Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  “You might have told us!” Tom finally explodes. “And hell, Father! You had no reason to rush—”

  “Walter’s offer was coming before you are arrived from the war. We were to be going west, it is decided before you returned. Your mother … and yes, I am rushing west to be beating the bad weather and I am wishing to escape memories of your mother, among other things,” Father admits. “It was very nice timing for everything excepting your marriage.”

  “All stay here in the shop?” Al says weakly, palming iron beads and clicking them together. “Never be on our own?”

  “It is a crazy idea.” Tom rubs his wide palms against his temples and into his disheveled hair. “Pfft. It’s too much.”

  He walks out into the growing dusk, away from us and the haphazard shop.

  “It is a lot to consider, Father,” Al says, looking out into the deepening dark after Tom. “I don’t know how it will work. But I can tell you that Tom won’t like being told what his future holds.”

  Father spreads his hands. “That is being the point. It is a pioneer way, you are seeing?”

  “I see Father’s points, too,” I offer.

  Al sighs, sounding older than his years. “It doesn’t affect you, Marie.”

  We all jump when Jimmy rings the iron bar from the back of the house. Al shakes his head and walks out toward the smithy, leaving a deep, rippled, silence in his wake.

  “You are understanding, Marie?” Father finally asks me directly, his strained smile cracking.

  I shrug and nod, trying to be supportive. “You’ve been so happy, Father. Now I think I know why,” I say quietly. “You’ve been living Mother’s dream. Without Mother.”

  Once again, the quiet drops between us, but it is an almost peaceful one at that, perhaps each of us remembering the sparkle and adoration Mother brought to our lives. Likely if she were here, she’d smooth the ruffled egos of my brothers. She loved us all—she loved the family—and I think I can understand exactly why Father wants to keep her hopes alive, even though she is gone.

  “You’ll be wishing to try these, Marie,” he finally says, and bends down to touch the cold, greasy, iron. “You are having a hand for the metals. I am not forgetting.”

  “Oh! But—I thought … I would, but I’m supposed to set up the house.” Shock shimmers through me again, though it is warm and jittery.

  Will I be truly allowed? It’s more than I expect. I’m still responsible for a broken machine, and additional debt now, and worst of all, the disdain of the boys.

  “I thought I wouldn’t continue. It was something for the journey, but not here. You don’t … need me,” I say. “I enjoyed every minute of learning. But I’m supposed to handle the food, and the baking, and the stupid womanly things. I know my place.”

  “If we are having truly much successes in the way I hope, we can be getting a cook, Marie,” Father breaks into my thoughts, and I think I hear him wrong. My eyes grow big with the suggestion, but Father seems serious. What an idea! It would be exhilarating to be rid of the hearth, and exchange the stove for the brazier.

  What foolishness. It is an impossible thought. Father is being kind, and offering some sort of forgiveness in his words I am sure. He doesn’t mean it other than he doesn’t hold a grudge. I know I cannot actually exchange my place for another. It’s not the woman’s way.

  Dakota Territory

  1866

  CHAPTER TEN

  10 February 1866

  Tom posted letters to Sonja last fall after the local harvest festival, and had received a note back. He checks for more letters this frigid Saturday morning, though nothing has come in months thanks to the horrible weather. I do not know what he told the girl. But he’s sending another missive now, and it feels a silly expense to keep spending postage on a sweetheart who doesn’t write back very often.

  The crusty thickness of snow and ice cracks beneath my boots as I do chicken chores. Some days, things melt and stick, and other days I can barely breathe the cold air without tears prickling at my eyes. Weather in the Dakota Territories is certainly unpredictable.

  There is a touch on my arm. Jimmy sidles alongside me, his eyes twinkling and merry against the bright sun jumping from the snowbanks.

  “Marie, how are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.” I feel shyness well in my stomach, but am flattered he gives me attention in the way a boy flirts with a girl. His green eyes look at me with wonder, as though I am the first young woman he’s ever noticed.

  “So, is your family happy yet with the tools your Father brought?” It is the topic that never quite ends: the adoration of the machines. Walter, his son, and Jimmy come in often to touch the metalworking, and exclaim over the iron gears.

  “Oh yes.”

  “It is … special … to see how much you care for the tools your family uses. A man would be happy to have a woman to have such passion.” His cheeks flush.

  “Does your family care about your own passion about blacksmithing?”

  Jimmy shrugs. “My parents both died on the wagon trip out, and my siblings and I were all broken up among the different families on the trail. There’s no one to care.”

  It’s a usual story, but not one I like to hear anyway. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It was long ago, Marie, and I was just a toddler. I don’t even know their names.”

  “So your last name is your adopted one?”

  “Yup. And they live in Vermillion and have so many of their own mouths to feed, I skipped out to find apprenticeship chances almost five years ago. But anyway … you’re doing well?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We are trying keeping up with the first round of orders,” I say, thinking on my rudimentary bookkeeping. Father is determined to start from scratch, and to start paying our loan back to the brisk, exacting, Percy Davies, so I have been entrusted with watching the numbers and making note of customers and any trade of goods. It is an easy enough task, and it gives me a sense of belonging within the family business, even if my fingers are dark with ink instead of rosin.

  “I’ve the meal ready,” Jimmy says amiably. “Come on in.”

  As we walk into the blacksmith’s house, his hand lightly fingers the small of my back, where my skirt and shirtwaist meet, hidden from other eyes. I hope my cheeks do not flush overmuch at this, and I don’t mind his touch. I think, too, of Jimmy’s easy smile, and feel a curl of wonder in my chest coupled with some warmth. It feels very nice.

  “I’ve never fixed one!”

  We walk into Thaddeus’s ire and I stop cold when he pins me with his frustrated gaze.

  “You broke this, and I know you all want it fixed so it works a tiny bit with a jig until the new one arrives, but I’ve never touched a damn tinsmithing machine, and now you need me to reheat it and bend it back?”

  His anger pierces the room, but Tom takes his seat and sighs loudly.

  “You know it’s easily done, Thad. Just heat the iron and push it back into place.”

  “But the threads on the top, by the crank? I have to get them just straight.” Thaddeus turns the machine in his hands, and the iron piece looks dwarfish. The burring machine has been unusable. But there’s a little give on the handle, so I know Father hoped it might mend. Every time someone curses if they run the handle around, it is like they are cursing me directly. And now Thaddeus does, too.

  Pressing my lips together, I meet the blacksmith’s face and line up my shoulders. “Do you doubt you can do it? What about your father?” I glance at Walter, who looks strangely nervous by the request.

  “No, no, this is best for Thaddeus. He should learn such delicate work.”

  “Doubt? You think I can’t do it?” Thaddeus glowers at me, and stands abruptly. “I can’t get the dent out of the iron, that’s for sure.”

  “It needs straightening, just for a season before the other arrives. You probably don’t need to heat it so much,” Tom mentions.

  “Oh, so now you all can tell me how to do my job?�
� Thaddeus strides to the door separating the forge from the house.

  “Dinner time!” Jimmy yells at his back.

  “Shove dinner,” comes the shout as the door slams. Then the wild head pokes back into the room for a moment. “And if Marie’s making it, I don’t want any.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  7 March 1866

  “I’ll need the full set of kettles by the end of the month,” Toot Warren lists. “And I want bigger sizes than the ones what went bad before you all came to town.”

  “Bigger?” I panic, but hold my fears in check by folding my mouth tightly over my teeth. “We’ll have to use extra tin.”

  “Yup.”

  “More expensive.” I’m torn between dissuading her and needing the money. The tin sheets are already getting low, and it sounds like there’ll be no deliveries until May’s first wagon train comes through, and then we must somehow scrape the money to both order the sheet and pay for it. The new burring machine should arrive, too, and more bills with it.

  But we need the money from all orders. Father says there is rent, which he pays to our landlord through the bank, and also the loan for all the lumber and necessary food credit. Percy Davies is not giving us much leeway. We’re too new in town. We are so deep in debt, none of us feel secure.

  “Look, I’m all for saving money where I can, but my son’s wife Elaine handles the books at the Rusty Nail and she says I can have what I wish. I’m the best cook in town,” Toot says matter-of-factly, folding wizening arms over her flat bosom. “Don’t you want my business then?”

  “Yes, yes!” I say and pull the book near, flipping to the Warrens’ page. “It’s only they are very big pieces.”

  She gazes at me through narrow dark eyes and sniffs. “You need to be more grateful for the work, I think.”

  I press my mouth together again, and then try to smile as sweetly as possible. “We are. More than I can say.”

  She sniffs and watches me scratch in the book before her spry, bendy body disappears out of the shop and into the street.

  Jimmy arrives at the door just as old farmer Henry Brinkley barrels in and pushes past the apprentice.

  “Here for my order!”

  “It’s not ready,” I snap, then swallow the retort and plaster another smile on my face. Behind me, I can just feel my brothers’ eyes and Father’s disapproval. Am I too honest with the customers? Mother had always sent everyone away with a laugh. Here’s another area I’m lacking.

  The old farmer draws his round stomach up and humphs. “I told Susan it’d be ready. And I’m not making a trip in from the farm again for just a piece of crockery. Where’s the damn teapot?”

  “I—it’s not ready yet. We’re still … setting up.”

  “Then I want a discount.”

  “I didn’t give you a date it’d be ready. There’s no reason to give you money off,” I push back, feeling my feet plant harder into the packed dirt.

  “But—”

  “You don’t need any money from what I hear,” Jimmy pipes up, coming beside the grumbling older man. “You sold a good chunk of southern farmland to the bank.”

  Old Henry swings to Jimmy. “I made a damn good deal with Percy.”

  “Sure, sure. So you don’t need to save a few pennies.”

  “It’s the principle of it.”

  I lift my chin. “So take your wares to another smith.”

  The man looks frustrated, and I take some small pleasure in pushing back, but Father sidles up and smiles apologetically.

  “You are needing your wares?”

  Henry squints. “I’m going to be back in town in a month and expect to have the teapot ready. With a discount.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I tell him.

  “It will be ready,” Father adds. Henry ignores me and nods at Father before stalking out, and I let my breath go in one, long, affronted huff.

  Father only looks at me mournfully and shakes his head. I turn away, unable to meet his eyes and see the reflection of my failures in them.

  “You like to make pretty pictures, don’t you?” Jimmy leans over the countertop at the shop, his forearms sliding next to mine, brushing against me lightly.

  I blush, and yet leave my arms where they are. I rather like the touch and affectionate moments between us, for all they are still quite innocent. Some nights I imagine that Jimmy is a bit less careful, and the remembering of it now makes me squirm with embarrassment.

  “I don’t draw much,” I say to his question, glancing down at the bookkeeping notes, and the scribbles I have in the margins.

  “Like this. It’s not even an animal or a flower, but a scroll pattern.” He points. “It’s very pretty, Marie.”

  “Thank you,” I say, smiling into his eyes.

  He grins back. “Anyway—dinnertime soon. Think you can manage it?”

  “I hope I can. What time is it? There have been so many people today.”

  He chuckles, gently poking me in the shoulder. “I’m teasing. It’s done already. You all can come over and eat.”

  Tom saunters up. Perhaps he has been listening behind me this whole time. He stares at Jimmy, at the tightness of our arms, though our bodies are separated by the counter’s wooden frames.

  “Jim, what are you?”

  “Ah … an apprentice blacksmith?”

  “So not truly an artisan yet.” Tom nods once. “And—your heritage?”

  Jimmy seems to understand the deeper question. “I’m not Polish, no, but I’m Catholic as you know.”

  Tom’s nostrils flare a little, then he passes through. Father and Al follow wordlessly, and as they go, Jimmy cocks his head.

  “Shall I walk you over?”

  I want him to, but then I don’t. It’s a little strange to have a young man’s rapt attention. Folding my lips over my teeth, I nod and we hike across the yard through the bits of debris, animal feed, snow, and slush to the back door of the blacksmith’s house.

  Inside, the stifling warmth makes me sweat at once. Father and Walter speak earnestly and with serious brows, and the smell of hot stew, old bread, and fire swirl around the room.

  “We’re to eat,” I mention to the two older men. “But do you need some time?”

  “No, no, Marie. You might as well be hearing it. It’s the Army,” Father says, glancing around at the boys. They all stop moving around the kitchen to listen. Even Jimmy pauses dinner preparations. His hand absently stirs the large iron oven over the fire.

  “What of it?” Tom asks, picking at the black dust under his nails, his booted feet on the bench across from the table.

  “There is being a notice in the papers Harry Turner is posting in the General,” Father explains slowly. “The Army is to be asking for volunteers, recruits, and militia before a General is arriving in Fort Laramie. They are stretching so thin across the territories as it be, and needing help since the War between the States were taking manpower. But mostly they are saying they be looking for able bodied men, for whatever they are planning to be doing this spring.”

  Tom leans forward. “This in retribution against all the Indian raids out west? Dry Creek and Little Powder River? That’s what they’re doing—Pah! Building a western army. What about the treaties?”

  Father and Walter gaze at the young men clustering around the table. I try to shrink out of the intensity radiating from each of them: Tom and Thaddeus, and even Al and Jimmy, for all their youth. Do they thirst for the fight, as if they are unstoppable and immune to an Indian’s arrows?

  Why the fervor?

  My brothers have no need to jump into such a fray, to put their lives in danger. Why would they leave the family when we’ve been here less than a year? There’s just barely been time to set up the shop and handle whatever customers I haven’t offended. Why should they leave a good, solid, craft that will give them respect? What have the Indians done to us?

  Unplanned, I say such a musing aloud, and the hearty, heavy, murmur of masculine chatter stutters.


  “Pah! It’s not what the Indians have done so much, though some of it is awful,” Tom says to me, his condescending tone familiar and grating. “There will likely be payment. You remember the money the Army sent back during the war? Good money.” His eyes glint.

  “We can make do with what money we’re making.”

  “It’s not enough, not fast enough,” Tom says bluntly. “Even with the machines. And the most important is still broken, even with Thaddeus tinkering.”

  Fire races across my forehead at his implication. “We can get money if we get orders like Toot Warren’s today. Eventually we’ll have enough.”

  “And you giving your opinion to every customer doesn’t help,” Tom reminds me.

  “But—”

  “What do you know, Marie? We need to pay off the loan before we can dream of getting ahead here. And then see what happens to our … ‘family’ business.”

  I twist my mouth shut, and decide to push my way out of the menfolk before I say another word. Taking the spoon from Jimmy over the hearth, I stir with vigor and anger mixed.

  “So then, I might have to re-enlist.” Tom looks around at the room, including everyone in his bright gaze. “To wherever they need us. Maybe they’ll use my trade this time.”

  Father sounds outraged. “You are having no need, Tom. You already are giving your time to the Army.”

  “You think just because you’ve managed to drag us out west without any choice that you can still have control? That by teasing us with fancy machines, we’ll do as you say and mind your word for the rest of our lives? And now we have debt! How can I ask Sonja to marry me while we’re paying some old man rent and the bank interest for lumber, and can’t even afford new tin easily plus an expensive machine?” Tom’s argument jolts into the room, hard and mean. I wonder if he’s more upset by the loan or Father’s rule.