ACCEPTABLE RISK
Spurred on by the penetrating
cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare. The
horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed
snow. Mercy snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and
clasped her hands together within her muff in a vain attempt to shield herself
from the arctic air. It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine.
Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had to struggle to
illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New
England winter. Even at midday long violet shadows extended
northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses of smoke hung
motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen
against the ice blue polar sky. Mercy had been travelling for almost a half
hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich
Road from her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on
the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost
Fish River,
the Crane River,
and the Cow House
River and now entered into the
Northfields section of Salem
Town. From that point it
was only a mile and a half to the town centre. But Mercy wasn’t going to town.
As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It was the
home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and ship owner. What had drawn
Mercy away from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighbourly
concern mixed with a dose of curiosity. At the moment the Stewart household was
the source of the most interesting gossip. Pulling her mare to a stop in front
of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr. Stewart’s
acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in
brown clapboard and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were
glazed with imported, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Most impressive of all
were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners of the
second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the centre of town than to the countryside. Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells
on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy waited. To the right of
the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had
already arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued
intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air.
Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within
the doorframe stood a twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman
whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In her arms she comfortably cradled a
musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s curious faces;
unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather.
"Mercy Griggs," called the visitor. "Wife of Dr. William Griggs.
I’ve come to bid you good day." "~’Tis a pleasure, indeed,"
called Elizabeth
in return. "Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from your
bones." Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and
directed her oldest boy, Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs.
Griggs’ horse. With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction,
turned right into the common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained:
"~’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for
Indians all hours of the day." "I see," Mercy said, although a
woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy hesitated
for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene,
which appeared more like a school-house than a home. There were more than a
half dozen children. On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcoming
warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savoury aromas: some of them were
coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire;
others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were
coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside,
multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown. "I hope in
God’s name I am not a bother," Mercy said.....
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