Delivering the Truth (3 page)

four

I added wood to
the cook stove in the kitchen the next morning at first light, put water on for samp—the corn porridge little Betsy loved—and the washing, then ground coffee and measured it into the blue enameled pot. I hadn't slept well, as the awful whistle had screeched until nearly dawn. Zeb had stopped over last night on his way to help fight the conflagration. He'd been determined, despite his own anguish about his brother, to reassure Faith that he himself wasn't in the factory, and it had helped to set both Faith's and my mind at ease about his safety.

When Frederick opened the back door, I glanced up. He trudged in, carrying the smell of smoke and tragedy. I watched as he sank into a chair at the table and unlaced his shoes without speaking. When he tossed his hat on the table, the soot streaking his hands and face stopped at a sharp line above a thick forehead that jutted out above his eyebrows. He padded to the sink and pumped water, then scrubbed until his skin was clean. He finally met my gaze.

“Isaiah Weed is gone. Along with a dozen other men. Trapped inside the Parry factory.”

I gasped and brought my hand to my mouth.

“Let us pray they didn't suffer too much.” Frederick let out a deep, mournful sigh. “All the major carriage factories burned, plus other places of business. The post office and telegraph office. Many homes. All gone.” He shook his head, gazing with light eyes out the window in the direction of Carriage Hill.

“Poor Isaiah. And Zeb, and his parents. What a sad, sad day.” My throat thickened and my eyes threatened to overflow.

Frederick nodded, taking a seat again. Faith appeared at the doorway, securing her hair with both hands raised behind her head. She stopped with wide eyes. “Oh, Father. I see terrible news in thy face.”

“Sit down, my daughter.” He patted the chair next to him. After she sat, he went on in a low tone. “Isaiah is dead, I'm afraid.”

She lay her head on her arms for a moment, then sat up with a
tear-streaked
face. “I must go to Zeb. And then to Annie.”

“There will be time for that,” he said. “Sit here and have thy breakfast first, Faith.” He laid his thick hand atop hers.

I was grateful he acted kindly toward her. I could not predict when his mercurial temperament would strike, but at least for now he was tender. I doled out a serving of samp for both of them and set the dishes on the table.

“How can I eat cornmeal porridge, or anything, with so many in pain?” Her brown eyes—so much like her mother's, so much like my own—pleaded with me.

“Faith, dear.” I smiled gently at her. “If there is one thing I have learned in my practice, it's that I can't help others if I don't take care with my own
well-being
. Thee must eat and drink if thee is to be strong for thy friends.” Despite my advice, I often violated it myself when my schedule grew too busy.

She nodded but wrinkled her nose.

“Does anyone know how the fire started?” I asked Frederick.

He shook his head. “There was much talk, of course. A careless worker. A spark on old wood. Perhaps we'll never discover the cause. With the recent disagreements between Amesbury and Salisbury about who would annex whom, our
fire-fighting
equipment has grown out of date and isn't in good repair. The wind caused the blaze to
jump from the factories to the post office and thence to the telegraph office, so they couldn't send word by any fast method. By the
time help arrived from Haverhill, Salisbury, and Newburyport, it was almost too late.”

“What a pity,” I said. Haverhill was ten miles distant to the west, but Newburyport lay directly across the river to the southeast, and Salisbury, of course, was just to Amesbury's east.

Frederick rubbed his forehead. “Only the blessed
rain prevented further damage.”

“How will I live?” wailed Annie.

I embraced her shaking shoulders. God bestowed such hardship upon us. Faith and I sat with Annie in the
three-room
tenement apartment down on the Flats where she lived with her mother, two brothers, and her mother's parents—all
French-Canadian
and all textile mill workers except her dotty Grandmere. Because it was Good Friday, Hamilton Mill was closed. Thankfully it had been spared from the fire, as had the other textile mills on the Powow.

Faith stroked Annie's hair. “Thee will live. Life goes on, no matter how painful.” She tucked an errant red curl back under the green ribbon holding it.

Annie paused her sobbing and gazed first at me and then at Faith. “I'm sorry. Of course you both know this better than anyone. You lost your mother, and you, Rose, your sister, so recently.”

Faith patted Annie's hand. “Thee will come to Isaiah's Memorial Meeting for Worship tomorrow?” Faith asked.

Annie nodded, her eyes filling again.

Faith smiled at her. “Thee and thy pretty ribbons. I wish I could wear some.”

Faith must be trying to take Annie's mind off the death for a moment. I hoped it would work.

Annie smiled back, but it was only a shadow of her usual bright expression. “You should. I'll lend you some.” At my raised eyebrows, Annie said, “Oh, that's right. You're not supposed to.”

“Yes, I have told thee before. Friends are to wear plain dress.” Faith sighed, sweeping her hand over her very plain dark green dress. “I'll simply enjoy thy ribbons on thee, the ones Isaiah always delighted in.”

I knew Faith loved bright colors as much as Annie. I had, as well, when I was seventeen. Now I had grown accustomed to my plain dresses in dark colors and my simple bonnet. I was too absorbed in my work to pay colorful items much mind, anyway.

Annie pulled the ribbon from her hair and handed it to Faith. “Take this. Curl it up in your pocket. Wear it to bed. Do with it what you'd like, even if it's only gazing upon it. Anyway, I shouldn't be wearing bright colors myself while I mourn. It would be disrespectful to Isaiah.” Another tear slipped from her eye and trickled down her cheek, finally dripping onto her lace collar.

“Thank thee, Annie.” Faith took the ribbon and slipped it into her pocket.

“I must get home,” I said and squeezed Annie's hand. “Be well, friend.”

“I'll stay for a while,” Faith said.

I made my way slowly back up Water Street toward Market Square.

“Rosetta!” a woman's voice called out.

Only one person in the world called me that. Smiling, I turned to see my friend Bertie Winslow hailing me. The wiry little woman, postmistress of the town, rode toward me waving from atop her horse. As usual, strands of her curly blond hair escaped out from under her hat, which was, as usual, set at a rakish angle.

“Bertie, how is thee?” I asked when she got close enough. “Surely thee wasn't still at work last evening?”

“No, I was home. What a time, eh? Whoa up, Grover.” She pulled on the reins of the compact black horse.

Only Bertie would name a horse Grover. I always smiled to hear her refer to a large animal by the name of our country's president. It was delightfully subversive. And only Bertie had the nerve to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. She slid a leg clad in a long bloomer over Grover's back and hopped off the animal, her skirt falling back down over her pantaloons. The bloomers, made from a cloth that matched the skirt, always showed when she rode. Bertie didn't care what people thought.

She was in her thirties, unmarried, and unconcerned about it. She and I had grown friendly after I had delivered her sister's child several years earlier and Bertie had been there helping out. I enjoyed her always sunny and unconventional spirit. And since single working women were few in our town, we had that in common, too. Although she wasn't exactly single.

She hooked her arm through mine and we strode toward the square, Grover clopping behind. Bertie always strode.

“Was there anything to salvage from the post office?” I asked.

“Nothing. Even the boxes were melted down. We'll have to start from scratch.”

“What a pity.”

“I consider it a fresh start. Or would if men hadn't died in the fire,” she said.

“Such a tragedy. Where is thee bound for?” I asked when we arrived at the busy intersection.

“Have to meet with the postmaster in Salisbury to talk about reestablishing services, where the government wants us to rebuild, that sort of thing.” She squeezed my arm before mounting Grover. “Let's go have fun one of these days, shall we?” she called back as she clattered off.

“We shall,” I called after her.

In the square, wet ash coated awnings and smelled of sadness. The storm had blown through leaving a sunny, breezy day at odds with the town's mood. Residents and businesspeople talked outside in small clumps with much shaking of heads and faces red with anger at the town's failure to extinguish the fire. I overheard an older man refer to it as the Great Fire. Following close on the Great Blizzard. What was the world coming to?

A cluster of several men standing outside Sawyer's Mercantile included Stephen Hamilton, the student Frederick had taught and tried to help. Now in his twenties, he wore a coat of fine cloth and carried a Bible in his gloved hand, but his hat sat askew and mud covered his fancy boots. He shook the book in their faces.

“Now settle down, Hamilton. Everything is God's will. Even accidents,” an older man said.

Stephen wagged his head and pointed a trembling finger. His eyes burned with anger.

“Why don't you go home and try to calm down?” the man asked.

Stephen stalked away, muttering. As I passed, the other man said, “That boy is touched in the head. He rarely speaks.”

“He's no longer a boy,” the older man replied. “His father should make him work. He needs a good honest job.”

I watched Stephen go. I sighed as I made my way up High Street.

“Rose!”

I turned to see Zeb hurrying toward me. “Zeb.” I held out my hand to the tall, wiry young man.

He grasped it in both of his. His usually delighted expression was replaced by haunted eyes and a wide mouth turned down in grief.

“I'm so sorry about dear Isaiah,” I murmured. “How is thee? And thy parents?”

“We can barely believe it. Rose, if only we could roll the clock back to yesterday.” He blinked suddenly full eyes.

“If only.” I laid my other hand atop his.

“They're saying it might not have been an accident.”

A cold knot grabbed my stomach. “Does thee mean someone set the fire with intent?”

He nodded, his face a study in
troubled
.

“Who would do such a thing? And why?”

He only shrugged. He disengaged his hands and shoved them in his pockets, looking up toward Powow Hill. I wished him well and watched him walk away with bent shoulders. As I continued toward home, I mused on who would have purposely set such a fire. Who would want to destroy much of the town's livelihood, and human lives, as well?

I caught sight of John Whittier strolling toward the square. I seemed to be encountering all my favorite people on this morning of grief. His prominent nose, erect carriage, and the deliberate gait of his long, lean legs made the
well-known
abolitionist and poet unmistakable about town. He must have recently returned to his home on Friend Street from his cousin's at Oak Knoll in Danvers, where he spent his winters of late.

“Rose Carroll, how is thee this morning?” His visage was somber above a
snowy-white
chin beard that left his mouth fully exposed. But he harbored the twinkle in his eye I was accustomed to.

“It's a sorrowful day, John Whittier. We've lost Isaiah Weed in the fire, and so many others.”

He nodded slowly. “Has thee heard talk of arson?”

My face must have given away my surprise at what he said. Two people talking of arson in as many minutes, nearly.

He continued, “I see thee has. My friend Kevin Donovan was speaking to me not twenty minutes ago of the idea. Thee knows there is that of God in each person.”

“I cannot fathom who might be led to destroy so many lives, so much property.”

“If the story of arson is true, we must seek to understand how the manifestation of God in the arsonist could allow him to act in such a destructive way. I admit it is difficult to reconcile this contradiction, but persons ignoring the divine within and willfully hurting others occurs all too often in our earthly sphere.”

“True. First we must understand who set the fire, and why.” I smiled at John to cushion my response. I hoped he wouldn't find me harsh. I was known for being a little too forthright and I saw no reason to temper my attitude with this famous but personable Friend. I had been a member of the Religious Society of Friends my entire life, and had known John Greenleaf Whittier since my sister's marriage to Frederick nearly twenty years ago.

“I am sure we shall, as way opens.”

I nodded. The Quaker concept of waiting for guidance, or for further events to show the way, was a tricky one for me. Patience was not one of my virtues.

I bade John farewell. There was much to consider. I was surprised he called Kevin Donovan “friend.” I'd had a
run-in
with the burly policeman in the past when I'd asked him to take to task a husband I knew was beating his wife, even while she was with child. He'd responded in his Irish accent about how the law said the business of a man and his wife should remain behind the closed doors of matrimony. I didn't agree. And because of his opinions on the right of a man to abuse his wife, I hoped he was a competent detective when it came to other crimes. If the fire was set by an arsonist, Kevin needed to find this criminal before he or she acted again. That shadowy shape I had seen as I left Parry's the evening before. Could it have been the arsonist?