~ To See Father Washington ~

by

W. J. Calabrese

On the seventh day of May, 1790, the second year of the Presidency of George Washington, they came to get my father.

It was mid-morning and I was almost finished with my chores. I had fetched water from the well, brought in wood for the kitchen fireplace, slopped the pigs, milked the cow, and fed the chickens and found their eggs. If we had a plow horse, I would have had to see to it, too, but we had lost Old Luke over the winter and would have to replace him soon, if my father could find the money.

I was on my way back to the house when I saw Constable Grimes and his scrawny deputy at the gate. The Constable looked even more serious than usual, and the deputy kept plucking at his long, crooked nose like I had seen him do before when he was worried about something. They were on horseback, with a riderless horse between them.

The Constable cleared his throat and then cried out: “You, boy! Yer daddy to home?”

To home? Where else would he be?

“He in the house, boy?” the Constable asked a bit louder, as if I might be a little slow or maybe hard of hearing. I was only twelve years old at that time, but I was neither stupid nor deaf.

“He’s in the kitchen, making porridge,” I told him.

The two men dismounted, and the deputy took a package wrapped in burlap from his saddlebag.

“Reckon we’ll just go in and see him,” said the Constable, pushing through the gate and into the yard. As the big man approached me, he fiddled with the butt of one of the pistols he had tucked into his belt. I wondered why he was carrying them. He didn’t usually. It was pretty peaceful around these parts.

I didn’t like the smell of things at all.

“I’ll go and tell him you’re here,” I said, preparing to run.

But the Constable had reached me by then, and he clamped his big hand on my shoulder, pinning me in place.

“No,” he said. “Don’t do that. We’ll just surprise him.”

A few browsing chickens scattered before the two men as they plodded across the yard. They climbed the porch and went in through the front door, without so much as a shout to announce themselves.

I followed at a distance. Trouble, I thought. Big trouble.

The Constable had tried to arrest my father more than once. Usually for “public drunkenness” though he was nowhere near as drunk as he sometimes got at home. No, the Constable and my father were not friends. Not that my father had many friends--I couldn’t think of one real one, in fact, in the whole town of Amherst, Massachusetts. My father was a solitary man, who kept his business to himself, and only went to town when he had to. He had been that way ever since my mother had died when I was seven. That’s when the drinking started, but it seemed to have gotten worse this past year.

Sorely worried, I reached the door of the kitchen and looked in.

My father was over by the fireplace, still holding the spoon he had been using to stir the porridge in the big pot. He was looking at his visitors with disbelief.

“Old Clackston’s dead? I don’t believe it.”

“You’d believe it, all right, if you saw him like he was at first light this morning,” the Constable said. “Face down in the little stream that runs between your properties.”

My father put down the spoon. “Well, I’ll be dashed.”

“You don’t seem too sorry to hear the sad news,” the Constable said.

“Can’t lie to say I am. You know Clackston and I didn’t get along.”

“That’s a soft way of sayin’ it. Only last week you threatened to kill him. Right in the middle of Pleasant Street. Lots of folks heard you do it.”

“It was just my anger speaking out. He was a disagreeable man. You know that. He was always after me about that stream and who owned it, and about the exact lines between our properties. Claimed he owned the stream and a chunk of my land besides. Wouldn’t let up about it. Took me to law about it, as you well know. A man gets tired of having somebody trying to bully him out of what’s his by right. A man just wants to be left alone.”

“That why you kilt him?”

For a long moment, there was silence in the room.

“Killed?” my father said. “Somebody murdered him?”

“That’s right,” said the Constable. “Murdered him real dead--and we think we got a good idea who done it.”

My father raised a hand. “Now you just hold on one minute. I had nothing to do with it.”

The Constable took the package that the deputy was holding and unwrapped it. “This your hatchet?”

“Looks like mine, with the green handle and all. What of it?”

“It was found buried in the back of old Clackston’s head.”

My father just stood there for a moment, open mouthed, and then he reached out for the hatchet. “Let me see that.”

The Constable pulled the package back and the deputy came forward a step, drawing and cocking one of his pistols.

“No need for you to see it,” said the Constable. “It’s yours all right. Got ‘N. F.’ carved right here on the handle. ‘N. F.’ for Nathan Ford.”

My father didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shook his head like a horse will when it is bewildered.

“Somebody must have taken it from the barn, where I had it hanging.”

The Constable smiled and the deputy gave a short laugh.

“That’s a real likely story,” the Constable said. “Somebody comin' all the way over here to get an axe to kill old Clackston with? Plenty of axes to be had. Where were you last night, anyways?”

My father only hesitated for a moment.

“I was right here in this house. Josh can tell you.”

It wasn’t exactly the truth. My father had been off in the woods most of the night with a jug. I wasn’t sure when he had gotten home.

The Constable made a face. “He’s just a boy. And I’m sure he’d gladly lie for you.”

That was right enough. I would gladly lie for my father--would do most anything, if given the chance. But I wasn’t to be given the chance. Not that morning, anyway.

“You better just come along with us,” said the Constable. “We’re takin’ you up for the murder of Jacob Clackston. Don’t make no fuss, now. Just come along gentle, and we won’t have to use force in front of the boy.”

My father turned to me. His expression was so full of misery it made my chest hurt. “I didn’t do this, Josh. You believe me, don’t you?”

Incapable of saying a single word, I just nodded.

“What’s going to happen to my son? He just can’t be left here by himself.”

“I’ll send some of the church ladies out later to see to him,” the Constable said. “You just come along now.”

“I want to come, too,” I said, finding my voice at last.

The Constable gave me a hard look.

“Can’t, son,” the deputy said. “We’ve only the one spare horse.”

“He can ride up behind me,” my father said.

The Constable made an impatient gesture. “This is no fit thing for children. He wants to come to town, let him walk it.”