Page 5 of The Frozen River

POLLARD’S TAVERN

Something is on fire. I can smell it, a quarter mile from town, and I fear, for a moment, that destruction has followed death into Hallowell this morning. But when we round the bend, I see that it is only the tavern heaving thick smoke from both stacked-stone chimneys. Wet wood never burns well, and the smoke settles like a fog, perfuming the air, thick and pungent, making my nose sting.

Pollard’s Tavern is a dark hulk against the pre-dawn sky. It sits squarely at the crossroads of Water and Winthrop Streets, a stone’s throw from both Coleman’s Store and the Kennebec River. The building itself, a two-story rectangle designed in the simple post-and-beam fashion, changes its purpose depending on the public function performed within: tavern, courthouse, lodge, meeting hall—or, in this case, mortuary.

These occurrences are hardly irregular. Last September the tavern served as barracks when the Boston militia marched through Hallowell—the Hook, as locals call our village. They camped here a fortnight, drinking grog and sleeping on the floor, until they could join their regiment in Pittston. The tavern smelled of manure and unwashed male for weeks afterward. Then, exactly nine months after that, I delivered Sarah White’s daughter—a rather inconvenient but decidedly permanent reminder of the Boston militia. Still unmarried, the girl has become a favorite topic of gossip among the women, and—unfortunately—of interest among the men. For my part, I pity the girl—pretty faces and misfortune often go hand in hand—but I don’t like her any less. Sarah has been a friend to my daughters for many years, and I of all people understand the myriad, unfair ways that women find themselves in childbirth.

“Does anyone else know about the body?” I ask.

“Not that I’m aware.”

“How many men did it take to cut him out?”

“Seven. All of them chosen by Amos.”

That’s a stroke of luck, I think.

A quick glance up and down Water Street reveals that the residents of Hallowell are certainly up, if not about. Curtains are thrown open in homes—revealing the warm light of lanterns within—and children gather wood beneath eaves heavy with snow. More than one industrious housewife is sweeping her front steps even as she stifles a yawn. It is only a matter of time before news of the morning’s events makes it to Colonel North—I can see smoke rising from his chimney five houses down—and then across the river to Fort Western and Dr. Cony. I will be lucky if I can examine the body before they interrupt my work or take over altogether.

James helps me down from my perch astride Brutus as best he can—he is a good five inches shorter than I am—and ties both sets of reins to the hitching post. He unbuckles my medical bag from the saddle as I shrug out of my riding cloak and pull off the kid gloves that Ephraim gave me for Christmas. I tuck them through the slits on either side of my riding skirt and into the pockets affixed beneath, then settle my expression into one of trained indifference.

James holds the door open and motions me forward with one thick arm. “After you.”

Careful not to make eye contact with anyone on the street, careful to appear as though this is simply an early, casual visit, I climb the front steps and cross the threshold. There is an instant uproar. Men spring to their feet and begin shouting. Gesticulating. Pointing toward a door at the back of the tavern. Three of them hold mugs of hard cider. None of them think to greet me. One of them is already drunk. Chandler Robbins sways in his chair with the stupid look of a man who has gone hard and fast into his cups.

“Hush,” I snap, setting my fists against my hips. They fall silent as I scan the room, looking each of the seven men directly in the eyes. “An explanation, if you don’t mind.”

Moses Pollard—a young man of twenty—breaks away from the group and lifts his chin. He is broad shouldered and narrow waisted and has the look of a man who will only grow stronger as he ages. But when he speaks, it is with the soft, kind lilt of his Scottish mother.

“Thank ye for coming, Mistress Ballard,” he says. “He’s in the back. The man, I mean. The one we cut from the ice.” Moses gives me a crooked half smile—also inherited from his mother—but his words are weighted with apology when he adds, “We dinna want to lay him out on one of the tables, ye ken, seeing as we’d be eating off them soon. Apart from issues of cleanliness, my Ma said it would scare off the breakfast crowd to have a dead man staring at them while they eat their porridge.”

Amos Pollard drops one heavy arm across his son’s shoulders and coughs up a sound that could be either grunt or laughter. His voice—so different from Moses’s green, springy cadence—has the guttural baritone of a first-generation German settler. “My vife said she vould wring my neck if I let zem.”

The tables in question number about ten, and all—except one where the men have been sitting—are wiped clean with benches tucked beneath and lanterns glowing warmly on top. Each can seat eight and, after decades of use, are worn smooth from plates and elbows. As with most things at Pollard’s Tavern—the owners included—the room is solid and rectangular. Open fireplaces—each large enough to roast a spring bull—sit at either end of the room, giving it the look of a Great Hall in an old English manor. The floor is flagstone and swept clean. It smells of candle wax, wood polish, and last night’s meal—stew and potatoes, from what I can judge. The older Pollard is a sturdy man with a square jaw and enormous hands. He runs the tavern as though it were a small city and he the mayor, but his wife, Abigail, is the real heart of the place, beloved in the Hook for her generosity, good humor, and cooking skills. I’m certain that she is keeping her distance from the grim business at hand. Abigail is the sort of woman who can kill, pluck, dress, and roast five geese before lunch but can’t stomach the sight of human blood. I have met only a handful of such women in my life, and typically I have no patience for squeamishness, but for Abigail I make an exception because with her it is endearing.

“How can I help?” Moses asks, stepping away from his father.

He’s trying to make a good impression. I’ve seen the way he looks at my daughter Hannah, and I suspect that he’s begun to entertain the idea of courting her.

“I’m not sure. I need to see him first.”

Amos pops the fingers on his colossal left hand one by one, and I wince at the hard cracking sound. He may as well be snapping tree branches. “It isn’t pretty, Martha,” he says.

I look him square in the eye and tell him, “Little about my work is.”

Amos leads me toward the back room, but as I pass Moses, I give him a sly smile of approval. The more I get to know the boy, the more I like him. He might look as if he’d been spit right out of his father’s mouth, but he has his mother’s heart and way with people.

I carry my medical bag in the crook of one arm and my riding cloak in the other. The men trail behind, feeling important to be included but keeping in a tight pack. They take turns muttering inanities while trudging across the floor.

“I’d wager the Kennebec is frozen all the way to Bath, or near enough.”

“Aye, likely a dozen or more boats locked in till spring.”

“My knee is swelt from the cold. Canna straighten it enough to ride.”

“Did you hear that Negro woman is back in the Hook?”

That last comment grabs my attention, and I flick a quick glance over my shoulder to look at Seth Parker—meaning to catch his eye, ask if the woman seemed well—but he is looking at the storeroom door and doesn’t seem to notice that he’s spoken the question aloud. These men may have done the hard work of pulling a body from the river, but their uneasiness crackles in the air as they move closer to it. When the storeroom door gives way with an eerie whine, they draw back collectively.