Peter Stoltzfus, dressed in white apron, leaned over the edge of his stall and glowered at the man who had tried to rape his daughter. “Becky, come here!” he called, and from between the curtains masking the back of the stall Rebecca Stoltzfus appeared, so fresh and beautiful in her carefully pressed clothes and so neat in her little white cap with the dangling strings that the onlookers gasped to think that a human beast had tried to defile her. Several women, imagining that they had once looked like that, started to weep.
There was an awkward silence, whereupon Mahlon jabbed Levi in the back and the latter began to speak, in a whisper so low that no one could hear. “Speak up!” several men shouted.
“I am sorry, Baker Stoltzfus ...” Levi simply could not go beyond that, and Mahlon grew tense with rage at this new humiliation.
The impasse was ended by Peter Stoltzfus, who leaned down from his stall and punched Levi so solidly in the nose that the young butcher staggered backward, tripped over Mahlon’s foot and fell flat on his bottom. The crowd cheered and a man’s deep voice shouted, “Give him another, Peter.”
That was the end of the apology. Mahlon, filled with disgust, abandoned his brother, and the other Zendts returned to their own stall, nodding approvingly across the aisle to Peter Stoltzfus and his daughter. Rebecca stayed at the counter, receiving the condolences of numerous women, and after a protracted moment on the floor, where he was too humiliated even to rise, Levi Zendt pulled himself together, rubbed his nose where Stoltzfus had thwacked him, and left the market.
That night, at five, he loaded the sleigh with the leftovers and drove out to the orphan asylum, where the mistress called him a human beast, directing him to unload the stuff and begone. But as he was working alone, Elly Zahm, the factotum, came to help him. She was a scrawny child, sixteen years old, an orphan whom it had been impossible to place in any private home. She knew how to work and was industrious; normally she should have been picked up as a maid-of-all-duties, but she was so unappealing in appearance, with straggly hair and thin face, that no one wanted her.
She lifted a basket that would have taxed a man, and Levi said, “Leave that one for me,” but she already had it indoors.
“I heard what they said about you and the Stoltzfus girl,” she said with precise accent. “I can’t believe it.”
Even here! His face grew a deep red and his hands trembled. Was it to be like this the rest of his life: “What about you and the Stoltzfus girl?” Leaving the baskets behind, he leaped into the sleigh and whipped the horses through the asylum gate.
Wednesday and Thursday were days of deepest anxiety. The Mennonites of Lancaster County were a lusty lot; they were by no means prudish, and their language could be most robust, with words that would have shocked ordinary Baptists or Presbyterians. They particularly liked to use barnyard terms, which made a Lancaster County saloon a rather lively spot, with constant reference to bowel movements, urination and sexual intercourse. It was not through prudishness that the Mennonites turned their back on Levi Zendt; it was because tradition required that sexuality be expressed in words rather than actions. For one Zendt boy to break out of the restraints that had bound the other four was intolerable and a menace to the whole community.
Therefore, without a formal vote, the Mennonites decided to shun him. From that moment he became an outcast. He could not attend church, nor speak with anyone who did. He could not buy or sell, or give or take. He could converse with no man, and the idea of striking up a friendship with any woman was beyond imagination.
“They’re shunnin’ Levi Zendt!”
“About time. That animal.”
On Friday, when he walked from the farm to Lancaster, no passer-by would offer him a ride. The black sleighs skidded past as if he were a pariah. And when he reached the market, none of the merchants would talk with him. At the end of the day he loaded the gifts and drove out to the edge of town, where the mistress of the orphanage refused to speak to him, but Elly Zahm appeared as usual to help him unload.
“I hear they’re shunning you,” she said. He was too anguished to reply, and she said a most peculiar thing: “They’ve been shunning me all my life.”
The words made him look up. For the first time he saw this skinny, unlovely child whose hands were so red from overwork and whose eyes seemed so very old. He could say nothing, and left as abruptly as he had the previous time.
But as he drove through the gathering dusk and approached Lampeter, he pulled up at Hell Street and went boldly into the White Swan. “Is Amos Boemer here?”
The bartender nodded toward a corner, where the tall wagoner sat in a stupor. Levi went over to him, shook him and asked, “Amos, you want to sell that Conestoga?”
Amos tried to clear his eyes, saw only a dim shape, and mumbled, “I wanta give the bullshit thing away.”
“How much?” Levi asked.
“Twenty dollars and you can kick that bullshit thing all the way to Philadelphia. It ain’t worth a nickel.” He fell forward, but as Levi continued to pester him he rose, stared at the intruder and demanded, “Ain’t you the Zendt boy? Goin’ around rippin’ the clothes off decent girls. Get the hell out of here.” He pushed Levi toward the door, cursing him savagely long after he had departed.
Two weeks later, when the snow was gone, Levi walked down to Hell Street, ignoring the stares that marked his passage. He went to the White Swan and again rousted Amos Boemer from his corner. “I want to buy your Conestoga,” he said.
“I’m not sure I want to sell. That’s a very good wagon.”
“I know. I want to buy it.”
“Twenty dollars and it’s your’n.”
“Here’s the twenty dollars,” Levi replied, offering him money saved from his wages.
“It ain’t got no bells.”
“I don’t need bells.”
In that way Levi Zendt became owner of a Conestoga a quarter of a century old. It had been built with great care by one of the best workmen in the area, and had seen much good service on the Philadelphia freight route. It had suffered no broken boards; its toolbox and wagon jacks were usable, and its lazyboard worked. The twenty-four bells were gone, it was true, but where Levi was thinking of going, bells were not desirable.
To haul the wagon he would need six horses, and he had but two, a pair of sturdy grays. During the following week he bought two additional grays from a farmer in Hollinger, but told him to keep them until called for. The farmer said that he would need pay for their boarding, and being in an amiable mood, said, “You hear of the city feller who wanted to board his horse and he asked his friends what he ought to pay and they said, ‘The price ranges from one dollar a month to fifty cents to two bits, but whatever you pay, you’re entitled to the manure.’ So this city feller goes to the first farmer, and the farmer says, ‘One dollar,’ and the city feller says, ‘But I get the manure?’ The farmer nods, and at the next place it’s fifty cents, and the city feller says, ‘But I get the manure?’ and the farmer nods. At the third farm two bits and the same story, so the city feller says, ‘Maybe I can find a place that’s real cheap,’ and he goes to a broken-down farm and the man says, ‘Ten cents a month,’ and the city feller says, ‘But I get the manure?’ and the farmer says, ‘Son, at ten cents a month they ain’t gonna be any manure.’ ” The farmer laughed heartily. Levi forced a smile and walked back to his farm.
He now had four grays, and he knew where he would get the other two. He would “borrow” them from his brother Mahlon.
It would be impossible, of course, to go west or anywhere else without one more essential item. He would need a gun. For a Lancaster man to move even across his own farm without a gun was unthinkable. The so-called Kentucky rifle, which had played so powerful a role in the War of Independence and had practically decided the War of 1812, was in truth a Lancaster rifle, invented and perfected in the smithies and shops of this town. Now, in days of peace, the Lancaster gunsmiths made the best hunting rifles in America, and their finest products r
ivaled those of Vienna.
Levi had never owned a gun. He was a good shot but so far had always used his brothers’ guns, and now he faced a dilemma. He had the money, but how could he, under penalty of shunning, march into the shop of Andrew Gumpf or one of the Dreppard brothers and try to do business with them, they being such good churchmen? He devised various stratagems but none seemed practical. He really was an outcast.
Then he thought of Melchior Fordney, who made a very good gun but who was somewhat out of favor with the decent people of Lancaster because he had up to now refused to marry his housekeeper, a Mrs. Tripple, whom they suspected of living with him carnally, without sanctification by the church. Fordney was a strong-minded individual, and if anyone in Lancaster would sell Levi a gun, it would be he.
So on the first of February, Levi quietly slipped out to where Fordney had his gunsmith’s shop. An automatic bell jangled as he opened the door and a pleasant woman in black dress and white apron but without white cap appeared: “Mr. Fordney? He’s workin’ in back. I’m Mrs. Tripple.”
“Came to see about a gun,” Levi said, almost aggressively.
Mrs. Tripple was accustomed to country lads who took the offensive in such matters, and she said easily, “You wait chust there. I’ll call the mister.”
In a moment Fordney appeared, a brawny man with great square shoulders and features to match. “Now what is it?”
“I want a good rifle.”
“How much you prepared to pay?”
“I could go as high as twelve dollars ... but only for a good one.”
“For twelve you get a good one.” Brushing aside two rifles that lay on his workbench, he said, “Those two, five dollars each, but you wouldn’t like ’em.”
Levi hefted one, found it balanced too heavily toward the stock, and said, “That one I wouldn’t like.”
“You noticed?” Fordney laughed. “A little wood heavy. Now, I have a fine rifle over here, but it’s eighteen.”
“Too much,” Levi said. In the rack he noticed an older gun with a most handsome curly-maple stock, well worked with brass fittings. Fifty-five inches long and with an octagonal bluish barrel and a ramrod of well-used hickory, it was a fine weapon, almost the epitome of a Lancaster rifle. Unfortunately, it still carried the old flintlock mechanism. “Can I see that one?”
“That’s a very special gun,” Fordney said. “Would it cost too much?”
“No. I could let you have that’n for twelve dollars. But it’s flintlock, as you can see. Made it for a man nineteen years ago.”
Fordney pulled the rifle down and showed Levi the date etched into the top of the barrel: “M. Fordney. 1825.” Levi took the gun, fitted it to his shoulder, and said, “I never felt a better.”
Fordney watched him handle the piece and liked the way he used it. “Aren’t you the young Zendt fellow?” Levi blushed. “The one they been shunnin’?” He called Mrs. Tripple and told her, “This here’s young Zendt. The colt that acted up with the Stoltzfus girl.”
“She needed some acting up with,” Mrs. Tripple said, returning to her kitchen.
“So the rifle’s yours for twelve dollars.”
“I don’t know how to work a flintlock.”
“Hold your horses. I’ll change the flintlock to percussion.”
“You will!” Levi’s voice proved the delight he felt at the prospect of getting such a gun. He put it to his shoulder again and asked, “Is this gun as good as it feels?”
“One of the best I ever made. Man used it six years, then traded it back to me for a percussion. Stupid ass. I told him I could switch it to percussion, but he said, ‘I don’t want nothin’ that’s been altered.’ So now you get a bargain.”
He told Levi to come back later, but the young man replied, “I’m not doin’ anything,” and Fordney, realizing that he had nowhere to go, said, “You can watch,” and he rummaged among his boxes to find the bits of gear that would be required to switch the old flintlock over to a new percussion-cap mechanism. Placing each item on the bench before him, he took the beautiful gun he had made so long ago and began disassembling it.
He unscrewed the frizzen spring and removed the frizzen altogether. He dispensed with the flash pan, too, and the hammer that had held the flint. Then with a hard black gum mixed with metal filings, he packed the screw holes and sanded them over. With a file he enlarged, ever so gently, the touch hole and rammed in a graver which would thread it. Into this hole he screwed the drum, adjusting the nipple so that the hammer would strike properly.
Testing the new mechanism many times to see that all parts functioned, he then grabbed a handful of percussion caps—little forms of powder that looked like a man’s top hat—and motioned Levi to follow him outdoors. They went to a field, where Fordney swabbed the bluish barrel, poured in the right amount of powder, pushed down the greased patch to form a bind, inserted the ball and then placed the percussion cap on the nipple. Handing the gun to Levi, he said, “Hit the tree over there,” and Levi placed the stock against his shoulder, felt the sleek brass inlays and sighted along the barrel. Squeezing the trigger with gentle, even pressure, he heard the hammer trip, caught a glimpse of it descending on the percussion cap, saw the momentary flash and felt the powder inside the barrel explode, sending the bullet in a revolving motion straight and true to the limb he had aimed at.
Fordney said, “The Fenstermacher boy, that’s the preacher’s son, he told me he could load and fire a gun like that three times in two minutes. I didn’t believe him, but he could.”
Levi fired two more shots and then Fordney tried his hand. It was a good gun, subtly balanced, beautifully crosshatched at the wrist. In some respects it was better now than when it had first been sold, for the curly maple was seasoned and the barrel had nested with no chance of gaps.
Fordney handed the gun formally to Levi and said, “None better. Oh, I have some for twenty or twenty-five, but only because the brassware comes from Germany. This one, all Lancaster.”
As they walked back to the shop Fordney said, “I’d ask you if you wanted to work with me, seein’ as how you like guns, but I suppose you’ll be headin’ west.” Levi felt it prudent to say nothing, and Fordney added, “I should have gone west ... years ago.”
Levi smuggled his rifle home and hid it behind the sausage machine. He now had a good Conestoga, four excellent gray horses and two of Mahlon’s he intended to borrow. He had a vague plan of hooking up with the next caravan of people moving west. He would tolerate Lancaster and Lampeter no more. Even if they relaxed the shunning, which they probably would in the spring, he would not live down his disgrace.
He went about his work as industriously as ever, grinding the pork, mixing it with herbs and cramming it into the holder on the sausage machine. When it was filled to the top, he attached one end of a cleaned hog’s gut to the spout on the machine, then by cranking a large wheel which operated a screw, he applied pressure on the ground meat and slowly it forced its way into the farthest knotted end of the intestine. When the skin was filled to bursting, he took the open end off the machine and tied it in a tight knot, giving him eight to ten feet of the best sausage. Later, when it had set, the length would be cut to selling size.
He made his scrapple with added care, as if he were just learning the trade, cooking the pig scraps and the cornmeal for hours, spicing them just right and pouring the hot liquid into small deep pans, where a good inch of yellow pork fat would gather on top, airproofing the scrapple so that it could be kept for three months.
He was a good butcher, and he assumed that when he got to Oregon he would continue making scrapple and sausage and souse. There won’t be many out there can make any better, he thought.
Each Tuesday and Friday he walked the long distance into Lancaster to clean up the market and drive the scraps out to the orphanage, and on the fourth week after shunning started, he asked Elly, “Why did they shun you?”
“I have no parents. They called me a bastard.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“They let on as if it was.”
“How’d you get here?”
“They found me on the church step.”
He said no more that day, but when the other Zendts were in church, he walked down to the grove of trees and sat for a long time in silence. He straddled the trunk of a fallen oak and looked carefully at each part of the handsome farm his family had accumulated, one building at a time, one field patiently after another. There was no better farm in Lancaster County and he knew it, but it had grown sour—it had grown so terribly sour.
He covered his square, beard-trimmed face in his hands. He was not a man to allow tears, but he did sigh deeply and mutter, “I will stand no more. On Tuesday morning I will leave this place.”
At the big Sunday dinner he ate as if he had been starving for a week, taking big helpings of everything and ending with two kinds of pie, shoo-fly, whose sticky bottom he loved, and cherry, the best of all. He was congenial to everyone, and on Monday he volunteered to help his mother make cup cheese, a fact which startled her; when he got to Oregon he wanted to know how it was made.
He noted carefully as she took a couple of gallons of milk and cream that she had allowed to sour and put it on the stove to heat. “Don’t boil it ... ever,” she warned. “Just hot enough to ouch your finger.”
Centennial Page 39
