A Mischief in the Snow (6 page)

P
ULL!” CALLED A
chorus of voices.

The two horses on the bank strained at first, snorting bursts of breath that hung in the morning air. The slide did its job, and the long sledge, laden with blocks of ice, began to inch from the pond. Soon it reached the back of a waiting wagon. More men sent the slippery blocks— each a double hundredweight, two feet square and the depth of yet another—up an incline of planks. Pulled with iron prods and pincers, the blocks tumbled at last into a straw-lined bed to form a single layer, enough for the wagon's axles.

The horses were now hitched to the front, ready for another trip to Richard Longfellow's nearby ice house. Several years before, he'd supervised the diverting of a part of the creek that ran through his meadow, to create the shallow pond. For that reason, his claim came first. But once the blockhouse behind his stone barn was full, more ice would flow into Jonathan Pratt's storehouse, next to the stables
that stood behind the inn. Then, smaller cellars about the village would open their doors.

As things proceeded, Longfellow felt the cold, and again donned his long coat and fur-lined hat. He spoke with a few of the loaders and packers preparing to walk by the wagon's side. Out on the ice, others stripped of outer clothing continued in pairs to wield their long, pointed saws with double handles.

Longfellow had earlier lent a hand in cutting the first two parallel lines two feet apart. These had run out into the pond for sixty feet. Crosscuts turned the ice between into blocks, which were pushed beneath the opposite lip, to create a trough of open water. Then a further line and crosscuts freed more blocks that were floated to shore and hauled out, until the first course was finished. The men moved back, sawed a new parallel line, and began to cut more ice from where they'd stood before. As soon as a wagon on the shore was filled, another moved forward to take its place in a changing row.

Longfellow turned to see a number of young women in full cloaks, most often scarlet, lining the shore, cheering as a competition began to see which of the current crews could cut the most blocks before they came together. Older women and small girls arranged food on trestle tables, keeping baskets full of the rolls donated by the Bracebridge Inn's landlord, Jonathan Pratt, serving soup from pots in double-tiered tin boxes lined with coals. Not far off, by a snapping bonfire, jugs offered a more pungent form of refreshment.

Shifting his attention away from the main bustle, Longfellow watched the adjacent ice, dotted with low islands of blueberry scrub. Here, skaters raced or circled one another on blades of steel, antler, or bone. Boys bundled until they resembled sheep romped nearby, awaiting
turns. Waging serious battle, the eldest threw hard missiles of old snow and fell according to the rules of the game; younger brothers simply rolled about on their own.

One of these, Longfellow saw, was Mrs. Willett's occasional assistant Henry Sloan, happily at war with associates from the village dame school. Henry's sister Martha skated by with Lem Wainwright. The pretty pair passed Rachel Dudley, newly arrived, who stood watching with her children Winthrop and Anne. As yet, all three seemed uncertain about what to do with their rare holiday. Considering what he knew of their daily lives, Longfellow was sure they richly deserved a reprieve.

It occurred to him that this winter scene resembled a Flemish village he'd enjoyed while on a visit to the Continent—one painted by the Elder Brueghel, who'd lived two centuries before. Not a great deal seemed to have changed, though Richard believed his own countrymen to be more sober and attractive than old Peter's peasants. Yet to be fair, he had to take into account some of the least fastidious members of the village—for instance, Jack Pennywort and his friends.

Where was Jack? Hadn't word reached him of an exciting tale awaiting his perusal, offering him employment? Longfellow patted his pocket to make sure he still had the wretched book, then looked back along the road. He could see several figures climbing the long slope—and there was the pair he sought, one weaving, one with a foot dragging a little behind. Longfellow presumed Dick Craft had tested the cold that morning, and had then taken several nips before venturing out. At least he would make some honest effort on the ice, if pocket silver performed its usual magic. After that, Longfellow supposed, Dick and his club-footed companion would enjoy the evening hours the
more, on returning as usual to Phineas Wise's snug tavern across the river.

Deciding their approach would take some time, Richard ambled over to a trio of older men who sat beside the blazing fire, deep in conversation with a lad.

“What is the news today, gentlemen?” Longfellow asked, bowing generously to age.

“Nothing of great interest, sir,” Thaddeus Flint assured him. A regular patron of the Blue Boar, he'd come up early with a friend named Tyndall, long known as Tinder. Between this quail-like pair sat another elder of somewhat smaller stomach, though he had a chest shaped like a barrel. Jonah Bigelow gave a gap-toothed grin. He attempted to stand so that he might return the courtesy of one of their selectmen, newly reelected. The effort caused him to wheeze, and he sat down again. The ancient complaint in his lungs was one well known to the village; none grew alarmed, nor did they think to ask particularly after his health. Still, it seemed to Longfellow that Jonah Bigelow's grandson, who stood listening, gave a worried look at his grandsire.

“Are we to have music, Ned?” Longfellow asked, eying a battered wooden box at the young man's feet. This sat next to an open canvas seed bag from which peeped a wooden handle, and a brown scarf with white snowflakes. He realized the latter was Mrs. Willett's work, for he'd watched her knit it the year before.

“Music it shall be, sir, if my fingers cooperate.” With a slow smile sometimes called charming, sometimes roguish, and often enough both, Ned bent to open the box's brass latch. Inside, on well-rubbed velvet, lay a softly glowing violin, and a horsehair bow. He lifted both, and set the instrument against his chin and shoulder. His
knowing fingers drew the bow slowly across the strings. The resulting tone caught the attention of many; after a curious pause, pleased voices and laughter arose.

“Music,” Longfellow commented, “is useful in lifting both heart and load—as I believe Hesiod once remarked, did he not, Ned?” He smiled as he received a rivulet of joyous notes in reply.

Ned now began to bend and saw in earnest, producing a popular tune. For the amusement of those near the fire and to return feeling to his toes, Mr. Tinder got on his feet and jigged about. He was joined for a moment in a jesting gavotte by Mr. Flint; Jonah Bigelow slapped his knees and cried out his approval until a fit of coughing stopped him. Then all three, quite winded, resumed their neat row, like so many kegs on a tavern shelf.

Turning to leave, Longfellow caught sight of something in the snow. He stooped to retrieve it. Moments earlier, it seemed, a shilling had been dropped.

“I assume this belongs to one of you?” he asked. Their response was curious. Each stared at the thing, and then back to his inquiring face. They next glanced furtively toward one another.

“Come, now—it must belong to one of you?” he tried again.

“I came out with none today, sir,” said Tinder, “thinking I'd not need money.” Mr. Flint nodded absently as he dug around in his coat for his long clay pipe, which he finally pulled out. Jonah Bigelow seemed to take refuge in a cough, while Ned tuned his fiddle.

“Well, then,” said Longfellow, “I'll give it to Mr. Rowe, for the poor box.” He put the shilling into his coat pocket.

“A good idea, sir,” said Tinder.

“Thankee, sir,” said Jonah Bigelow, for no apparent reason.

Another friend now sought Longfellow's attention, this one using an insistent nose. This greeting from Orpheus led Richard to suspect Charlotte would not be far away. He patted the dog's head, and went to where Charlotte stood at a trestle table, holding a plate containing crusted wedges of cheese from her dairy. Richard waited patiently while she exchanged greetings with old Sarah Proctor, a tall, officious matron he knew to have a tough crust of her own. Standing by Sarah was her frequent companion and devoted follower, twittering Jemima Hurd, today covered by a vivid cape of Scots plaid.

When he supposed his neighbor had heard enough, Longfellow went closer, and pulled her away. The others quietly withdrew to their own business, though they remained, perhaps, close enough to listen.

“How goes the morning?” he asked.

“Hannah and I are baking. You may try our maple rolls in a few more hours.”

“Good. The high clouds increase, and I suspect the wind has something new in it. This morning, too, my barometer began to drop. I don't believe our work could have waited another day,” he decided, gazing to the sky.

“Then since we
are
here, everything is as it should be.”

“As much as it ever is,” he returned.

“Have you brought Diana?”

Longfellow looked back toward the knoll that rose between their houses. “My sister has gone to visit Charles
Douglas, on the hill. I doubt it will help her, though walking may do some good. My advice was to join us later. We'll see if she humors me.”

“Mr. Longfellow!” A cry announced the arrival of Jonathan Pratt. The rotund landlord walked before a sled pulled by Tim the message boy. Peeping out from a swathe of blankets was a familiar metal urn, sure to be filled with sweet tea. A few steps behind, Rebecca, the cook's daughter, carried a frosted raisin cake.

Tim and Jonathan lifted the urn to the planks of a table; Rebecca increased the opening in the wrappings, to expose a spigot.

A commotion arose as the men on the ice put down their tools and came for a warming mug. Most were soon taught to select what was best—usually that made by the hands of each fair instructor. In the midst of all this, Ned Bigelow played on, a trio of dogs revolving around his feet.

“Where do the wagons go now?” Jonathan Pratt asked Longfellow, after the two had stepped back to make room for others.

“This next load will go to you. A good many, it seems, are already wagering away the silver we'll be giving them for the day's work.”

“Well, John Dudley would have taken most of it anyway,” said the landlord, not without reason. Longfellow, who had no love for the new constable responsible for collecting taxes, let out a groan. Jonathan grinned his agreement, and went on.

“Come June, I suppose I'll be repaid one way or another. Then our local friends, like my stopping guests, always begin to drool for ices and frozen creams, which they'll find some way to pay for.”

June was also the time when fresh meat in storage
rooms became foul from the heat, Longfellow knew. He'd certainly noticed a stink coming from Jonathan's when he first moved into his house, across the road from the inn. Since the smell seemed to bring on the summer flux, he'd then decided to encourage the use of ice, hoping to protect the entire village.

While the two men continued to converse, Charlotte moved off to speak with Lem, who stood next to Alexander Godwin. Seeing them close in some private discussion, she stopped and waited. Today, Alex wore a round hat with a fringe of striped grouse feathers. His coat, though now unfashionable, was elegantly tailored. Its long doubled sleeves and huge buttons marked it as an old one, and she wondered if it had once been the property of John Fisher. This took her thoughts back to Boar Island. Shivering, she looked to the sun, noticing that it had lost some of its earlier strength.

She finally walked closer to the two youths, and began to make out hot words, delivered in snarls and harsh whispers.

“Not if you know what's good for you, you won't, Godwin!” Lem said to the fat boy.

“And if I do?” came a quick answer. “You'll
beat
me, I suppose?” It was said with a sneer. Alex rightly imagined he had little reason, at the moment, to fear a blatant attack.

“See if I don't!” Lem growled, his voice betraying rising fury.

“Then you are
both
going to be sorry.” Alex took a step forward, his hands clenched into threatening fists. “Give me any more trouble, and I'll gladly tell the whole world that you—”

He had no chance to finish, for Lem gave him a shove that knocked the wind from his body.

In a few moments more they circled one another. Then they came together in what might have seemed, from a distance, to be a clasp of friendship. Yet Charlotte could see sharp blows were being delivered, as first one and then the other took a turn. Both tried to hide what they were up to, but it was no good—Sarah Proctor and Jemima Hurd turned shocked faces.