Johann shook his head. “The cheating started with General Waldo, and it’s never stopped. Cushing’s fence steals from Penner, Penner’s steals from Soule, Soule’s steals from Orff. There isn’t an honest fence in Broad Bay.”
“Which is why they appointed your upright self to straighten it all out.”
“Because everyone steals, they give the job to a poor German with no power to make anyone behave like an honest man.” Johann hawked and spat in disgust.
“Those other thieves, the ones who claim Waldo gave us all bad titles, they’ve filed their court suit in Boston.”
“Robert, Waldo did give us bad titles.”
“We took them in good faith and paid good money. I’ll not pay twice.” He looked across the space between the horses. “I’ll never understand why you did. The old Johann would’ve pulled out his bayonet and chased Waldo straight into the river, along with this new bunch of thieves.”
Johann shrugged. “I didn’t care to spend my last years with lawyers. I’ve lost my appetite for war.”
“Not me. I’ll be goddamned if they’ll see a shilling from me. I’ll burn the house down and plow salt in the ground before that.”
Johann smiled, “And so, shall we hear your report as deer reeve tonight?”
McDonnell laughed. “I have nothing to report and never will. If those asses in Boston want to protect the precious deer, they can get off their fat rear-ends and do it themselves.”
“That’s why you got the job.”
“Exactly right. No one can ignore a stupid law better than I can. Besides,” he snorted, “a little venison never hurt anyone.”
At the new German meetinghouse, home to Nungesser’s congregation, nearly sixty men had crowded into the unforgiving pews. A few leaned against the back wall and lounged in the side aisles. The multi-paned windows, lit by a dozen lanterns, reflected multiple versions of the scene, each square of glass set at a slightly different angle. The whitewashed boards of the meetinghouse gleamed.
Ten minutes late, Isaiah Loomis called the meeting to order. Johann didn’t know Loomis to be a crook, but assumed he was because Cushing and Nash, the other two selectmen—and he knew this to a certainty—were men of low morals.
The meeting crawled through its agenda. The three selectmen showed neither emotion nor interest during the official reports, certainly not in Johann’s account of the town’s wayward fences. Most of the German farmers had learned enough English to follow the general direction of the meeting but not enough to understand everything.
The report of the fish warden triggered a sharp exchange. The first selectman condemned the millers’ failure to build runways for fish to swim upriver to spawn. That, he insisted, was threatening people’s ability to feed themselves. The millers dismissed his complaint. They had no duty, they said, to provide fish for the community.
To Johann’s surprise, no one spoke on the proposed tax to pay Nungesser. After the first selectman read the resolution, silence fell. Men shifted in their seats. Two men in the back left to relieve themselves at the edge of the woods. Even Leichter said nothing. The first selectman called for the “yea” votes. Leichter’s hand and three others went up. McDonnell kicked Johann’s shoe and gave him a look. The first selectman said he saw no need to call for the “nays.” He pronounced the proposal defeated. No tax money for the pastor.
Then Selectman Nash stood. He reminded the men of the fighting between the Massachusetts militia and the British. From a newspaper he read a resolution approved by the Massachusetts Provincial Congress. It called for 30,000 men to take up arms against the British troops occupying Boston. Nash moved that Waldoborough endorse the resolution and send a company to Boston to oppose British oppression.
Pandemonium broke out. At least five men, including McDonnell, stood and held their fists in the air, shouting huzzahs. A comparable number shook their heads and called out angrily. Individual arguments erupted. The first selectman stood on his chair and held his arms out in a mute call for order. After a period, the din retreated and Loomis could make himself heard. There should be full discussion, he said. He would hear one speaker in favor of the resolution, then one opposed, and so on until all had spoken who wished to. Johann stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. It was going to be a long night.
When Leichter led off for the opponents, Johann understood that Leichter had let Nungesser’s tax die in order to employ his full influence against this resolution. Gesturing forcefully, Leichter urged his neighbors to rely upon the goodness of King George. Yes, he conceded, Parliament was treating Boston roughly, but even the most ardent must admit there was lawlessness among the citizens there, such as the dumping of tea in the harbor. The king, he insisted, had the power and the will to bring justice to all his subjects.
“It’s a fearful thing,” Leichter concluded, “to set our hands and hearts against our rightful king, against the order of society. That will return us to the world of the savages. We know what war is like. It not only kills and maims those who fight, but brings hunger and ruin to children, to wives, and to old people. It destroys trade and makes us all poor. At Louisbourg, our men saw the might of the British navy and the British army as they humbled France. What short work would they make of our poor efforts, with no warships, little in the way of arms, and with only our anger on our side? No, friends, our best course is not to rush into war, but to be wise, to protect our families, and to wait for the king’s justice.”
In high dudgeon, McDonnell shouted as he jumped from his seat. “Listen, by God,” he demanded, “to one who has fought for this land of ours—our land, not King George’s.” He gestured to his empty right sleeve. The first selectman nodded to him. As McDonnell composed himself, Leichter called out, “You fought for your king.”
McDonnell drew himself up to his full height. “I carried the king’s rifle, that’s true, but I and the sergeant major and our neighbors fought for this settlement and for our families, not for the king who left us naked before the attacks of savages. We mustn’t be blinded by traditions,” McDonnell turned to the others, “or by our wish for peace. Who among us doesn’t wish for peace? I know what war brings. Look at me. But how much of your manhood, how much of your liberty, will you pay for peace? Will you wait for the British to slaughter us all?”
McDonnell paused. “Read the other news in Mr. Nash’s newspaper. The king denies our right to appoint delegates to consider our situation. He cancels our government. The king wants us to lie down before him and trust in his goodness. As evidence of his trust, he sends troops to collect unjust taxes, to impose infamous restrictions on our trade. What friend sends warships and soldiers to reason with another friend? No, the king intends to break us, just as he has broken so many others. That’s what we can trust about King George. Ask the world about the kindness and generosity of British kings, and you’ll learn how much we should trust them.”
“Spoken like a Jacobite,” Leichter snarled from the front row, “still pining for Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
McDonnell smiled broadly. “What I am, friend Leichter, is just another bloody American. I believe in American rights and American liberties, and I will rely upon myself and my neighbors to defend them, not on some pampered nancy on the far side of the world who sends his bullyboys to crush us.”
A dozen men competed to answer McDonnell, then a dozen more to answer that speaker. No one even thought of leaving the building. The debate stretched on for an hour and then another. Some men shouted and shook their fists. At times, the hall was quiet, the mood contemplative. Selectman Cushing rounded the room to add fresh oil in the lanterns whose flames were guttering. When the final speakers were done repeating what earlier speakers had said, Loomis looked at Johann. “Does our captain in the last war wish to be heard?”
Johann paused for a moment, then stood. He gave a shallow bow to the selectmen and then another to his neighbors. “I am honored to address these grave matters, but not as your captain. I have grown old and will no
more go to war.” He paused, trying to order his thoughts.
“When I served in the Landgraf’s army, I could never speak on such matters. It was not permitted. Tonight I have listened. You are my neighbors and my friends. I hear my friend Matthias, and I agree with much of what he says and with those who agree with him. My life is good here in Broad Bay. I have sons and daughters. I do not wish them to know war.
“Then Robert speaks and he makes sense, as do those who agree with him. The British have not treated us as they should. They don’t treat us as equals, as men. So I realize that I haven’t thought enough about these matters. I work all day. My mind is not settled. If we take a vote tonight, I will not vote. I am too uncertain. I would welcome the chance to think more, to talk to my neighbors, and to vote in a week’s time.”
Angry voices rose as he sat. Those supporting the resolution demanded a vote. The opponents embraced Johann’s notion of a week’s delay. The first selectman called for a vote on whether to reconvene in a week’s time. It passed by two votes.
“You bloody fool,” McDonnell sputtered as they stood. “You’re playing into the hands of those rich bastards. Mark my word, it’s the Waldos and the Leichters who will stand with this idiot of a king.”
Johann shrugged. “You’re probably right, Robert. But a soldier doesn’t easily oppose his government.”
“You bloody fool,” McDonnell repeated when they were outside. Without another word, he mounted and rode off. Johann thought to call for him to wait for the lantern, but he held his tongue.
“Robert has a high temper,” Selectman Nash said to Johann, “but he sees correctly what we must do.” Nash held out his newspaper. “Would you like to read this tonight and return it tomorrow?”
Johann took it.
CHAPTER THREE
†
Sailing, as Franklin saw it, was the closest he would ever come to flying. Like the gull who shadowed him toward Pemaquid Point, the boat rode the wind. The gull made small adjustments to stay airborne. Franklin did the same with the tiller and spritsail, keeping his father’s yawl splashing cleanly forward. The wind had been fresh since he left Walther’s farm near Damariscotta. Though the water route from Waldoborough was farther than traveling overland, it was better for cargo like the chickens and sheep Franklin had taken to Walther’s family. To satisfy his father, Franklin would have to use lye to get the smells out of the planking.
The Christiane, named while his mother still lived, was really Franklin’s. He was only nine when his father, thinking to build boats for the coastal trade, started on it. Franklin hovered near the work until his father handed him a scraper and a plank to smooth. After months of labor, they produced a vessel that leaked grievously and sailed so slowly that passengers were tempted to swim. Franklin’s father returned to making furniture and gave Franklin the boat. Since then, Franklin had transformed it into a sleek, smooth-sailing vessel.
He ducked under the jib as he turned into Muscongus Bay. The sun struggled to shine. Low whitecaps raced toward shore, the swells now beating against the starboard side, rocking Christiane. Franklin loved this part of sailing, when he felt the wind and the water through the sail and the hull. The gusts were stronger in the bay. He might reach Mayflower Hof by mid-afternoon. He reached for the cheese and bread that Walther’s wife sent.
He was almost to Louds Island, aiming to pass it on the landward side, when he saw the boat, not much larger than Christiane. The flag at its stern and the redjackets aboard meant it was a revenue cutter from Fort Georges, prowling for smugglers. In twenty minutes, the cutter was close enough for Franklin to drop his sail and wait.
“Ahoy,” he called out. “You fellows must be after minnows today.”
A sailor threw Franklin a line. They both tugged on it to bring the boats abreast. The officer on board, who appeared little older than Franklin, stepped onto Christiane and swatted Franklin with the back of his hand, catching him on the jaw. When Franklin turned and braced to retaliate, the officer bellowed, “You will show respect. Note, gentlemen”—he pointed at Franklin—”if this man raises his hand against an officer of the king.”
Franklin stopped himself. “What do you want?” he shouted back, then swept an arm at the inside of Christiane. “You can see there’s no smuggling here.”
“What’s your name and your business?” the officer asked.
“Franklin Overstreet. Sailing home from my brother’s farm in Damariscotta. To Waldoborough.”
“What was your business in Damariscotta, with your so-called brother?”
“If you find an Overstreet around here,” Franklin said, “he’s either my brother or my father. And my business was delivering chickens and sheep to his farm.”
The officer wrinkled his nose in disdain. “That much appears to be true. You carried no tea?”
“Who can afford it, with the taxes?”
The officer glared at Franklin. “Your tongue could get you into trouble, young man. When one of His Majesty’s ships makes toward you, do not in future continue on your merry way, but stop.” He took a last look around Christiane. “Please tell your smuggler friends that their fat days are over and their prison days are coming.” The officer pranced nimbly back to the cutter. “Good day,” he called as his sailor pushed off. “God save the king.”
* * * * * *
“Franklin, what happened?” Catherine, concern on her face, crossed the workshop floor. She held her hand out. “Does that hurt?” Johann looked up from his bench and squinted at his son’s face.
Franklin pulled away, saying, “It’s nothing. Really.”
Johann smiled. “Catherine, run and get my spyglass so we can examine this more carefully.”
She stepped closer to Franklin. “Is your mouth all right? Your teeth? What happened?”
“A cutter stopped me. Must be a new man, too new to know that no smuggler worth his salt would use a scow like Christiane.”
“He hit you?” she asked.
“What did you do?” Johann asked.
“Papa,” Franklin shook his head. “I’m not a child. I didn’t do anything. He did it because he could.”
Johann tightened his mouth. “They can be arrogant.”
“But you’re all right?” Catherine asked again.
Franklin smiled. “Of course.” His eyes went back to his father, who had already returned to the table leg he was turning.
“Johann,” Catherine said, “the talk is that you disrupted the town meeting last night.”
Without looking up, Johann said, “How did I do that?”
“Must I squeeze every drop of information out of you? Must I hear from the neighbors what you do?”
Trying to concentrate on the lathe, Johann said, “You were asleep when I came in and when I got up. And you were visiting our neighbor at dinnertime.” He cursed softly when the leg slipped. Luckily he hadn’t been applying much pressure. “Katia, I have hopes yet of not mangling this job. May we please talk of the town meeting at supper?”
Exuding a dense air of grievance, Catherine left.
Taking his usual place at the bench, Franklin resumed his experiments with wood finishes. His father wouldn’t pay for shellac imported from Britain, so they made do with mixes of beeswax and turpentine that produced a yellowish tint that Franklin thought ugly. He was certain that with a better finish, one with a rich glow that lasted for a longer time, they could please their customers and charge higher prices.
He mixed three batches, altering the proportions of wax and turpentine in each. He added linseed oil to a fourth. Then he applied the different concoctions to scrap wood and left the pieces outside to dry. He also tried holding each mixture over the fire and applying it warm. He numbered each piece of wood and wrote in the account book which mixture was on which numbered piece of wood. When he had stored the different mixtures, he opened the door to let in some air, picking up the newspaper that Johann had flung on the floor.
After ten minutes, Franklin looked up. His
father was checking four table legs against each other.
“So?” Franklin said.
Johann nodded. “It’s a miracle. They match. Tomorrow I attach the feet and we begin the chairs.” He put the legs away. Wiping his hands on a rag, he shook his head, “I thought for many years that I would learn to work more quickly, but I’ve become only slower.”
Franklin had heard this lament before. “How long did it take for you to get used to these fumes? They make me dizzy.”
Johann smiled. “Every trade has its problems. Sailors drown.”
“What was the problem at the town meeting? Will you fight a duel over Penner’s fence line?”
“Exactly what you found just now in Christiane. What can we do with the British? What can they do with us? Or to us?”
“Please, Papa, tell me.” Franklin leaned forward, his eyes bright.
Johann sighed and closed the door. He started to put his tools away, speaking over his shoulder. “Nash and Robert want war, to spit in the eye of the king and dare him to blow us into little pieces. You know how Robert is. He is magnificent but sometimes foolish. And Matthias Leichter and others want us to bow down to the British and kiss their lily-white feet.”
“What did you do that caused trouble?”
“I said I agreed with both of them, so now everyone hates me and thinks I am the fool.”
“Papa!”
“But I do agree with both of them!” He glanced at his son, then returned to tidying the workbench. “I want the British to go away. They have no idea what this American world is like and don’t care to find out. They are greedy and impossible. They mostly want to bleed us dry. Robert is right about all of that. But I don’t want to fight them. You know what I think of war. It is organized madness, men licensed to commit evil.”
The New Land Page 23
