3stalwarts

by Unknown

  He turned his thoughts to his home. If he had stayed he would now be putting in his plough for the final furrow in the four-acre piece they were sowing to barley. His eyes would be on the white house between the broad roan rumps. His mother would be out beside the woodshed hanging the clothes on the line, her dark head lifted, her skirt rising at the sides of her boots. The furrow would be coming back to his feet; and he would leave the plough standing at the end, unhook the team, and go on to the buildings. And he would go into the kitchen with its smell of hanging hams, of pumpkin fillets hanging from the beams, and steaming corn mush, for a drink of milk. And then he would join the team at the barn door, unharness and water them, and bring in the cows for the milking. He would milk in the grey twilight of the barn, resting his head against a red flank while his eyes watched the ducks parading up from the creek… .

  Far down the road they heard the afternoon stage driver’s horn. In a moment the team came into view under the cloud of dust, four brown horses trotting roundly. The driver was alone on the box. He held the reins and the whip in his left hand, and his windburned face was tilted behind the long brass horn. He caught sight of them and offered them an extra trill. The sun made a highlight on his cheek stuffed out by an enormous chew.

  The coach spun past to a rattle of spokes and a squeak of leather. The curtains were rolled up. Inside sat a couple of ladies and a small boy and a gentleman in sober clothes. The luggage-flap at the back was swollen, for all the world like the pouch of a laying hen, and it wobbled right and left to the inequalities of the road.

  They followed the stage’s course. Far ahead, in a break in the poplar lines, a white gate stretched over the ruts. They saw the coach dwindle and stop. In a moment the gate rose. Faintly against the wind came a single toot of the horn, and the gate sank down. And for a while the road was empty, and they listened to the blowing of the wind.

  “Ain’t you afraid to come this way with me?” Jerry asked suddenly.

  The girl slowly turned her face.

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re all alone,” he said foolishly, and turned the conversation. “Where do you come from?”

  “Wiltshire.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In England.”

  “Yes, I know. Why did you and your mother come over?”

  “Father was younger than my mother. He went away with someone else, and then he brought her back, and Mother wouldn’t stay. We came away together.”

  Her face became moody.

  “Was it hard on sea?” he asked curiously. “Did you mind the ship?”

  “I didn’t mind it. I’m strong. But it was hard on her. Being on deck all the time, even at night, and not sleeping for fear of being taken by waves. Mother minded the cold, but she wasn’t taken till we got into fog.”

  “Couldn’t you take her into shelter?”

  “No. We had to stay on deck. The cabin was full. They gave us a little stove to cook at-that was all. You couldn’t keep warm by it, because they put it out when you were done eating, for fear of fire.”

  “Was it nice country, where your farm was?”

  “Yes, it was pretty. There were the hills north, but our farm was low down.”

  “Did you have a dairy?”

  “We had a cow.”

  “One?”

  “Yes. I used to milk her.”

  “How many horses did you have?”

  “One.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yes, it was a nice farm.”

  “Our farm had eight cows and three horses,” Jerry said.

  “Yes? Why did you want so many?”

  “To make money,” he said, looking at her.

  “Oh.”

  He could not understand what she meant.

  “Gran’pa, he cleared the farm. He was a settler,” he explained. “We come from Connecticut as a family. Gran’pa come by himself with ten dollars in his pocket. Now Pa’s well off. He’s a justice of the peace.”

  “Then why did you leave there?”

  “My brother will get the farm. I want my own. I didn’t want to work for other people all my life. I want to get rich.”

  She made no answer. But her hands picked up two pieces of dry grass and began idly to plait them. He watched her strong fingers, wondering at their deftness.

  “Can you spin and weave, Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll buy you a wheel, some day.”

  She gave him another of those slow questioning glances that he was beginning to expect, and his face flushed; and he looked at the sun.

  “There’s no use trying to get to Schenectady tonight, I expect. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m rested a lot.”

  “That’s good. We’ll wait a little longer.”

  He could see little lines indrawn to the corners of her mouth.

  Up the road they heard a voice crying commands.

  “Get along there. Bring them back, Jody. Fetch them in. Go on. Get along, will ye?”

  A dry patter of hoofs came along the road, and presently they made out the faces of sheep, in a foolish cluster, from which a little stream sprang suddenly, running for a way, and then halting as if the road were dammed. Then the voice was uplifted and a dog would bark, and the process was repeated.

  The sheep passed them with big lacklustre eyes in their white faces,— the road dust stiffening the points of their wool,— and presently a small brown collie dog brought up some stragglers and sat down on its tail to wait for the old man who plodded a hundred yards in the rear.

  He walked bent over, leaning heavily on a long stick. When he saw that the sheep had stopped again, his left hand clawed open his grey beard and his cracked voice snouted, “Get on, blast ye! Can’t you keep them moving, Jody?”

  The little dog sucked in his tongue and barked.

  “Hey!” Jerry hailed the old man.

  “Eh?” He turned rheumy, red-lidded eyes.

  “Can you tell me how far it is to Schenectady from here?”

  “Schenectady, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beginning from the toll gate,”— he wheeled slowly and lifted the stick in a trembling hand,— “there’s some calls it eight miles and some calls it six.”

  “About seven?”

  “I calculate,” the old man said. “I calculate it’s seven.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No bother,” said the old man. “Get on, blast ye!”

  Jerry turned to the girl.

  “Let’s get through the gate, anyway.”

  He swung up her bundles and led the way along the footpath.

  The gate seemed to creep towards them at an infinitesimal pace. A low yellow house flanked one paling; the other stretched to the opposite poplars. The gatekeeper, smoking a rank pipe, stood by the windlass in his shirt sleeves.

  He pulled the pipe out of his lips and emptied his lungs of smoke.

  “Howdy,” he said. “It’s a fine day.”

  He had a square red face, the jowls pronounced; and his eyelids had a way of trembling downward, so that he kept snapping them up.

  “Hello,” said Jerry. “How far do you make it to Schenectady?”

  ” ‘Bout eight miles. You aheading there?”

  “Where else does the road go?”

  “That’s a question! Why, young feller, it’s the beginning of all roads west.” He put his pipe back in his mouth and sucked a moment. “There’s all the river towns— you can turn off at Canajoharie for the Great Western at Cherry Valley. You can follow our Pike into Little Falls, Herkimer, and Utica and Manlius, where the Fifth Company Western Pike joins in. And when you get to Manlius, you’ve got the whole western territory in front of your toes. You aheading for Schenectady?”

  “Heading through,” said Jerry with a grin. He stepped to the foot passenger’s wicket in the great gate.

  “Head away,” said the gatekeeper, his eyes roving over Mary. “But it’s going to cost you sixpence
for the two of you. You ain’t a doctor, by your cut, nor is it Sunday, so you ain’t going to church neither.” He put his pipe back in his mouth and took another look at Mary. His protuberant blue eyes expressed admiration. Jerry fished out his purse.

  “Here you are.”

  The man leisurely moved away from the winch, and, as he began to walk, Jerry saw that his back was crooked.

  “Have a drink?” he asked as he let them through and took the six pennies.

  “No.”

  “Water, then? There’s a good well.”

  With a glance at Jerry, Mary accepted.

  “Wife?” asked the gatekeeper, staring after her.

  “No.”

  “Don’t get stuffy, son. I ain’t meaning harm.” One of his eyes drooped almost shut. “All the world goes past me here and I learn to see a sight of things. Whatever she is, strikes me you picked good company.”

  Jerry did not answer.

  “Ain’t a redemptioner, is she?” asked the gatekeeper.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Why, depends on how you look at it. Seems queer now, considering she’s a redemptioner, that she’d be traveling along of a lad of your cut, don’t it? There’s some that buys them,” his eye drooped again, “and there’s some that borrows, in a way of speaking. Us gatekeepers get advertisements.”

  He leaned himself against the winch again.

  “Don’t get bothered, son. She ain’t advertised. It’s funny you come to buy her, though. You must have paid pretty high for a man of your pocket. You ain’t willing to deal on her?” he asked casually.

  Jerry flushed.

  “No.”

  “All right, all right. Easy. It’s just I could use a good girl round my house. I’d be willing for one like her to cover the price with a bill or two.”

  “She carries her own papers,” said Jerry.

  “Then there’s no objection if I make her an offer?”

  “Yes, there is!”

  The gatekeeper eyed Jerry coolly.

  “It’s a hot day,” he observed. “You wouldn’t consider a little beer at a fip for a tumbler?”

  Jerry did not answer.

  “Hottest day I ever see,” said the man, raising his voice. “Real unseasonable weather. But I read there’s a storm coming. Seems a pity a handsome girl should have to tromp along a road on a day like this. Oh, there you are, missy. Did you get your drink?”

  She was smiling, her red lips freshened and glistening with the water.

  “It’s a good well,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The gatekeeper’s eyes rested on her face. Jerry noticed that he was hiding his twisted back from her.

  “You wouldn’t want to take a job with a gatekeeper? Easy housekeeping and steady pay? Serve drinks to the gents and fetch water to lady passengers, now?”

  She smiled at him.

  “No,” she said, but Jerry read her estimation of him, and wondered if he had been a sound man whether she would have agreed. He kept stiff and silent. “No,” she said. “I’m bonded to this man.”

  “Oh, you are? I offered him the price of his papers, but he said you wasn’t bonded.”

  She turned suddenly to Jerry, and her eyes shone.

  “Did he?” she said over her shoulder; but she was looking at him, and he wondered what she was thinking that had so brightened her.

  “Come along, Mary,” he said stiffly.

  She bent meekly for her bundles, but her lips did not lose their curve. And as they walked away, she kept at his side.

  “That was a bad-looking man,” he said, as soon as they were out of earshot. “I wonder you could talk with him so.”

  She eyed him sidelong for a few paces.

  “But you were there. It was all right, wasn’t it?”

  His chin lifted, and she noted his set jaw, and she saw that she had pleased him. So she kept her face forward, and walked in silence.

  “I wish, Mary, you’d call me by my name. It might save talk.”

  “I will if you want me to.”

  “Then do.”

  “But I don’t know what your name is.”

  He remembered that she was unable to write her own name; therefore she could not have read his. It embarrassed him to tell her.

  “My name’s Jeremiah Fowler. But I’m called Jerry.”

  “All right, Jerry.”

  Her stride was easy, her legs swung freely from her hips. She did not bend forward like most women, but kept herself erect. He wondered what could have freshened her so.

  “That water felt so good,” she said after a time. “I washed my face in the bucket and did up my hair again. I feel I could walk all day, now.”

  He did not answer.

  “Did you mind my taking so long, Jerry?”

  “No.”

  After a moment, she asked, “Would you have let me go to that man?”

  He shot a swift look at her, but she was keeping her eyes to the road.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “I was wondering.”

  Her voice was small. He felt his thoughts blur. He tried to think, and he did not answer her. But she drew in her breath slowly and smiled to herself. And he gave up thinking, and they went on until they heard hoofs trotting behind them, and suddenly a voice cried, “Boil me if it ain’t young Jerry Fowler!”

  The Shaker missioner reined in his spanking pair and stared down at them from shrewdly twinkling eyes, and his long face grinned through a network of wrinkles.

  “I expected I might catch you up,” he said, “but not so soon as this. Climb in.”

  “Thanks,” said Jerry. He crossed the roadside ditch and heaved up his two bundles.

  “Stick them in the back,” directed the Shaker. “Who’s the lady?”

  Jerry stammered.

  “Mary Goodhill. This is Mr. Bennet.”

  The Shaker lifted his high hat and gave her a smile.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss. Issachar Bennet’s my name. I made Jerry’s acquaintance this morning. We crossed on the same ferry. Now under that oilcloth there’s a feather mattress I’m taking outwards for the elder Meachem in Kentucky. I’ll warrant it soft. You lay down on it, missy, and, Jerry, you climb up alongside of me.”

  As soon as they were aboard, he clucked to his horses and shook them into a trot.

  “It’s uncomfortable hot for foot travel,” he said. “When did you leave Albany?”

  “Past one,” said Jerry. “The sun was a good piece past noon when we got to the Snipe Street Gate.”

  “I thought I might come up with you,” said the Shaker. “Dudley, back there, who tends the halfway gate, told me about you. I reckoned it was you, Jerry; and I guessed it my own way.”

  “How?”

  “You’d never know so I might as well tell you. He kept talking about missy’s hair.”

  He glanced backward at the girl.

  “What do you think of our country, missy?”

  “I haven’t seen much of it.” She was resting against a bundle, facing forward. “It seems flat here, and a long way between places.”

  “This is a dull stretch of road. You’ll like it better when you come to the Mohawk. How do you like this young man?”

  She flushed up and made no reply. Bennet chuckled delightedly and surreptitiously drove his elbow into Jerry’s side. He seemed in a bubbling humor; all at once he shot a quid out of his lips, drew his hand across his mouth, and started humming. Jerry shifted uncomfortably at the tune and fixed his eyes between the horse’s back-pricked ears.

  “A roguish youth asked me to woo,

  Heighof The buds were blowing. And I was puzzled what to do,

  Heighof The buds were blowing… .”

  From a swift-rolling wagon, the road wore a different aspect. The ruts showed plainly, the narrow marks of dearborns and chaises, the broad tracks of the Pennsylvania wagons, the ruffled spots of the footprints of herded cattle. It ran straight as an arrow, and the horses trotted it
back with their hoofs, as though they were running a treadmill, and the shadows of the poplars, as the sun declined, made bars across the road, that flashed sunlight and shadow past the wagon in a continual bright glittering. The hoofs of the horses thudded a pleasant tattoo, and the axles rattled in the hubs and the spokes clattered and the harness slapped against the horses’ ribs, working out edges of lather, filling the air with a comfortable horsy smell, and the dust trickled down the fellies of the wheels and rolled out behind in a white cloud.

  The Shaker spoke in a lowered voice.

  “So you went and did it?”

  Jerry nodded.

  Ahead of them on the road he saw a line of grey hoods appearing, another wheat train.

  “I saw it bothering you,” said the Shaker, with his bubbling chuckle. “Young man, going west. I told you there was nothing like it in this world. But now where’s your farm?”

  Jerry made no answer.

  “I’ll bet a girl like her comes high off Henry Fearon’s boat… . Didn’t she?” he asked after a few rods.

  Jerry nodded. He could not meet the Shaker’s quizzical eyes.

  “Seventy dollars,” he said. “She’s signed for two and a half years to meet it.”

  “What are you going to do with her, eh?”

  “I don’t know. I gave her back her papers.”

  The old man shifted his feet after a jounce.

  “Riding all right back there?” he called over his shoulder.

  “Fine.” She was smiling. Her face was tilted to see over the edge of the wagon box, and the breeze was plucking out wisps of hair from her neat braids.

  “And she come along?” said the Shaker.

  Jerry nodded. “She hadn’t nowhere else to go to.”

  “So what are you going to do about that, Jerry?”

  “I haven’t thought. I can’t buy my farm. I’ll have to work for a year.”

  The Shaker looked at him squarely. “Sorry you did it?”

  Jerry lifted his face. “No.”

  “Good boy.” He broke into his humming.

  “The roguish youth asked me to kiss,