Dark Day 1 Mercy stirred the cornmeal mush, standard breakfast fare at Seely's Tavern. Nearby, her mother plucked a chicken for the midday stew. Their silence was companionable; neither was inclined toward conversation for its own sake, particularly this early. Soon enough, the tavern would echo with scraping, chewing, clattering, and, most likely, arguing. For now, they both relished the quiet. 2 When the mush was butter-smooth, Mercy rose from the hearth and lifted the egg basket from its hook. 3 "Best wait," Mother said. With Mr. Seely not yet returned from trading, she was more vigilant than usual. 4 "It's full morning," Mercy responded. "The fog makes it look darker than it is." 5 Mrs. Seely pressed her lips together but nodded, and Mercy stepped into the gloomy morning. Once in the barn, she tossed grain to the chickens, then pulled her poem from her apron pocket for yet another read. Entitled "Appeal," it was a direct address to the odd weather of late: 6 Mornings dark with heavy fog, skies so pale and sallow! Why the strange and reddened sun, upon this land so fallow? Shall you steal away our blue? Farewell, blue sky and bluebell? Save it for the Patriots' coats? Must even you rebel? 7 Mercy frowned; it was terrible. She should throw it to the chickens. Absolutely, she could never show this drivel to John. Not that John was such a graceful poet, but Mercy didn't want him to think she wasn't. 8 She had met him last week, when he passed through Dole with the rest of his company. They'd taken their midday meal at the tavern, all of them dressed in their tattered Continental Army uniforms. As usual, the conversation at the table was insufferable, with the men braying like donkeys about freedom and slaughter. When Mr. Seely ventured that perhaps even freedom wasn't worth such bloodshed, John puffed out his chest and proclaimed, "No redcoat could spill my blood!" 9 "How can one not comprehend one's own vulnerability?" Mercy muttered, gathering the wooden bowls. She was speaking to herself, but John had heard, and his eyes met hers. She took the bowls and fled. 10 He found her later, when she was banking up the hearth. "Begging your pardon, miss," he said. His face was shy, the bluster gone. He handed her a folded paper, touched his hat, and left. 11 The note contained three scribbled lines. 12 Perhaps young men's braggadocio is nothing more Than nature's last defense against tyranny. Else there'd be no war. — John Petty, 1780 13 Maybe not a poet, but not a thoughtless rooster, either. Later, Mercy placed his note between the pages of one of her old storybooks. That's when the idea for "Appeal" came to her. She was grateful; it had been a while since she'd had the urge to write poetry. 14 If she could improve "Appeal" to the point that it no longer disgusted her, she'd slip it to John when his company passed back through. 15 If they passed back through. 16 Against her will, Mercy pictured muskets and cannons. She shuddered, stuffing the poem back into her pocket. Most likely, she'd never see John again. Not in this bleak world, a world that didn't even deserve poetry. Regardless, she'd tarried too long. Quickly, she gathered the eggs, flung open the door—and blanched. 17 The sky appeared darker than when she'd entered the barn. Had her dark thoughts afflicted her vision? Mercy shook her head; what a notion! That's what came of stuffing her head with useless poetry. A storm was coming, that was all. 18 She carried the eggs to the kitchen, then joined her mother in serving the mush. They bade goodbye to the travelers, who were anxious to leave before the storm. 19 It grew ever darker as mother and daughter attended to their other chores. And yet, there was no thunder, no rain. At last, they could not deny that something was wrong. 20 Mercy and Mrs. Seely lit candles, then bowed their heads. 21 "Be steady," Mother whispered. 22 "Yes," Mercy whispered back. 23 By noon, it was as black as night. Villagers trickled into the tavern, wanting to know whether the whole of Connecticut was afflicted by darkness, but no travelers arrived to impart news. The villagers sat at the long table, their faces stricken in the candlelight. And then the night birds began to sing. 24 "Oh," breathed Mr. Cornwall. "Oh, mercy." 25 "Punishment, is what it is," Mr. Daly burst out. 26 "It's not, William," Mrs. Thomas said. She was a Patriot, while Mr. Daly was a Loyalist. Mercy had not seen them speak to each other in years. But now Mrs. Thomas gently placed a hand on Mr. Daly's arm, as tears streamed down his face. "Have faith," she whispered, tenderly. Gazing at them, Mercy thought of poetry again. Here was a living poem. Perhaps the world didn't deserve poetry—it was poetry. 27 Hundreds of miles away, wildfires were raging. Black smoke thickened, rose, and met a dense fog that had rolled in. The fog and smoke blotted out the sun. It was May 19, 1780, and the light went out of the world, however briefly. But in the village, in the oppressive darkness, an ember of hope grew.