Page 1 of The Frozen River

1 A HANGING NOVEMBER 1789

Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Merchant of Venice

WHAT’S PAST IS PROLOGUE

The body floats downstream. But it is late November, and the Kennebec River is starting to freeze, large chunks of ice swirling and tumbling through the water, collecting in mounds while clear, cold fingers of ice stretch out from either bank, reaching into the current, grabbing hold of all that passes by. Already weighted down by soaked clothing and heavy leather boots, the dead man bobs in the ebbing current, unseeing eyes staring at the waning crescent moon.

It is a miserable night with bitter wind and numbing frost, and the slower the river moves, the quicker it freezes, trapping him in its sluggish grip, as folds of his homespun linen shirt are thrown out like petals of a wilted brown tulip. Just an hour ago his hair was combed and pulled back, tied with a strip of lace. He’d taken the lace, of course, and it is possible—fate is such a fragile thing, after all—that he might still be alive if not for that choice. But it was insult on top of injury. Wars have been fought over less.

The dead man was in a hurry to leave this place, was in too much trouble already, and had he taken more care, been patient, he would have heard his assailants in the forest. Heard. Hidden. Held his breath. And waited for them to pass. But the dead man was reckless and impatient. Panting. He’d left tracks in the snow and was not hard to find. His hair came loose in the struggle, the bit of lace reclaimed and shoved in a pocket, and now that hair, brown as a muddy riverbank, is a tangled mess, part of it plastered to his forehead, part in his mouth, pulled there during a last startled gasp before he was thrown into the river.

His tangled, broken body is dragged along by the current for another quarter of a mile before the ice congeals and grinds to a halt with a tired moan, trapping him fifteen feet from the shore, face an inch below the surface, lips parted, eyes still widened in surprise.

The great freeze has come a month early to the town of Hallowell, Maine, and—the dead man could not know this, nor could anyone who lives here—the thaw will not arrive for many, many long months. They will call this the Year of the Long Winter. It will become legend, and he, no small part of it. For now, however, they sleep safe and warm in their beds, doors shut tight against an early, savage winter. But there—along the riverbank, if you look closely—something dark and agile moves in the moonlight. A fox. Tentative, she sets one paw onto the ice. Then another. She hesitates, for she knows how fickle the river can be, how it longs to swallow everything and pull it into the churning depths. But the ice holds, and the fox inches forward, toward the dead man. She creeps out to where he lies, entombed in the ice. The clever little beast looks at him, her head tilted to the side, but he does not return the gaze. She lifts her nose to the sky. Sniffs for danger. Inhales the pungent scent of frost and pine along the river and, farther away, the faintest whiff of woodsmoke. Satisfied, the fox begins to howl.

CLARK FORGE THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 26

“You need not fear,” I tell Betsy Clark. “In all my years attending women in childbirth, I have never lost a mother.”

The young woman looks at me, eyes wide, sweat beading on her temples, and nods. But I do not think she believes me. They never do. Every laboring woman suspects that she is, in fact, moments away from death. This is normal. And it does not offend me. A woman is never more vulnerable than while in labor. Nor is she ever stronger. Like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate, she spends her travail alternately curled in upon herself or lashing out. It ought to kill a woman, this process of having her body turned inside out. By rights, no one should survive such a thing. And yet, miraculously, they do, time and again.

John Cowan—the young blacksmith apprenticed to Betsy’s husband—came to fetch me two hours ago, and I’d told him there was no time to dally. Betsy’s children come roaring into the world at uncommon speed, with volume to match. Shrieking banshees, all slippery and red-faced. But so small that—even full-term—their entire buttocks can fit in the palm of my hand. Wee little things. John took my instructions to heart, setting a pace so fast that my body still aches from our frantic ride through Hallowell.

But now, having barely arrived and situated myself, I find that the baby is already crowning. Betsy’s contractions are thirty seconds apart. This child—like her others—is in a hurry to greet its mother. Thankfully, she is built well for birthing.

“It’s time,” I tell her, setting a warm hand on each of her knees. I gently press them apart and help the young woman shimmy her nightgown higher over her bare belly. It is hard, clenched at the peak of a contraction, and Betsy grinds her teeth together, trying not to sob.

Labor renders every woman a novice. Every time is the first time, and the only expertise comes from those assembled to help. And so Betsy has gathered her women: mother, sisters, cousin, aunt. Birth is a communal act, and all of them spring into action as her resolve slips and she cries out in pain. They know what this means. Even those with no specific job find something to do. Boiling water. Tending the fire. Folding cloths. This is women’s work at its most elemental. Men have no place in this room, no right, and Betsy’s husband has retreated to his forge, impotent, to pour out his fear and frustration upon the anvil, to beat a piece of molten metal into submission.

Betsy’s women work in tandem, watching me, responding to every cue. I extend a hand, and a warm, wet cloth is set upon it. No sooner have I wiped the newest surge of blood and water away, than the cloth is plucked from my grip and replaced by one that is fresh. The youngest of Betsy’s kin—a cousin, no more than twelve—is charged with cleaning the soiled rags, keeping the kettle at a boil, and replenishing the wash bucket. She applies herself to the task without a flinch or complaint.

“There’s your baby,” I say, my hand upon the slick, warm head. “Bald as an egg. Just like the others.”

Betsy lifts her chin and speaks with a grimace as the contraction loosens its grip. “Does that mean it’s another girl?”

“It means nothing.” I keep my gaze steady and my hand gentle on the tiny head that is pushing into my palm.

“Charles wants a boy,” she pants.

Charles has no say, I think.

Another brutal wave descends upon Betsy, and her sisters move forward to lift her legs and hold them back.

“On my count, push,” I tell her. “One. Two. Three.” I watch the rise of Betsy’s contraction as it tents her abdomen. “Now.”

She holds her breath, bears down, and another inch of bald head is revealed, the tips of little ears cresting beyond the confines of her body. She doesn’t have a chance to catch her breath before the next wave rolls over her, and then they come, unrelenting, one on top of another, never loosening their grip upon her womb. Betsy pushes. Gasps for air. Pushes again. Again. And again. Someone wipes the sweat from her brow, the tears from her cheeks, but I never look away. Finally, the head pushes through.

I ease my hand forward, cupping a cheek and one small ear in my palm. “Only the shoulders now. Two more pushes ought to do it.”

Betsy, however, is ready to be done with this business, and she heaves with the last of her strength, forcing the child right into my hands, then flops back onto the bed as the baby is freed from her body with a whoosh, the only remaining connection a slick silver cord.

A tiny, outraged squall fills the room, but Betsy’s women neither cheer nor clap. They watch, silent, waiting for my pronouncement.

“Hello little one,” I whisper, then hold the baby up for Betsy to see. “You have another daughter.”

“Oh,” she says, crestfallen, and pushes onto her elbows to see the child.