POLLARD’S TAVERN         
FRIDAY, APRIL 30

The Court of General Sessions meets on this last Friday of the month. It is the first warm day of spring. The sun is shining, the river is open, and what little snow remains in the Hook is hard packed and dirty, heaped in the shadows and piled at the edge of the road. Mostly there is mud.

Mud on boots and clothes and caked into horseshoes and spread across the floor of the tavern. Abigail Pollard has given up trying to keep the place clean and—judging by the scowl on her face—is tempted to toss her broom into the hearth and let it burn. Instead, she chucks it into the corner and retreats to her table. When she sees me watching, she laughs, then lifts her mug and takes a long gulp of cider.

I had not expected to find Joseph North on the bench. I had not expected to see him in public for some time, to be honest. But there he is at the table, wearing his robe and wig, sitting on a cushion, gavel in hand. If I’m being honest, he looks more than a little peaked. His skin is pale, and there is a film of sweat across his upper lip.

I’ve come here to do the thing required of me by my profession, and I had thought I’d be giving my testimony to Obadiah Wood. It was my understanding that he would be traveling down from Vassalboro until Judge North recovered from the strange illness that has kept him abed these last ten days. Much has been made of this in the Hook. Rumors flitting this way and that as happens in small towns such as ours. I’ve heard several versions myself.

Consumption is generally agreed upon.

The croup has also been mentioned, though no one has seen him cough.

Indigestion. Humors. The ague. All of these options have taken their turn around the rumor mill.

Dropsy.

Gout.

Piles.

The putrid sore throat. Scurvy. Diarrhea.

It is boils, however, that most assume to be the cause of his affliction. Why else would he have spent ten straight days laid up in bed and now be forced to use a cushion whenever he sits? It is the logical conclusion, and one I would have taken to myself under other circumstances.

I can only assume that Dr. Page was paid handsomely for his silence because dismemberment has not once been mentioned by anyone in the Hook.

I know that North sees me at the back of the room waiting to give my testimony. I know that he sees Ephraim as well, but I get the sense that North will not make a show of me today. Or perhaps ever again.

Today’s court business is typical. Petty local issues. Things of no major import to life or law. Just a great deal of ruffled feathers after a long, grueling winter. And I doubt there would have been but a handful of cases called if today had not been the day they buried Joshua Burgess. It’s the first day the ground has been soft enough to dig a grave big enough and Amos insisted it was time to get Burgess out of his shed. In the end, the same seven men who cut Burgess from the ice committed him to the ground. It seemed fitting. And seeing as how there is no church, he couldn’t be buried in the church yard—not that anyone would have wanted him to be. They chose the woods instead. Just a hole. No words were said. But Amos Pollard did insist upon a stone cairn.

“Last zing ve need is a leg bone getting dragged down the middle of Vater Street if ze dogs get to him,” Amos had said.

No one argued.

The whole fiasco drew a crowd, however. And of course, the crowd then wandered back to Pollard’s. Then proceeded to get drunk. Now everyone has a complaint, and I am ready to be home.

“Martha Ballard?” Joseph North calls my name from the front of the room. “You have business to attend?”

I stand. Make my way forward. “I have evidence to give in a legal cause.”

“What manner?” he asks.

This is the call and response that we have performed for many years now. As familiar to those in this room as a nursery rhyme. Few pay attention to us.

“An unwed woman has named the father of her child, and I bring it before the court so it may be recorded.”

“Name the woman,” he says. “Name the father.”

I have done this countless times, of course, but it feels different now. And though I hate to do it, I will not shirk my responsibilities.

“On Sunday, April eighteenth, Sally Pierce gave birth to a son.”

I may as well have dropped a large stone into a small pond for all the ripples this announcement makes. Everyone listens now. Even North is surprised.

“The daughter of William Pierce?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I did not realize she was with child.”

“You are not alone in that,” I tell him.

“And who is the father of this child?”

It is a long breath, and I draw it slowly. But I have only opened my mouth to answer when I feel a presence at my side.

“I am,” Jonathan says.

Quickly, softly, he reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“And I have come to pay her court fee. Twenty shillings. Far and above anything required by law for a first offense. You will also find that I have posted our intent to marry outside the tavern.”

Jonathan pulls a coin purse from his pocket and drops it on the table before Henry Sewell. He watches as the confession and the fee are recorded, then signs his name beside both.

“Do you have any other business to attend, Mistress Ballard?” North asks.

I know that he is in pain. But I think being robbed of the chance to humiliate me before the court hurts him most.

“No,” I say. But then I cannot help myself, and I add, “Though I would be remiss if I did not inquire about your health. I’ve been told it’s taken a turn for the worse of late.”

He clenches his jaw. Glares at me. “Do not concern yourself with my welfare. I am on the mend.”

“A credit, no doubt, to being tended by a trained medical professional.

I care not what his reaction might be, and I have turned, am halfway through the room when Jonathan catches up with me. North bangs his gavel, adjourning court, and the crowd rises, pushing back their benches. Muttering. Gossiping.

“I am not such a bad man as you might think,” Jonathan says, his mouth near my ear.

“I have never thought you a bad man.”

“Even now?”

“You did the right thing by Sally. And by your son.”

“That’s not what I mean. Sam said that you came to see him. That he told you of my part in that… business.”

I stop as the room swirls around us. Set my hand on his cheek. I feel the stubble beneath my hands. He has Ephraim’s eyes. A steely kind of blue. They are kind, but filled with a deep resolve.

“Ask your father about a man named Billy Crane,” I tell him. “And you will understand why I am not angry with you.”


Friday, April 30—Clear and warm. Joshua Burgess buried this morning. Have been to the Hook for court. Came home in the afternoon. Barnabas Lambard tarries for dinner. Moses Pollard as well. Jonathan brought Sally, along with their new son. I have been at home.