by Unknown
Heigho! The buds were blowing!” I frown’d to show I took ‘t amiss,
Heigho! The buds were blowing!
“She’s a right pretty young girl, son. I think you’re lucky at that. What do you want with a farm? Get yourself work. There’s going to be big doings in this state from now on, whatever you do. Listen, when I left Albany it was a good while after you, and word was round the city. I heard it in the Planters’ Bar. They’ve passed the Canal Bill.”
“Have they?”
“They surely have. You living in Uniontown, you haven’t no idea what it’s going to mean. Clinton preaches about the farmers that’s sensible he needs the vote. But the cities are going to feel it, too. For why? Take Albany. Every ounce of grain that comes from the west will pass through there. Every bit that goes to the farmers will pass through there. Same for New York. Tammany Hall will be neck-deep in money in a dozen years. Trade that’s going to Philadelphy will come here. There ain’t no one else can compete. Damn my blinkers if I don’t think the best thing that ever happened to you was catching sight of missy’s hair, boy. You’ve got to keep where the money is.”
Jerry’s face brightened. He did not answer.
“Outside of the fact that it was a damn handsome thing for you to do. By crinkus, shake hands.”
He stretched out his lean fingers. They were rolling down on the wheat train. They heard the notes of Pennsylvania Bells. The horses were bending to their long stride, the teamsters walking in the footpath, whips in hand. The hoods and the boat-shaped boxes were filmed with dust. The wheels were caked with grey dried mud. Under the axles swung the leather water buckets and the grease pails. They also showed gobbets of grey dirt. The Shaker pointed.
“Heavy hauling westward of here. Them are the wagons that’ll be put out of business. Those tough bezabors don’t think so, but it’s so. We’ll have a new idea of haulage in a dozen years. A hundred tons at a lick, maybe, and night travel. I wish I was in your boots, Jerry, heading into the midst of it with a girl along.”
His face sobered, his eyes drooped sadly for a while. Then he cheered up.
“I had my turn at it in my time, and there’s still some hell in me. Watch out, boy, or I may chuck you against the head and drive off with your girl.”
He chuckled.
“What’U I do with her?” Jerry asked.
“Been bothering you?”
“Yes.”
The Shaker laughed aloud.
“It wouldn’t have bothered me! Just now she thinks you’re the hand-somest article in pants she ever came across. Just look at her if you don’t believe it. I’ll bet you a York shilling against a kiss from her that she’s studying the back of your head and wishing you had a hair-cut.”
“Fair enough,” said Jerry.
They turned around together, confronting her, the Shaker grinning like an amiable old devil, Jerry puzzled and bright-faced.
“I win,” said the Shaker, and he poked Jerry’s ribs, while the girl wondered what they had been saying about her. She heard his voice singing the tune he had hummed, but she couldn’t catch the words, because they were pitched for Jerry’s ear. But something in the tune must have touched a nerve, for she appeared to draw into herself and muse.
“Heigho!” sang the old Shaker.
“The roguish youth asked me to wed,
Heigho! The buds were blowing!
I looked wise and shook my head,
Heigho! The buds were blowing!
My confidence grew less and less,
He so determined was to press,
Though I meant No I cried O yes!
Heigho! The buds were blowing!”
The sun was going down behind a burning cloud; the wind was dropping. A bite of coldness had crept across the sky. Far on his right, Jerry saw the twilight reaching up like a curtain from the east.
“You’d better get right at it!” said the Shaker. “Or else you’re a better boy than I was at your age!”
He chuckled and slapped his horses with the reins. A mile ahead they saw the dip of the valley and a dark blot near the river. Schenectady.
The end gate stood at the edge of the slope, and the horses slid to a stop with their noses against the palings.
“Hey, Ike!” The stout keeper greeted Bennet with a knowing wink. “Two fips, you old bezabor.”
The Shaker tossed out two coins of six cents’ value.
“Wind up your gate, Ted. Wind it. Work the lard off your middle. My off horse smells a wedding.”
The keeper laughed and turned his crank with his red hands, and the gate slid silently up in its channels and they passed through.
“They know me out westward,” said Bennet.
He drove a half mile silently.
“You must think I’m a queer preacher. But I’m just Ike Bennet. I was born with the gift of exhortation, but the Lord never touched me.” There was a strange solemnity in his tone. “And I went west like any young man but I wasn’t a farmer. I had to keep moving. So I took to preaching, boy. I’m right good at any kind of preaching, Baptist, or Church of England, or Methody. But I always travel as a Shaker in these parts. It’s all right for a Shaker to have his pint. And they outfit me handsome back in Lebanon.”
He cocked his head to estimate the daylight.
“I’m an unrighteous man by all accounts; but I reckon I didn’t do no particular harm to anybody. And I can preach! Some day maybe you’ll hear me!”
“I’ve got nothing against you,” said Jerry.
“Being an unrighteous man,” said Bennet, “I know how to advise a human being.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Boy,” he said, “you’ve lost a farm this morning, but you’ve got something money don’t usually buy. If I was you, I’d just put that transaction right out of my head. Owning her’s the only bad thing I see for you. It wouldn’t hurt her, but it’s bad for a man.”
“It don’t seem right.”
“To hell with it,” said the preacher. “There’s Schenectady, the Dutchest damned town in this country, and the only place I was ever squeaked in a horse deal. No wonder the college boys riot them! I’m spending the night here. How about you?”
“We’ve had a good ride in your wagon. I think we’ll get across the bridge.”
“Tromping all night?”
“There’s an hour’s walking light.”
“Just about. Well, it won’t hurt you, you’re both stout. Where are you heading for?”
“I’ll stop where there’s work. Utica maybe.”
“Utica’s a good city. They’ll start the canal near there. I wouldn’t stop short of it. And now, I guess I’ll take you on to the bridge.”
The horses’ hoofs slapped on cobbles. The wagon box vibrated dizzily and the girl looked about her.
“Schenectady, missy,” said the preacher. “Over there’s the college buildings. I’m taking you to the bridge.”
He swung the horses down a straight, sloping street, carried them half a dozen blocks, and drew up the wagon to the footwalk. He jumped over the wheel and helped Jerry unload their bundles. Then he took off his hat, and held out his hand to the girl.
She took it and jumped to the ground, and he cocked his eye at Jerry.
“Missy, you owe me a kiss,” he said seriously.
“Do I?” she opened her eyes wide.
He chuckled.
“It’s a bet your man made with me, missy. An honest bet.”
She put on complete submissiveness and held up her mouth. He kissed her squarely, wheeled, shook Jerry by the hand, and jumped onto his wagon.
“You’re a lucky young man, Jerry, blast you!” He put on his hat and took up the reins.
“If you want to know what the bet was about, missy, ask Jerry. And ask him afore he forgets.”
The horses jerked against the collars, the wheels spun, and in the next instant Issachar Bennet had vanished round a dusky corner.
The girl turned to Jerry questioning
ly.
“I’ll tell you later. Let’s get across the bridge. Shelter’s cheaper out of town.”
Giving her no time to speak, he took up the bundles and started for the bridge.
3
“A grass piece against woods’
The quiet of early evening hushed the town behind them, and when Jerry turned on the ramp of the bridge to look back, darkness was creeping through the streets, blurring the doorways with their quaint high-backed benches on either side, leaving only the high gables that fronted the street visible against the sky. But as the darkness gained, the lights in the windows began to brighten, until, up and down the river, Jerry could trace the courses of the streets, like an illuminated map.
Somewhere beyond the outskirts of the city, wagon bells were chiming. And Jerry turned again and looked westward along the line of the river, that gleamed like a sheet of strange green metal. As far as he could see, the banks were dark; trees lifted out of the blackness in black silhouettes. The sky held a nebulous, shimmering piece of the twilight at the end of the river, and even as he watched it he saw it fading downward, as though the river were drinking it; and then the river began to grow dim; the blackness stole out upon the water from each shore; the light shrank until it was a thread, then a thread that was broken into little pieces; and the night swept over them like the wings of a bird, with a soundless stirring of air. Jerry saw the stars coming out, and the starlight tracing the outline of the girl’s face.
Only when he felt the chill of dew did he realize how long he had stood there. An indefinable feeling of loneliness stole upon him, a sense of separation from the world, as if the lighted windows and the bridge and the westward valley and even the girl, patient at his side, were as remote from his touch as the stars. He shook his head to clear his eyes of the image, and his hands, holding the bundles over his shoulder, changed their grip. His voice was thick as he said, “Come along.”
The bridge made an inky tunnel through the darkness, but at the head of the ramp a faint light shone on the plank way and edged the upright palings of the gate. On the left side the pedestrians’ wicket gave upon a footwalk. Jerry cleared his throat.
“Hey, there!”
He saw now that a small house had been grafted into the bridge timbers on the north side; and the light slanted through a window from a small, low-ceilinged room. Through the panes he had a glimpse of a low stove burning redly, and a man with a hairless head smoking a stone pipe. He did not move at Jerry’s hail; he might never have heard it; but a coil of smoke backfired from the broad bowl of the pipe.
Suddenly a door swung open, and Jerry was confronted by the hairiest man he had ever seen. His reddish beard was streaked unevenly with grey, but the light coming over his shoulders seemed to edge it with fire. He stooped a little to peer under his bushy eyebrows.
“Aye?”
“Two foot-passage,” said Jerry.
The man slowly reached behind him for a thornwood stick as gnarly as his broad hand.
“It’s late for foot passengers,” he remarked, bringing forward a lantern and a great brass key. His voice was sharply pitched, the words bitten short, as if it were an effort to him to get speech past his whiskers. He held the lantern up to Jerry’s face and then turned it slowly on the girl. It made bright spots in his own blue eyes.
“Where you bound?” he asked.
“West.”
“West? They’re all going west, boy.” He lifted his beard. “Uncle!”
A deep voice rumbled through the door.
“Yeanh? Vat iss?”
“Boy about twenty, dark, thin-faced, about two inches under six feet?”
“No.”
Jerry saw the pipe come out of the mouth of the bald-headed man for the word, and then pop back.
“A girl?” said the bearded man. “Hair reddish. About similarly tall. Similar age. Got grey eyes.”
“No.”
The bearded man extended a furry paw.
“Four cents, young mister.”
Jerry paid him the toll, and when he had pocketed the pennies the keeper opened the wicket.
“It’s all right, mister. We just look out for runaways. There’s been a lot lately, and sometimes we collect a re-ward. Uncle, he remembers them for me. You heading far tonight?”
“No,” said Jerry.
“Have you et?”
“Not yet.”
“You can eat with me and Uncle, if you like.”
“No, thanks.”
“What’s your name, mister?”
“Jerry Fowler. This is Mary Goodhill.”
The bearded man made a knuckle at his forehead.
“I ask,” he explained, “because I keep me a di’ry. I built this bridge. My name is David Hearsay. It’s the biggest bridge this side the ocean. You’ve heard that, no doubt?”
“Yes.” Jerry was anxious to be gone.
“I built it under Theodore Burr. Eight years ago, mister. And I seen it was a good job, and the best I would ever do, and I couldn’t keep away from it, so they let me take the toll job. Me and Uncle Stoeffel lives here now. And I like to keep a di’ry of who goes acrosst.”
“Yes.”
The bearded man peered out into the long reach.
“It’s quite a bridge, mister. Notice the beams. You’d better keep to the footwalk. A person sometimes get confounded when a wagon comes against him there. It’s the noise. Good night. Good luck.”
He stood a moment watching their figures dwindle beyond the scope of his lantern. Then he slowly reentered his house and closed the door.
As the light was shut off behind them, Jerry’s eyes began to pick out the wooden structure of the bridge. All of it was covered over, but here and there, through small windows in the sides, they saw the river running. The boards beneath their feet gave an impression of vast strength. Under a window starlight dimly etched the two-inch planks of Norway pine, bolted together into four-foot beams. There was a smell in the tunnel of all the things of travel, of horses, of wheat dust, of cattle droppings, of men and women, as if the bridge enclosed an atmosphere of its own and were a world in itself. The sound of their boots on the planks echoed hollowly under the roof, and overhead a restless whisper was aroused. They heard the twittering of small birds and a pungent, unearthly smell of bats was loosened, and suddenly they felt the stirring of naked wings; and black specks crossed the window, and little voices were uplifted.
Jerry felt the girl coming closer to him.
“It’s a long bridge, Mary,” he said, and found himself whispering.
She made no answer, but he felt her shoulder touching his, and indescribably it comforted him. He could not see her. There was just the touch. And then, as he passed a window, he smelled her hair. He became aware of his hands; he knew that night had fallen; the west seemed a far place, and their passage to it, as their passage of this bridge, a thing that might last forever. The words of the old Shaker occurred to him “You’ve got something money don’t usually buy.”
He said to himself that at the next window he would ask her; the window slid past them uncannily soon, and he marked a third for his question. He shifted his bundles so that he carried them both with one hand, and as they came to the window he reached out the other, and as if her hand knew its way in darkness it came against his. He couldn’t take it, but as it suddenly touched his again, he knew that the Shaker was right. He turned his head to her, to see her against the next window they passed; and at that moment they felt the cold night air in their faces.
Jerry looked up.
He saw the shape of the bridge roof against the stars. When he looked down he was just able to make out the beginning of the ramp.
“Stop,” he said.
She halted at his side.
“Mary… . What were you thinking all across the bridge?”
She drew in her breath.
“I was wondering what the old man’s bet was with you.”
Jerry said slowly:
�
��He bet you were looking at me.”
“And was I?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a funny thing to bet about.”
“What he meant was you’d marry me if I asked it.”
He set down the bundles gently. They felt the night air drawing across from the west. Far away, at what seemed an infinite depth below, they heard small frogs piping along the water’s edge.
“Will you, Mary?”
“You don’t have to ask me.”
“Forget the boat, Mary. Forget the papers. Here, where are they?”
“In my bundle.”
“Give them to me.”
He was aware of her bending down; he heard her hands fumbling; papers rustled crisply. He took them from her, held them between his hands, and tore them across. He tore them again and again until they were small bits, and then he scattered them over the river.
“Now, it’s your own country, Mary. You’re as free as I am. Did Mr. Bennet win his bet?”
She still said nothing.
“You don’t have to say yes. You can come with me and I’ll take care of you till you want to go somewhere else, only …”
“Only?”
In the silence once more the frogs’ piping gained clarity. The notes traveled in waves, rising and falling.
“If you want me to,” she said.
He tried to see her, but she was only a shadow in the bridge mouth. She made no move, and he wondered if she were waiting. As he stood be-fore her, the voices along the river rang in his head, and a strong rhythm crept into the song. But as he put out his hands, he heard a murmur in the great timbers. A dog barked far away, and in an instant a great beast was roaring at their very ears; hoofs thudded in the darkness, and a moment later ponderous feet trod against their faces. Wheels rumbled, reechoing. There was thunder all about them. He felt her hand thrusting for his and he took it.
“Come on, Mary. There’s a wagon train on the bridge.”
A cow lowed as they stepped into the night air hand in hand; and Jerry breathed deep. The farm was a thing he had dreamt about, something that had no connection with him. He went eagerly, for he held reality in his hand.
As they drew away from the bridge they heard the echoes thundering at the entrance, and now more clearly approaching them the actual sounds of the movers’ progress. They had gone but a hundred yards when the two sounds mingled, and, looking back, they saw the lantern that swung in the front bow of a lumber wagon shining down on the heads of a four-horse team, and on a stout woman in a yellow shawl and red petticoats who sat on the seat and held the reins in her hands.
