Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  “We agree on that, at least, Salomon,” laughs my mild tormenter, a conspiratorial, nasty wheeze to his chuckle. He stops when the blacksmith bends himself into the room, towering over him.

  “We don’t,” Thaddeus says. “But she’s no sweet girl. You can report back that we are doing as was asked and no less. Good day.”

  His tone is deep and final and dismissive, and at first Sergeant Ollin draws up, as if intending to pull some sort of rank. Instead he stumps out, injured pride trickling with him.

  I look up at Thaddeus as he comes around the corner of the counter and holds out his hand.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Why are you sucking on your palm?”

  “Oh.” I pull the flesh out of my mouth again and peer at the slash. “He startled me and I slipped.”

  Thaddeus glances at his own dirty fingers and drops his outstretched arm.

  “Well, that’s not so bad. Put a bandage on it.”

  “Later. Too much to do now.” I frown up at him. “And really? I’m ‘no sweet girl’? What the hell was that about?”

  “The truth,” he says shortly. “You’re not.”

  He might be right, but it stings worse than my cut to hear it.

  “Is the sword ready?” he asks instead, glancing around.

  “Soon.”

  “Soon, soon, you’ve been saying that for a while now,” he grumbles, and marches back out.

  Soon enough I’ll have to actually finish it, which both frightens and exhilarates me. Can I trust myself to do the final touches? Will I be able to succeed or fail?

  The question swirls around my head and I realize the lateness of the hour when I light the lanterns. It’s nearly dinner time, and I still have so much to do. Fairly running across the yard, I send a thought of thankfulness for the lack of chickens and stick my head through the back door.

  “I won’t be eating,” I say in general, and three heads spin to look at me.

  “You’re burning through enough candles already,” Thaddeus accuses. “And you need some food. Everyone needs food.”

  “I am supposed to finish it all. I want to try.”

  “Not if it means you’ll get ill,” he pushes back. “Then how will you spend the next days? Not soldering, but in bed.”

  “Do you think pressing me will make me change my mind?” My feet tap with impatience.

  “When it matters, I would expect it to do that.”

  “Thad, you know how stubborn I am.”

  “You don’t need to remind me.”

  “Two more long nights,” I mutter into the room. “Two more and then … maybe.” My eyes go dark as I see the items I must yet finish in my mind, building and spinning into existence if only I could get to them. The darkness wavers, and I look up, blinking. It’s only Thaddeus, though, up and standing directly in my vision, shielding me from the kitchen’s buttery light. He seems overly annoyed.

  “What are you trying to prove?” He is almost hissing. “You’ve done it already. You’re the smith for Flats Town and for over a hundred miles in any direction. There’s nothing more you need to do. Finish what you can.”

  His words are jarring, and I jump to remind him of my reasons for pushing limbs and hands past my usual. “There’s no payment without the work complete. I need the money, to finish my debt. You heard his threats.”

  “You have Jimmy’s pay,” Thaddeus reminds.

  “It’s not enough. Not at all.”

  There’s no answer from him, so I turn around and go back to the shop, my chest aching. I dislike being at odds with Thaddeus, for so many reasons they choke me. And I don’t like the notion that he plants, that I might not finish, and the order unfilled.

  The night inches along, tearing at the edges of my vision and creating a fuzziness to the corners of my fingers. I get clumsier and clumsier as the time oozes past, and it is only after I burn myself on the edge of the brazier for the fifth time that I realize I’m trying to solder half asleep.

  I cannot give up yet. If I stop now, I will fail …

  I will fail!

  The thought, constantly wavering in the dank corners of the shop, leaps up at me in the dark.

  I might fail. I likely will.

  Suppose I make a mistake? Have to start over on a whole batch? Break a tool?

  I should have known my life was still broken. My foolishness from the start, for handling the damn burring machine and dropping it, has cursed me. I am nothing. Not a successful smith, not out of debt, not able to do anything right enough to matter.

  I need this Army money. I desperately, horribly need it. It is a windfall of cash, a huge order that will give me my future back. I will be able to wash myself of Percy’s overhanging presence, leave Danny’s land, and find a new start.

  Free, and alone. If I finish.

  If.

  The if suddenly seems impossible and improbable and immovable. If I finish? Of course I won’t. It doesn’t matter how much I need the cash, or the completed sword, or the prestige it will bring me. Not one person cares about whether this all comes together for me. I am alone in this, just as in everything else. The bottom of my stomach goes hollow, and a weight drops from my hips to the floor, yanking me downward to the dirt and darkness below, snarling back up to hit and blind me.

  What am I doing? What am I proving? What will be enough?

  It will never be enough.

  I will never finish in time. Of course I won’t. It’s an outlandish expectation, a goal so high and unbelievable, I cannot fathom how I ever thought I’d manage.

  The sword is too tricky, the Army order too large, the orders not enough, the debt too great.

  Another hour passes and the first of the morning light grows through the eastern window. My eyes are crusty and dusty with sand and metal fumes. I grip the burin tightly to trace the next pattern out. The lack of sleep, the awfulness of my reality, the loneliness of my days and nights, all boil together to remind me of my failings. I don’t know if I will ever make enough pots and pans to cover the holes in my heart, and to make me worthy of the craft and solid enough with my bearings.

  If I am careful, I can get at least two canteens on one sheet of hot dip tin, and the small pieces out of the scrap. I twist the pattern again and finish the first twelve tracings and pinch my forehead, wishing I had better light. There is just enough of the early light to reflect against the bright edge of the tool in my hand.

  The point of it is silver and bright, and suddenly, without pausing to consider, I draw the end of it against my flesh, ripping against the softness between my elbow and wrist, yanking the metal into the skin and pulling hard.

  It’s numb.

  Staring at the deep red of the line, I watch the tiny beads of blood slowly grow, turning dark and blackish and thick as the moments slide by. It doesn’t hurt, or tingle, or even sting.

  What had I been so afraid of?

  The next line is deeper than the first, and the blood comes faster. If I continue, if I go even harder into my skin, will it all end?

  I’m nearly at the end, anyway. I wasn’t enough to keep my family together. To save Mother or Father. To protect Al. To be the right wife for Danny. And I certainly am not enough for Thaddeus. Why not be done? I won’t finish in time, and I’ll never be free of the failures of my family. The sword will rust away, and likely be the better for it. At least I won’t ruin it …

  Another pull.

  Another line of blood.

  It pools and runs, shimmying onto the dirt of the floor and disappearing into the black ripeness of the earth.

  I’m not enough. For anything or anyone.

  Not enough.

  Not good enough.

  A fourth line matches the others in length, but the deepness is such that the thump of my heartbeat is visible. Each time my heart goes, so too does the line of bleeding. The redness is deep and ruby and opaque.

  How long does it take for lifeblood to leave? How long before I see Mother again?

 
; The force of the metal inside the rim of my flesh is almost satisfying. I deserve it. This is not a sin. It is rightful punishment. It is justified that I weep blood this way.

  As I place the tip at the edge of my wrist, the throbbing begins. It thrums and pumps with the rhythm of my life, suddenly so loud I think it will drown my hearing.

  What am I doing?

  What the hell am I doing?

  Mother … she would be so disappointed in me. Not for my smith work, but for this. For this weakness.

  Mother …

  What had Father said, once? It had slid over my ears and never settled into my body.

  She would be proud.

  Of me. The smith.

  Would she really?

  Oh God, maybe. Maybe she would be.

  I want to believe it. I want to believe she would be so proud, that Father and the boys would be, too.

  Another spurt of my heart, and the blood splatters onto my shoe.

  What am I doing!

  Gasping, grasping for a resin-sodden towel, I cover the telltale lines and run toward the door, hoping the cold of the morning will catch me before I fall into madness. I have to stop now or the next slash of metal will finish me. And I am the smith. I have work to do. Is this insanity? Grief? Sorrow? The darkness of night, the crazed end of endless hours of soldering? Have the fumes choked my mind?

  I breathe in the air, quivering.

  If I turn now and look at the burin, I will use it again. I cannot. Must not!

  It would be the end. The next cut …

  My fingers are shaking, almost violently, and I curl a hand over my forehead, surprised at the slickness of sweat there. The old towel has not truly stopped the bleeding, and it has begun to snake through onto the brown flannel of my sleeve’s elbow. Shit! Someone will notice!

  I press harder and wish I knew something of medicinal ways to stem the bleeding.

  Stem the bleeding!

  The thought shoots relief through me, as hard and fast as pellets of ice.

  If I wish to stop the blood, then I must be back within my senses. I don’t truly wish to let myself slip into the softness of death. It must be so. Isn’t it? It’s my own mind speaking so meanly only, and I can certainly be as stubborn as my own self!

  Stubbornness indeed. I press my mouth together so tightly my teeth break the skin behind my lips as I push on my arm and take in the cool morning air. If I close my eyes I can focus on the little things, such as the tang of snow on the air and the puffs of woodsmoke from the cooper’s and the farrier. There are clean rags in the basket by the door, put there by Berit when she last brought the wash. I catch up one and wrap it tightly around the skin, tugging the corners, and firmly sealing up the wound. The strength of my fingers serves me well, and the bleeding does not escape this binding.

  I own my life again.

  My whole body wilts against the doorframe, and I wish my heart would stop bumping and thrashing inside my chest.

  It is done. I’ve lasted the night, and with the knowledge comes some strange, calm certainty.

  I will finish it all, and my life will finally be my own, whatever it may mean.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  15 November 1867

  Sergeant Ollin, Lieutenant Balsam, and Captain Bush stand in a line, but it is Sergeant Ollin who is counting the wares. His hair is brushed back carefully for once and his buttons polished except for the last two on his jacket front. His eyes flicker over the shiny tin and copper, clearly counting the items against the list he has in his head. Next to the deep ebony of the blacksmith’s items, my goods seem to particularly glow in the early morning.

  I am so damn proud of it all.

  I matched the challenge, buried deep and bubbling from the start. I wanted to prove how I am a good and able craftsman. That I … that I know my mother and father would say that I am. That I am capable, as I finally believe myself to be. I suppose the last is all that matters.

  And I did it.

  Sergeant Ollin is sweating in the close heat of the forge and the scrutiny of us all as he tries to peer through the morning gloom to make sure all of Thaddeus’s order is accounted for as well. Behind him, another three Army men cough, shift their feet, and fidget their gear, but the Lieutenant and the Captain are still as stone.

  “It, ah. Ha. Looks to be right?” He is fumbling, and so much unlike the greasy person who has sidled into my shop for the past two weeks that I would smile, except I am still so nervous. Though I have completed the Army’s order, I’m not completely set to meet them, and I’m doubly aware of it. My news for the Captain, and for Thaddeus, is still not perfect.

  Lieutenant Balsam steps up and flicks a cursory glance at everything, then reaches into the stiff leather pouch at his side. My mouth dries and my spit becomes sawdust as he pulls out the mix of greenbacks, shinplasters, and coinage.

  He lays it out with something like nonchalance, muttering and counting as he does, his thin lips slipping on the numbers. My eyes swim as the amount is piled on the table in a small mountain of pale ink. It is so much! I have never seen so much money all at once.

  Thaddeus picks up most of it, peeling a chunk away and hands the papers to me. When my fingers fold over the wad, the weight of it feels as good as gold. I’m so damn close!

  The joy is short-lived. Captain Bush sighs loudly, then shifts his torso toward me. “The sword, then? It’s all decorated and ready as well?”

  I cannot look at Thaddeus or Walter as I answer, but the Captain’s hard, bright eyes are no matter. Instead, I pull a line through the soot of the smithy’s floor with the worn toe of my boot and clench my hands under the folds of my skirts as I answer.

  “Nearly done.”

  “Nearly?”

  “It’s not paid for.”

  My head shoots up when Thaddeus jumps into the conversation, but he ignores me completely.

  “Paid? It’s not done,” the Captain says, managing to sound smug.

  “It’s done enough,” I counter, finding my voice again. “I’ll send it with David Fawcett and his wife before Christmas.”

  The Captain doesn’t look convinced at all. “I’ll have to see it before I pay you a penny.”

  I hesitate, then nod. “You can come, then, but leave your men here.”

  Even though the officers are there to be Captain Bush’s flank, they all turn their eyes to their commander expectantly. He looks disgruntled and flustered, but finally closes his eyes briefly as if he cannot bear all the bother.

  “Very well.”

  He walks just behind me on the way to my tinshop, and my nerves are strung so tightly they will be singing in another moment. A constant trill of shivers races up and down my spine and into my arms and down my elbow, tingling in the deep gouges under my wrist.

  Entering the shop, I pull the sword from under the wrapping, and fold my mouth over my teeth against saying a word while Captain Bush inspects the tin decorations on one side, where they are bright and white against the unpolished steel. It is not yet polished but the lines of the sword are obvious, the bones of it true, and the curls unfurling with tin. The other side is still blank, but my ability is at least visual.

  When he steps back, I let out my breath loudly, and he spares a look at me. “It suffices enough. I’ll give two thirds payment now, the rest with Fawcett when he comes with it.”

  He doesn’t even think to wait for Thaddeus, and instead takes his personal funds out of the leather pouch at his side and verbally counts out the cash. The respect of this alone is astounding to me, more so when he nods curtly and spins on his heel to leave.

  Staring at the money, where it scatters limply in the cool breeze from the door the Captain left open, I suddenly have the wild need to shout aloud with celebration. I don’t, swallowing it hard. But the joy is there, foreign and perhaps fleeting. It has been long since I’ve felt such pure relief, though, and with it comes the last of the confidence I need to finally finish the damn sword.

  CHAPTER THI
RTY-SEVEN

  10 December 1867

  “Marie! It looks beautiful!” Anette exclaims. Sadie nods encouragingly, Grete coos while holding a hand under her stomach, and even Clara is there with a babe on her hip, staring and grinning. Berit glows with praise, as if I am her own daughter, as if my achievements fill her with happiness. I bask in their amazement, and smile widely, the edges of my eyes pulling and folding into themselves as I grin, unable to be humble and demure.

  “Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched with their reaction to the finished sword. It truly is lovely, and I am both relieved and exhausted. It has taken me many days, nearly to the Christmas season, to be finished. But it is done.

  “You’ve accomplished more than anyone could have imagined,” Berit says, her long slender finger trailing the top of the saber where the tin sits shiny and silver inside the engraving. It twirls and swirls and whispers inside the steel, warming it and gilding it with light.

  “I am very pleased, myself,” I admit to them all, feeling ensconced within a womanly circle, and at peace for the moment.

  The comfort is partly because they are so amazed with the artwork, of course. But also because these women are my dearest friends in Flats Town, and they do not care that I am both woman and smith. It seems it will not matter that I straddle both trade and sex. Perhaps I have put too much stock in it, anyway. Perhaps it might never have mattered here in the west. Still, the relief of it all pounds me, and rules my heartbeat in this moment.

  “There will be so much gossip,” Anette prophesies. “Just wait.”

  “I heard it’s done!” Toot and Elaine Warren darken the doorway—one tiny and wrinkled and covered in food stains, and the other tall and commanding and buxom. Both look winded. Elaine explains as her mother-in-law comes to examine my work.

  “Sally Painter said she saw it this morning when she came to pick up her order. We had to dash over before the supper rush.”

  “Ah, I’m the first man to see it, am I?” Horeb leers into the space, his green eyes splashing around the corners. “Tell me true, Marie, am I the first?”

  I laugh. “Actually, you are.”