by Sara Dahmen
My gentle tease is enough to rouse him and he grunts, taking the lantern and walking to the front of the forge. I follow and close the heavy door behind us.
We are silent as we walk, as if once we banish the sword, we have nothing to say to one another. The grief of Jimmy’s death, and of my brothers, is carried like a heavy bag. We do not speak of them, and we do not speak of my Father. He knows all of my mourning, and I know his, and we hide it, help each other to hide it. Though our quiet is heavy, it is shared.
“There you two are!” Danny waits for us at the front steps of Sadie’s house. His face relaxes as we step into the circle of the house’s lantern lights. “I’m glad you’re here. I was thinking I’d have to fetch you.”
I reflexively pull my arm out from Thaddeus’s support in order to take Danny’s. It feels like a trade, though I am not sure if it is me who is traded, or the men. The alliance of my heart wavers and shifts. What is truly my emotion, and what is an echo of my lost family and the life that might have been? I glance back as I take the porch steps, as if seeing Thaddeus will give me answers. Instead, it’s only his familiar face, looking tight and uncomfortable. The rounded cheekbones above his beard gleam against the lamps, and his wide eyes stare into the house. Maybe he is trying to wish away all the festivities.
Sadie is just inside the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of a fresh apron. Inside, many friends and acquaintances mingle. There is sour Lettie Zalenski and her pretty sister Marion. The Brinkley girls have made it into town for this: young little Lucy and Susie. Else Henderssen is there, and her widowed sister Kjersti, looking for a husband, her great curves swinging around the room. Tom Fawcett is tall, dark, and handsome and plastered to a wall with shyness while Tim Bailey the farrier is already making eyes at newcomer Julie, fresh off the wagon train. And then there’s Robert, home for good from the Army, and the boy who came home with him—Johnson, they call him—who is missing a leg.
After I put aside my wrap, Thaddeus, Danny, and I take a cup of punch each. It is quite a treat, sticky, with some precious cinnamon sprinkled throughout for additional special flavor. I sip, fearing the moment we are paired with one of the guests. The house smells of warm nutmeg and hot sugar and sweetness. We will all go home with taffy, but most will be sold at the general, as Harry Turner prefers to get it fresh whenever anyone makes excess, and Sadie is nothing if not overly helpful.
Sadie herself comes to the middle of the room, looking as nervous as I feel. She glances around and absently clears the sides of her skirt. Tom Fawcett stands up straighter. She announces her plan tentatively.
“We’ll draw numbers for the first pairing, but I thought it might be fun to try something different this time. We all know how it can … be … to be paired with a single partner all the while. So we’ll trade every so often. Everyone will have a better chance to mingle.”
Eyebrows rise in a surprised murmur through the small crowd, but no one seems mightily displeased by the arrangement. I’m glad for it.
My first partner is a young man I know only on sight, and it is after a tedious pull and yank on the taffy when I learn his name is Benjamin. He is the new apprentice at the cooper’s shop under Franklin Jones and Bess. He’s very young, and kind, but also very boring.
Thankfully, my next partner is Thaddeus.
“Is this taking your mind from your precious sword?” I ask him, as we pull the elastic candy between us.
“No,” he admits.
“How else will you find yourself a wife?” I ask reasonably. “Your father is right to get you out and about other than the occasional stop at the Rusty Nail.”
“Sometimes Father is right,” he agrees. I must be staring because he looks up and almost smiles. “I’ve surprised you. Well, there is that, at least.”
I look down at the taffy, which is starting to look white around the edges. We are close to finishing. I’m warm with happiness that Thaddeus can see past his frustration and notice the merit in what Walter asks of him. Family is important. I know this so strongly it can throttle me if I think of how little I have left.
“Do you hope to get one of the other ladies particularly?” I look around the room.
He sighs, and puts more force into the taffy between us. The vigor he uses is rough, and I plant my feet widely so I might keep from toppling as we knead the candy.
“I have no wish to talk of marrying them, or anything else romantic I should do. What about you? Is it only a matter of time before Danny asks you to be his bride?”
There is curiosity in his voice, but the direct question requires me to answer it.
“I have no damn idea.”
He doesn’t flinch at my cuss. “Well, then. You should give him some encouragement. Likely you can partner with him for the last bit of this nonsense.”
“But I—well, I don’t know what to … Thaddeus, you know I’m no tease.”
He blows out through his nose, a huffy sound almost funny coming from such a large man. “No, that you most certainly are not. So to let a man know you are interested? You might touch his hand in passing, or put your fingers to his cheek, or allow a kiss on the stoop of the door. Or you might bake him a pie especially.”
After he says the last, we both snort.
“You know my talents do not reach so far.”
Thaddeus sizes me up. “How will you tell him you wish to wed him then?”
If I could, I would throw up my hands in exasperation. “I don’t know. Must I do something? Must I say a word? I don’t know what—”
“What to say? You’ve always plenty to say about your worries and your work, and even what to tell to the customers, but no words for the one who has eyes for you? You tell him that you desire to marry him, to be with him. That you like the romance he offers you.”
My mouth hangs open. He says it so factually and baldly. “Are you trying to be my brother and offer such ideas? If you are, you’re doing it wrong. My brothers always kept the men at bay instead of offering love advice.” As I say so, the bite of their deaths hits me again and I catch my breath.
Thaddeus yanks on the taffy, his wide, thick hands grabbing my fingers under the sugar roughly as he pulls with a speed that surpasses mine. He is quiet for a long moment, perhaps thinking on the loss of my brothers and of Jimmy.
“I am not your brother, Marie,” he says finally. “But Danny is a lifelong friend, and he is your landlord, and someday you’ll need to decide what you want from him.”
“Do I have a choice?” I wonder softly. He looks at me sharply, but doesn’t answer.
The call goes around for the last shift of bodies. Sure enough, Danny comes to claim me, his eyes bright with mirth and laughter.
“Marie! You’ll finish with me?” he asks, hopeful and bouncing with energy. I release the taffy I’m holding with Thaddeus, and two girls jump to claim it. I didn’t realize the blacksmith was so popular.
As we pick up the candy and work to find a rhythm, I glance over at Sadie, who is opposite Thaddeus, and wrinkle my nose. He meets my eyes and gives me a strange, small smile. Sadie talks incessantly, as if she will amuse him with her noise, and Tom Fawcett is sending dark looks their way.
“Do you not approve of Sadie?” Danny pokes into my reverie, and I look up at the tall, golden height of him.
“She’s a nice friend. Besides, it’s not up to me,” I say.
Danny grins. “Oh, but you’re eyeing her up to make sure she’s good enough, aren’t you, sweet Marie?”
“I suppose I am,” I tell him, and flush a little. “But mainly deciding whether Tom will hit Thad when this is over.”
We both look at Thaddeus in unison, where he is sitting silently, and then smirk at one another at the joke. I suppose I am as protective of Thaddeus as I might be of Al. Had Al lived. Had he married … I stop my thoughts quickly, and focus back on the candy.
“I understand your interest,” Danny confides. “Thaddeus is a good friend to me, and I’d like him matched happily, too
. This is fun, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s been good to get out of the shop,” I agree, sweetly touched by his concern.
“And it’s nice to talk with everyone—you especially—that’s not about work or … family.” He trails off.
“Well, thank you for asking me to this,” I say quietly.
“What other girl would I want on my arm?”
I choke on my words, unable to give a hint to Danny about my heart. I only know that right now, it still does not belong to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
16 May 1867
“How is he today?” Mrs. Andersen sweeps through the door to our narrow private quarters. Even with my brothers gone, the space feels crowded with the tiny kitchen, long, unused trestle, and the four slim beds.
I shrug. “The same.”
She gives a brisk “tsk” and heads to the sideboard with the basket of fresh vegetables of the season from the early garden, and I am glad for the change in taste it bodes. I am deathly tired of the crumpled root vegetables from last year’s harvest. Spring also means my flowers will rise from their blank beds and bring color to the yard. It will be balm to bury my hands in earth.
“Did you see that, Father?” I ask, tucking the blanket around his skeletal frame. “Mrs. Andersen will be making new broth for sure, and you’ll have something tasty. Perhaps you will actually eat some of it.”
The heavy flesh that kept Father robust and healthy for so many years wilts around his bones and his face looks completely unlike the father I remember. He does not move when I ask him questions, but I do so anyway for my sanity. We’ve kept him alive since early March with nursing and force. I can’t believe he’s made it so many weeks already. I can’t believe I have.
Every time I look at him, I feel anger and fear, pain and guilt. Perhaps I should not have told him about the boys’ deaths all at once. Perhaps I should not have said anything about Jimmy, nor mentioned how none of them will be shipped home for a proper burial.
Doc Gunnarsen, slurring and cursing about his lack of leeches, says nothing would have stopped Father from crumpling to the ground, his beefy hand clutching his chest, foreshadowing the strange, unbreakable inability he has to move most of his body. My words had little to do with the way his face sags, and his eyes do not focus. The doc says a fit like that is unknowable.
It doesn’t matter. Father has to get well. I can’t be left alone.
To add to it all, today is the day I will etch that saber.
This sword is alive. It weighs on me, and feeds the fire in my belly. And yet it gives me an identity.
It is to be beautiful, useful, and unique. It is to be decorative and special.
It has been a painful process—both physically and in my mind—but it has also done one other thing. The sword distracts me from the sorrow of my brothers’ deaths whenever I work on it. Somehow, months later and in the deep of spring, I am still mourning them. I wish I could shake it. I wonder if I ever will.
“Marie! Thaddeus is waiting!” Mrs. Andersen reminds me. I sigh again, dropping bits of tin, and walk to the Salomon’s back door. He’s there, standing, his arms crossed and the habitual sternness around his eyes. From the sound of it, the forge is crowded. The echoes of men’s voices bounce through the space.
“Are you ready?”
“No. I wish I could be, Thaddeus,” I say helplessly once more. He does not acknowledge my gripe, and follows me through his house into the smithy. Once in the forge, I nod at Walter, who is smoking his pipe, waiting. “Next time, you might want to let me follow my own thoughts on the final execution.”
“Do well on this, and there will be a next time,” he reminds.
“Must there be an audience?”
“You’re always too nervous. What can go wrong?”
“Everything,” I mutter, but he chooses not to hear me, or just ignores me, and nearly pushes me into the forge. No one quiets down as I enter, which is heartening. Perhaps it will be a casual thing, with the men just milling about and occasionally looking at my handiwork.
Thaddeus has waxed the sword. I have the design ready, and hope I can replicate it so it matches Captain Bush’s expectations. Unlike engraving, which is a mechanical process, I must use a solution to etch. The only problem is I have no way to know if the chemical mixture I’ve cobbled together will work every time on steel. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it bleeds together and the design is lost, leaving an uneven pitting on small pieces of metal scrap. My practices have yielded mixed results, and this time I will be ruining the sword itself if it goes awry. I’ve made notes on each mixture I’ve made, and the one I use today is the culmination of many weeks of trial and error. It works most of the time. It’s not foolproof, and it makes my skin crawl.
Taking the pot off the hook by the forge, I pour hot water into a small tin cup, and then add salt, stirring until it dissolves. Leaving the cup to the side, I then sit down by the sword with my drawings, pull the weapon into my lap, and begin to painstakingly carve into the wax.
I’ve Father’s awl, which is sharp enough, and a few scribes from the shop. I must get all the way through the wax to the steel below for the design to take, and I plan to do the decorations in panels. As I work, the boisterous chatter stops and a general shuffling clatters as people take turns to see what I’m doing. But it’s quickly clear nothing exciting is happening, so the hum and thrum of chatter soon fills the smithy. Men come and go as they wish, but a small crowd always remains.
“So, Thaddeus, you’ve got all the shoes for my horse finished?” Matthew Winters mentions over the counter.
The blacksmith leans casually against the wood to answer. “Yes, and a fine fat horse that is, what can wear them down so fast. I just made shoes for Tim to put on your beast not two weeks ago.”
“Oh, no, Thad, it’s the man who she’s carrying what wears ‘em down!” comes a hoot.
“So I’ll make fatter shoes.”
“A horse needs new shoes every six weeks, at least!” someone else reminds.
“What about those wheels on your wagon, Matt? Who wore those down?” Thaddeus wonders.
I don’t look up, but I can hear the grin in Thaddeus’ voice, which is as rare as his joshing.
“You’re only jealous because my missus is the best cook in town,” Matthew boasts, and everyone groans and smacks lips.
“Not as good as my mother,” Trusty Willy mentions. “Toot’s the best.”
“As long as she’s not too liberal with the cayenne.”
“Wooo-weee!”
“Has anyone seen Sally Painter?” Nancy Ofsberger calls from the doorway. “Her catalog on fashions is in.”
“Check the general!”
“Is the doc here?”
“At the Nail!” Trusty Willy roars.
The shadows shift around me as people move and peer and move back again.
“How long does this take anyway?” Alek Zalenski drawls mournfully.
I feel Thaddeus stand up straight. “Whatever it takes. There’s no hurrying the artist.”
I flush at his praise as Alek reminds, “Some of us have chores to do, if she can get on with it.”
“What chores? Watching the crops grow?” I fire up, wishing they’d take Alek’s advice and leave me in peace.
There is laughter and jeering, and the ebb and flow of their banter sharpens, then fades, as I concentrate on removing the wax and creating the decorative flourishes.
My hand is not as steady as I’d like, and I feel as though I am a charlatan and a fake to try my skill at making a blade like this. My work is best kept to tin and copper: broad boxes and curving mugs. Thaddeus is right. I’m no expert or master at any trade at all.
This display of craftsmanship threatens to expose me.
“Will you be ready soon, Marie?” Thaddeus approaches me slowly so I do not start and make a mistake, and I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness.
I don’t dare look up, but I nod briefly.
Placing the sword on one of the large work tables, I stare at my handiwork and the quiet descending upon the room is a sudden contrast to the chatter.
Picking up the acid, I inhale the strange, medicinal, pungent scent. If I’m not careful, it can cause me to sneeze, or make my eyes water.
“They’ll want to know what you’re doing,” Thaddeus murmurs as he hands over the brushes. Pressing my lips together, I shoot him an annoyed glance.
“I’m not a performer.”
“Marie—”
“It’s bad enough they’re watching.”
“Aw, come on, Marie. It’s as good entertainment as we’ll have all month,” Horeb Harvey groans. “Don’t be sour.”
“I’m not!”
“Ha! It’s her rosy personality coming through now, see that, boys?” Horeb chortles.
Thaddeus sighs loudly next to me. “Don’t be so uptight. They’ll otherwise start asking questions—”
“That’s right. We will!” Trusty Willy agrees heartily.
“—and sometimes that’s worse,” Thaddeus finishes. He gives me a small, encouraging poke in the shoulder and takes his post by the counter. I look up over the room just as the doorway darkens again. This time I know the arrival. It is Danny, and he is smiling immediately at me, a bright beam of confidence shooting into my stomach.
“Well, then,” I say. My voice is not strong or powerful, but the men quiet enough to hear me and lean in. My inhale catches, and I once again get a whiff of the acid. It inspires me, so I hold it up.
“This is what will be put into the design, which is now exposed from the wax.” Swirling the acid around, it sloshes inside the clay jug. “It is a mixture of vinegar and calcium hypochlorite powder, as well as a tiny bit of water. While there is no exactness to make it, it is strong and will burn your skin if you’re not careful.”
I put down the pot, the small acid burns on my own hands rippling as I do. Taking yet another deep breath, I dip my brush into the pot and start to work through the designs, taking care not to let it drip to the other side, or go near the hilt. The work is slow and careful, but the men are watching interestedly, waiting to see how the design changes.
