the parapet, two hundred dollars to the next, and one hundred to the rest.
The way Peter told the story was, “Well, I’d raced everybody in my company one time or another, and I knew there wasn’t anybody around who could run faster than me, because I’d beat them all. I figured if I volunteered, that three hundred dollars was as good as mine. So I said I’d go, and then one runty little follow, he said, ‘McColloch, you may run faster than me, but big as you are you’re bound to catch a ball before you get halfway up that hill and I’ll beat you anyway.” So he volunteered and then a few others came in, and off we went. We just charged out from the trees where we were hiding with our bayonets fixed, shouting and hollering and calling the lobsterbacks names. And of course, I jumped out into the lead right away.
“Well, I hadn’t gone more than about fifty yards when something occurred to me that I ought to have thought about earlier, which was that being so big and out front like that I was drawing all the British fire to myself and the other men weren’t getting any. Those balls were whizzing by me pretty good, a couple of them so close I could feel the breeze they left. So I began to zigzag a little, first running to one side and then to the other side. Still those balls were hitting all around me. Some of them you could actually see skip off the ground, throwing up a little puff of dirt as they hit. So then another thing occurred to me, which was that the British weren’t much good at shooting, and if I went on zigzagging I’d be just as likely to get hit by a bad shot as a good one. I decided I’d best put my trust in the bad aim of the British and get on up that hill as fast as I could. So I left off zigzagging and went on up the hill in a straight line, with the rest of the fellows strung out behind me.
“As I began to close in, I could see the British behind the parapet beginning to get kind of frantic, firing and reloading hardly without even pointing in the right direction. About this time I got to within ten yards of the parapet and I let out a big whoop and raised myself up to look as big and ferocious as I could. Then I leaped onto the parapet and took a slash at the first Britisher I could see. There wasn’t any use in it, though, for they were all running down the other side of the hill, and I just dropped over the parapet and lay there laughing and shaking and feeling weak all over and just about as surprised as I could be that I was still alive.”
That was the kind of man he was. It explains why he came so close to hitting Sheriff Porter. Most other men would have ranted and raged, but they wouldn’t have hit a sheriff. But Peter would have if Molly hadn’t stopped him. He wasn’t afraid of anybody. He was a real hero, and I admired him so. The one thing I wanted, more than anything, was to do something glorious and brave so that Peter would admire me, too. But my life was just ordinary, and there was never anything glorious and brave to do.
Peter had been lucky. He’d been able to get into the Revolutionary War. But that war was over when I was just a little boy, and it didn’t look as if there were going to be any more wars. I was sorry about that. How could I ever do something brave if there wasn’t war? Oh, there probably would be more Indian wars out West, but there weren’t many Indians around our part of the country now, and the ones that were here were pretty tame anyway.
I watched the sheriff lead the oxen out of the yard, and then I went inside. Molly and Peter’s house had a main room with a big fireplace where they cooked, and a bedroom next to that, and upstairs two little rooms under the eaves. The baby slept with them, and the two other little ones in one of the upstairs rooms, and I had the other bedroom. There wasn’t much to my room—just a rope bed with a straw mattress, a little table for my candle, and a chest where I kept my things. I don’t have much to keep, except our family Bible, my father’s will, and a sword my father got from General Lincoln for bravery at the Battle of Bennington. I tried to keep the sword polished so it wouldn’t get rusty.
By the time Peter finished up in the woodlot and came down to milk the cow, the sun had gotten over to the tree line at the far end of the farm. It was getting dark inside, but Molly hadn’t lit any candles yet. There was a big table in the middle of the main room, and four chairs, and two cupboards and a couple of chests for storing flour and so forth. Molly was sitting at the table with the little ones around her. They were upset. The baby was crying and the other two were looking worried. Molly was dipping bits of bread in apple molasses and feeding it to them to cheer them up. They stuffed it in their mouths and the molasses ran down their chins.
I sat down at the table and she sat down across from me, holding the baby on her lap where she could wipe its chin. “I didn’t know Peter owed Major Mattoon money,” I said.
“He had to borrow on the oxen to pay the taxes last year.”
“How much was it?”
“Forty shillings.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“Everybody owes money. Everybody through this whole part of the state owes money.”
It seemed like that was true. For the past few years, ever since the war stopped, all you ever heard about was debts and taxes and people going to court and paying huge lawyer fees. “Well, I don’t understand it,” I said.
“
It’s hard to understand,” she said. “It’s hard to understand why we have to struggle so, and lose our oxen, and those like Mattoon have all the money and great houses and don’t have to dirty their hands working from one year to the next.”
“With all he’s got, why would he want to take Peter’s oxen? What can it mean to him?”
“That’s the way those people think,” she said. “They think they’re lords and masters of everything. They think they’re the high and mighty and we’re nothing. They don’t care about people at all, it seems—only about things. Having more and more things—getting richer and richer.”
I felt pretty sunk. It was hard enough running the farm as it was. Peter had only thirty acres. That was a pretty small farm, so we had to use every inch of it. That meant plowing some awfully stony fields. Without oxen there was no way to do it. Even if we could borrow a team of oxen from somebody for the plowing, that was only the beginning. What about hauling firewood up from the woodlot? We’d have to carry that on our backs, tons and tons of it.
Or bringing our flax down to Amherst—we’d have to put that up in fifty-pound bundles and walk nine miles with it on our backs. And if we cut up some oak planking to sell, the way Peter did in the winters, we’d have to carry the planks to whoever bought them on our shoulders one at a time. Leastwise, I’d have to carry them one at a time. Peter could easily take two and maybe three. It looked to me like the end of the oxen was the end of the farm.
At dusk Peter came in from the cowshed. He was still angry at Sheriff Porter and Major Mattoon, but he’d worked some of his anger off. “That’s one thing about getting into a temper,” he said. “It gets a lot of wood cut.”
We sat down to supper—milk, johnnycake, cheese, and boiled eggs. Molly waited until Peter had stoked up a little bit. “What are you going to do about the oxen?” she said.
“Shoot somebody,” he said.
“Peter,” Molly said sharply. “I don’t want any of that talk, even in jest.”
The Winter Hero Page 1
