The New Land

by The New Land (retail) (epub)

  He sat back on his heels. God had exposed his sin, shown how ridiculous he was. Perhaps God could forgive his sin, but Broad Bay would not. He must let go of this pride. It poisoned everything. It wasn’t his place to understand why Peter died. He must accept it. He could not think it was right, but he couldn’t be angry with God. He must put his energy to understanding this vast and wild place. He could not change America to fit Johann Oberstrasse. He must change to suit it. This was what God wanted of him, and what he owed to God and to Christiane and to Walther and to the baby who was coming. He thought again of Peter and let the tear form at the corner of his eye. He gazed down the river to the bay. This might be a cold place, but it had water and woods and land. The land that they came for.

  He made his way back to the fire and returned to their corner of the shelter. Only Christiane was still there, Walther asleep in her lap, under a blanket. She was knitting, somehow, with one wrist supporting the baby’s head. She smiled at the way Johann dragged himself across the ground. She held up what he knew would be a mitten. “Almost done.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll need it. Back to work today.”

  “Your foot?” she asked.

  Lowering himself, he shrugged. “Better. I was lucky. But the boot is a problem.”

  “We can bind it with linen. When the swelling is gone, I’ll sew it shut.”

  * * * * * *

  The mid-November sun warmed Christiane’s face as Johann told her that they could live in the cabin soon, perhaps after five more days of work. He could keep working on it after they moved in.

  “We must wash everything,” she said. “We won’t have another chance until spring.” It already had snowed twice, though not much snow. “Won’t it be fine to start in the cabin with clean things?”

  “Yes,” Johann agreed. “The only things that will stink will be us.” He squinted at the sky. “Will there be time to dry everything?”

  “If we go quickly. We can go to the river, upstream so we don’t do it in front of everyone here.” She turned to him. “And you can help carry, before you work on the cabin.”

  Johann wished the cabin were made better. The notches at the corners were uneven and the walls not exactly vertical. But McDonnell thought it would hold up, even under heavy snows, so long as Johann swept the roof as soon as the snow fell. The hearth was bare ground surrounded by rocks, with a hole in the roof above to draw out the smoke. Johann was working on a rope connection to raise and lower a cover on the smokehole, depending on the weather. He had started working in the evening again, but only work that involved no lifting or cutting. The night before he had filled cracks between the logs. When the wind blew, those cracks felt like gaping holes. He wedged sticks and even rocks into the gaps, then sealed them with mud with grass mixed in. He daubed the cracks from both the inside and outside. After it dried, the mud sometimes cracked, so Johann had to seal it again. When Johann complained to McDonnell about the problem, his new friend laughed and said he’d be resealing the walls until the cabin fell down.

  Johann was embarrassed to compare his cabin to McDonnell’s. The Scot had brought fine planks with him from Boston and was using them for the inside walls. He had rigged up the small mill on a nearby stream and was planning a larger one on the Medomak, but not until the next year.

  For all the cabin’s faults, Johann thought it might do. It was on a small rise, which would keep water from running in. The clay floor would be damp and cold but he could do no better now. There were no trees close by, so they would get what sunlight there was. It was big enough for the three of them—even for four of them—as much space as they now shared with two other families in the shelter. He was building a sleeping surface to keep them off the ground. Johann knew this cabin would never satisfy him, but their next one, the one on the land they received in the spring, would show what he learned from building this one. That one would be better.

  Walking along the river, Christiane felt almost gay. They would soon leave the shelter and start a new life. She smiled at Walther, nestled atop a pile of blankets and linen. Christiane had recruited Ursula to join the washing, so she and Sigrid carried similar bundles. Johann and Fritz trailed them, each carrying his family’s clothes.

  When the women pronounced themselves satisfied with a riverside spot, Johann and Fritz dumped the clothes. Before he left, Johann gave Christiane his bayonet. “What will I do with that?” she said.

  “You’ll know if you need to,” he said. She left it on the ground next to a large tree.

  The women set to the washing with energy. They pounded the blankets and linens and clothes against large rocks, dislodging the crusted filth of the voyage and their first weeks in America. The soap from General Waldo was harsh in the cold water but there was a satisfaction that came as the blankets became more flexible, as the dirt tinted the river water and swirled away. They decided to wash everything twice. They draped soggy items over the sunniest bushes to dry.

  Christiane had parked Walther next to a small pile of rocks which he was banging against each other, mimicking the women, pointing at them with his stones and squawking. She stopped him when he tried to taste the rocks. Sigrid explored the plants along the shore and chased sparrows that flew close to her, bold and unafraid.

  Near noon, at the end of her second round of washing, Christiane began to finger the stiffness of her dress. It was so dirty. The sun was still strong. The winter would be long. She pulled it off and went to work on it, wearing only her shift. When she finished with it, she called to Ursula, “Will you watch the baby for a minute?” Ursula waved.

  In a quick movement, she shed her shift. The swelling of her belly made her smile. That was why her balance wasn’t always right, why she sometimes felt warm when others were pulling on extra clothes.

  Kneeling naked on the shore, Christiane scrubbed the shift with soap and pounded it, then waded in to rinse it. After repeating each step, she spread it to dry. She had thought she would wrap herself in whatever blanket had dried the most, but instead picked up a bar of soap and plunged into the frigid river with a shout. She got as far as waist level. Her breath came in gasps and giggles as she speedily washed. She ducked her head in backward and worked the soap into her hair. She felt in her scalp for the lice that tormented her. She found one, then another, swiftly digging them out and crushing them with a thumbnail. She would check Walther, as well. His hair was coming in, the same light brown as Johann’s.

  Another splash and a shout came from behind her. Ursula was in the river, too, laughing and washing. Her skin and hair were pale and delicate in the sunlight. She would make a perfect duchess or princess.

  “Can I come in?” Sigrid shouted from the shore, running to them.

  “Yes,” Ursula said, “but quickly, quickly. It’s so cold.”

  Christiane saw Walther crab-walking toward the water, drawn by the excitement. She ran to the shore, lifted off his dress and swept him up, then grabbed the little girl’s hand. The three of them ducked into the water with shouts of “Brrrrr, brrrr.” Even Walther tried to make that noise. Ursula greeted Sigrid with a bar of soap and began to wash her. When Christiane ducked Walther in the water, he screamed, then began to cry. They all laughed, and Christiane spun him around to distract him.

  That was when she saw them, two of them, standing next to a scrubby tree. She froze. They had dark skins, much darker than the bathers, but she couldn’t make out their faces. Their hair was long. Their clothes looked to be of leather. One cradled a musket. The other held his musket by the barrel, resting the stock on the ground.

  Christiane hugged Walther with both arms and began backing towards Ursula, keeping her eyes on them. The baby, sensing her mood change, quieted. “Ursula,” she said over her shoulder, but was drowned out by splashing and happy shouts. She gripped her friend’s arm. “Indians”—she pointed with her chin.

  Ursula looked over, then began to drag Sigrid from the water. “Mama, no! I don’t want to stop,” the little girl o
bjected. Her mother said nothing. Christiane followed, watching the Indians, who hadn’t moved. Was that good? She stumbled over a rock but didn’t fall. Were there others? Were they hunting? Why would they hunt so close to the settlement? Were they at war? Where was Johann’s bayonet?

  Heart racing, she crossed the narrow shore to pull a blanket from a bush and wrap it around herself and Walther. She shivered from the damp wool, then found the bayonet. Ursula had already wrapped herself and Sigrid in wet linen.

  When Christiane turned to look, they were gone. “Where are they?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Ursula said.

  They walked to the edge of the water. “They vanished,” Christiane said. “I never heard them. Not when they came or when they left.”

  “What do we do? Everything’s wet. And heavy.”

  Christiane didn’t answer. She stared into the woods without seeing. The forest had secrets, but she knew none of them. She tried to think as she fingered the bayonet. “We’ve been foolish.” She crouched down on her heels. Walther was crying again. She stroked his head and held him closer. “They could have taken us, or done…anything.”

  “Yes.”

  “But they didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “We should go back.”

  “They could get us on the path.”

  “At least we would be closer to the others.”

  “The men were going to come to help carry.”

  “Do you want them to carry our bones?”

  They folded the soggy clothes and blankets, stacking them into three piles, two large ones for the women and a small one for Sigrid. They wore as many of the damp things as possible, which made the piles a little smaller and made the women feel more secure. But only a little. They strained to lift the sopping loads and staggered off. They stopped several times to shift their grips, lean against tree trunks, and catch their breath. When they neared the settlement, they set their loads down and spread things to dry in the slanting sun. They dawdled in the light themselves, hoping to dry what they wore. They had nothing else to put on.

  Walther dozed on Christiane’s shoulder. Ursula combed out her daughter’s hair with her fingers, then released her. When Sigrid chased a blowing leaf, the two women exchanged a look of relief. “We’ve been lucky.” Christiane said. “Will you tell Fritz?”

  “Of course.” Ursula tilted her head. “Sigrid will blab it no matter what I say. Will you tell Johann?”

  “Of course.” Christiane then raised one eyebrow and gave her friend a sidewise look. “Perhaps not everything.”

  “Not about bathing?” They shared a smile.

  “Didn’t that stop before we saw the Indians?”

  “Long before,” Ursula said. They both smiled. “Husbands.” They laughed.

  “Mama,” Sigrid came running back from a curve in the path that afforded a view of the settlement. “Those Indians, they’re over there!”

  When they reached the shelter, they saw the two Indians near the pier, bold as brass. They couldn’t be sure it was the same two, though that seemed likely. Animal skins lay on the ground between them and Armstrong, the trader. The other settlers were trying not to gawk at the visitors, but without much success.

  Christiane studied the savages. Their tunics were of animal hides, as were their capes and leggings and moccasins. Beadwork decorated the capes. Christiane wondered if they had left the women alone because they had come to trade, not for war. One Indian had a soft pelt, perhaps beaver, tied to his belt and hanging between his legs. They wore necklaces made of shells and rings through their noses. Their hair hung loose from leather bands around their heads. Christiane’s eyes kept going back to the nose rings. That must have hurt. Perhaps that was the point, to show strength in the face of pain.

  “A fine thing,” a woman said nearby, “the way that trader kisses up to them. He should send them off to trade with the Frenchies.”

  “You won’t be so high and mighty,” another woman said, “when we’re all starving over the winter and they bring fish or squash to trade.”

  The first woman wheeled on the other. “Don’t you go telling me they’re our friends. They wiped out this settlement once, and now they strut through here like they own it.”

  That night a full moon lit the way for Johann and Christiane to walk to their new cabin. He carried a bucket of water. Christiane, carrying Walther, told the shortened version of their encounter with the Indians at the pond. “I was afraid,” she said. “Should I have been? Are they our enemies?”

  Johann clucked his tongue. “Yes and no. You heard Leichter when we first got here. General Waldo’s policy is that we must be friendly. But we know that they resent us, and they have killed many settlers. I think you shouldn’t wash clothes so far away.” They were at the cabin. He began to build a fire to light his work for the evening.

  Christiane inspected the cabin’s walls. Johann had filled many of the cracks. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live inside for the next cold months, with no windows, only the light from the cracks, or the fire, or the smokehole.

  “Was this land,” she said to him, “this land we’re standing on, was this Indian land?”

  “It all was. There were no white men.”

  “And their tribe is the Penobscots?”

  “The ones today? Yes.” He was beginning to mix mud in the bucket, spreading grass into it. “They live to the east, but they’ve dwindled. Diseases. They look strong, but they fall to disease like we do. More than we do.”

  “So are they our enemies?”

  Johann shrugged as he began to daub the mud into a crack. “Sometimes, yes.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  †

  The sharp cold made the air feel brittle. The late February snow crunched under Johann’s boots as he moved across the ridge. Sound carried farther in the cold. The wintry sunlight angled through bare trees. His breathing echoed in his ears as he shifted the canvas sack on his shoulder and plunged through the heavy going.

  In December and through Christmas, Johann had hoped the warnings about winter at Broad Bay were exaggerated. Winter came to Hesse, every year. It snowed and grew cold for weeks on end. How much worse could Broad Bay be? The Indians had survived these winters for as long as time could remember. Johann refused to be frightened by a season that the savages endured.

  January and February modified his thinking. Unless Christiane left their water next to the smoldering fire, it froze overnight. Their two woodpiles dwindled at an alarming rate when the snow piled up. When he could dig them out of the cabin, he spent hours chopping and hauling firewood. On some days, though, he couldn’t get out of the cabin, pinned inside by harsh winds and swirling snow that attacked his eyes and nose and seared his lungs. When the fire cast enough light on those days, he read to Christiane from their Bible, mostly the stories from the Old Testament that he liked best, while somehow she made her fingers knit more caps and mittens they could trade for food.

  The cold crept through every crack in the walls, making new cracks by shattering the mud he had smeared on so generously. It was perpetual war. He chipped dirt from the cold floor with a hatchet, warmed it by the fire, poured in water to make new mud to reseal the walls.

  They slept together, all three huddled under every blanket and cape they owned, fingers curled into fists inside their mittens. Snot had run from Walther’s nose for four weeks without a break. Johann couldn’t understand why the baby didn’t run out of it. Walther whimpered constantly, though he seemed feverish only once, and then only for two days.

  On good days, like this one, the sky cleared and the wind blew somewhere else. Johann could push the snow from their door and stamp down a path to the rest of the world. Then he could cut and haul more wood. At least he was moving his legs and arms enough to warm himself, even sweating into the shirt he hadn’t taken off since Christmas. He always cut more firewood than they needed, then traded some at the clearing for the salt fish that was keeping them a
live and the wool that Christiane knitted. He stockpiled wood to sell into the Boston market whenever the river ice melted and trade resumed. He shared the fish with Fritz and Ursula in the shelter, who suffered from the bloody flux. He emptied their bucket of watery shit, silently congratulating himself for getting his family out of that swamp of contagion.

  At least once a week, twice if he could, he walked out to the line of deadfall traps he had built with Robert McDonnell’s advice. The traps were so simple that even Johann mastered them. He drove four posts into the ground, two by two, with enough space between them for a small log. Then he braced one end of the log on a trigger stake which raised that end about eight inches high; he stabilized the raised end with a second, horizontal stake. The final touch was the bait, usually salt fish, held down by the trigger stake and stretching back into a pen built of rocks and branches. The hungry muskrat or beaver or possum, tugging on the bait, would wrench out the trigger stake, crashing the log down on his head.

  The traps weren’t foolproof. Snow could bury them. Sometimes the animal got away with the bait. Johann’s scent, steeped in the wood smoke that filled the cabin, doubtless kept some animals away. But winter was hard on them too. They were hungry. He usually found kills in at least two traps, sometimes more. The meat from the small animals brought welcome variety. He was saving the pelts to sell in the spring, though muskrat and possum were not much in demand. Beaver, though rare, brought a good price.

  Trapping was building Johann’s connection to this new country. It made him live in the land, tramp through it, know it. He watched for the animals’ signs, eager to understand how they lived, how they moved through the forest. He was learning the tracks they made. Deer tracks had two halves, each oval, though he had no weapon to bring down a deer. He could bring one home, he complained to Christiane one night, only if the animal ran up and surrendered. Rabbit tracks came in clusters of four. Muskrat tracks also came in groups of four but with space between the prints. Footprints of raccoons, who ventured out rarely, showed five separate toes. Toes in fox tracks were more rounded.