by Jody Hedlund
Once he finished the haying, the oats and wheat would be ready. The potatoes would soon need digging. And then the corn would finally be dry and ready for husking.
The alfalfa spread out before him, falling easily against the blade he’d sharpened with the grindstone last night. Tall and dotted with blue flowers, the alfalfa was alive with bumblebees and honeybees. While picturesque, the full bloom meant he was behind, that the hay was going more to fiber and losing its value for his livestock.
He shuffled and cut, shuffled and cut, leaving the clumps for Jakob to spread out with his pitchfork so that it could dry evenly in the sunshine. The hot spell would parch the alfalfa quickly, turning it from a vibrant green to a pale, dusty yellow. If the rain held off, he and Jakob might be able to finish by week’s end, including raking the cut-and-dried hay into windrows, loading it onto the wagon, and hauling it to the barn.
The high afternoon sun coaxed a sweet scent from the freshly cut hay as it baked under the bright rays. A few butterflies and grasshoppers still rose into the air, protesting the loss of their shady sanctuary, while most of the other wildlife had decided to hibernate during the hottest part of the day. Even the red-tailed hawk that had been circling overhead earlier was gone, having given up on the easy prey of mice and rabbits that shot out of the alfalfa whenever his scythe drew too close.
As he neared the end of the wide path he’d cut, Jakob met him and held out the pail. Reinhold let the scythe’s long handle slip from his aching fingers and fall to the ground. As he took the pail, his burning muscles caused his hands to tremble. He tipped the container and drank greedily, heedless of the water that sloshed over and dribbled down the front of his sweat-soaked shirt.
Jakob reached a hand out to steady the pail.
As small as the motion was, it unleashed a cyclone of helplessness inside Reinhold, helplessness at all he needed to get done during the harvest, helplessness at how much he still had to learn about farming, helplessness because he couldn’t accomplish it all, even with Jakob’s assistance. And now he was so tired he couldn’t manage to guzzle water without making a mess.
He jerked the pail away from Jakob’s touch. “I can drink by myself.”
Jakob took a rapid step back and cowered, which only made the storm inside Reinhold swirl faster. At fourteen, Jakob was old enough to remember their father, his unbridled anger, and the destruction he’d rained upon them. Their father’s outbursts had usually been unexpected and at the smallest provocation.
Had Reinhold become so much like their father that Jakob feared him?
Reinhold lowered the bucket and pressed his fingers against his trouser pocket, against the hard circular outline of his father’s watch. The broken timepiece was supposed to remind him to be different, but more often than not it taunted him with the similarities. “I’m sorry, Jakob.”
Jakob nodded but averted his gaze, peering behind him to the acres of hay that still needed to be mowed. Beneath the brim of the boy’s wide straw hat, his green eyes held the sorrow of someone who’d seen and experienced too much in his short life.
Though he and Jakob shared the same green eyes, that was where the similarities in their appearances ended. Where Jakob had inherited their mother’s brown hair and pale complexion, Reinhold took after their father with dark hair and swarthy skin. Jakob was as thin as a cornstalk and already promising to surpass Reinhold’s stocky height of only five-foot-eight.
Jakob also took after their mother with his sensitive spirit. He’d been quiet and melancholy since he’d arrived in the spring. He’d shared briefly about what had happened to Peter during the previous winter, how their youngest brother, a newsboy, had been attacked, robbed, and left for dead on a New York City street corner.
It had taken only that short conversation for Reinhold to realize Jakob was plagued with guilt over Peter’s death the same way he was. Reinhold had blamed himself since the moment he’d received the telegram about the boy’s death. He should have brought both of his brothers to Illinois last fall after he’d purchased his farm. Even though it had taken him all winter to construct a house and barn, he could have built a temporary shelter. In truth, he knew that Euphemia Duff would have opened her home to the two boys the same way she had to him after he’d left the Turners.
If anyone was to blame for Peter’s death, he was. Not Jakob. He’d told the boy as much, yet the shadows had remained in Jakob’s green eyes all spring and summer.
“Thank you for refilling the water,” Reinhold said before lifting the pail again and taking another long drink.
Jakob nodded and wiped his dirty shirtsleeve across his smudged face. The boy stank of sweat, having worn the same clothes all week. Reinhold had but one extra change of clothes too and knew he smelled as rotten as Jakob, if not worse. Both of them needed a good scrubbing, except that would mean having to take the time to haul and heat water, first for their baths, and second for laundry. And he simply didn’t have the time. Already he was working well past dusk by lantern light. By the time he left the field, he had a dozen other chores waiting for him.
While Jakob did his best to lend a hand wherever he could, the boy was as ignorant in the ways of the land as Reinhold had been when he’d first signed on as Mr. Turner’s farmhand. Thankfully, Mr. Turner had been a patient teacher, and Reinhold learned a great deal about running a farm during the year he’d worked there.
He’d believed he was ready for a place of his own. But he hadn’t fully comprehended the magnitude of all he still had to learn. He certainly hadn’t expected he’d struggle so much to get the work done. He realized now that was why Mr. Turner had hired two additional men to help him. The load was too much for one person.
The problem was, Reinhold couldn’t afford to hire someone to help him. He’d paid every last dollar of his savings toward the down payment on the land, the farm tools, and the lumber necessary to build a house and barn. Now he had nothing left—not until after he made a profit from the harvest. Even then he’d have to pay down the credit he owed at all the stores in town before he’d truly see a profit.
“Are you hungry?” Jakob lowered a grain sack from his shoulder.
Reinhold was famished. He’d learned to make a few things on the old cookstove he’d purchased secondhand from another farmer in exchange for several days of labor. Eggs, beans, or fish. He was also getting fresh vegetables from the garden he’d planted behind the house. Thankfully, they weren’t experiencing a shortage of food like they had in New York City during the depression and financial panic that had happened two years ago.
But when winter came, if he didn’t earn a profit on his crops, and if he didn’t learn how to preserve the garden produce, they’d go hungry.
Jakob opened the sack and began to pull out their lunch—hard-boiled eggs, slices of ham, radishes, carrots, and cucumbers.
“Thank you, Jakob,” Reinhold said as he stuffed a piece of ham into his mouth.
For a moment, they ate in silence. The constant zing-zing of cicadas on fence posts and the distant trees was a sound he’d come to appreciate as much as the trilling of the crickets at dusk. The crackling rustle of the hay in the breeze and the distant warble of a songbird only made the silence more beautiful, and Reinhold allowed himself the rare pleasure of studying his land.
His land.
Every time he reminded himself that the land was his, he was able to push aside his discouragement—even if just for a little while.
He was a poor German immigrant, a construction worker, a nobody. Yet here he was with a place of his own. He had more here in central Illinois than he’d ever dreamed possible.
The waves of green and gold of the ripening fields spread out on all sides, all one hundred twenty acres he’d purchased from the Illinois Central Railroad. Though he’d wanted to plow every inch possible and had grand plans for everything he’d grow, the plowing had taken longer and was harder than he’d anticipated. He managed to ready only one hundred acres, even with the neighbors helpin
g him when they could.
Some of his property was no good for farming, particularly the rocky sections along the creek. Not only was his farm one of the farthest in Mayfield from the railroad, but he also didn’t have a decent road that ran past his land. He’d have a harder time getting his harvest to market. But the drawbacks of the land had worked to his advantage, namely that the property had still been available when most of the farmland in the area had already been sold off.
He stared past the alfalfa to the cornfield. With their silky tassels, the stalks towered a foot or more above him. He’d already tested the ears and discovered they were ripe. However, he’d learned last year on the Turner farm that he had to wait to harvest and husk the corn until it was completely dry.
Beyond the cornfield on the west, the land sloped gently toward the creek where the only trees on his land stood—oaks, maples, and willows. Jakob had discovered wild blackberries growing in the brush in the valley earlier in the summer. And he’d provided a steady supply of bluegill and trout he fished out of the creek.
On the other side of the alfalfa field, on the eastern edge of his property, he’d built a simple two-story clapboard house with a living space and kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms on the second. He and Jakob had painted the house white to weatherize the boards. But beyond the simple coating, the house was plain and mostly unfurnished, containing a few odds and ends of furniture given to him by neighbors.
He’d built the barn far enough away from the house that hopefully the livestock odors wouldn’t waft into their living quarters. Of course, he didn’t have to worry about too much stench yet since he only had one horse, one milking cow, a pig, and a few chickens, all of which he’d purchased from the Duffs on credit.
Eventually he planned to add another horse, as well as sheep. And he planned to bring his sisters west too. Thankfully, Marianne and Elise Neumann—or he should say, Marianne Brady and Elise Quincy—were caring for the girls in New York City and had been since his Tante Brunhilde had remarried last October.
After reading the telegrams and letters from Marianne and Elise, Reinhold knew they hadn’t been able to locate their little sister Sophie, who’d run away two years ago. Because of the disappearance of their sister, they were all the more eager to help him with his. Both Marianne and Elise had married men from wealthy families and could provide his sisters with everything they needed and then some.
Although he was imposing on his two childhood friends by leaving Silke and Verina with them all these months, dread chopped like a hoe at his innards every time he considered bringing his sisters to the farm.
The truth was as stark as the horizon. He wasn’t fit to raise them.
Besides, his home wasn’t ready. He didn’t have enough beds or blankets or other comforts. It didn’t matter that the two had spent most of their lives sleeping on hard floors in crowded tenements without any hint of luxury, never knowing when they’d eat their next meal. They deserved more now, and he aimed to have more by the time he sent for them.
At nine and seven years of age, they weren’t entirely helpless anymore and wouldn’t need constant supervision. But they needed more—much more—than he could ever give.
Whatever the case, his first priority was harvesting his crops and taking them to market. Then he had to pay off his debts. If he had any money left, he could start adding more to his farm and then think about what to do regarding Silke and Verina.
Reinhold washed his meal down with the rest of the water from the tin pail. When he was done he was still hungry, but at least he would have more energy for the long afternoon ahead.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He handed the pail back to Jakob.
Jakob nodded but stared at the ground and kicked at a clod of dirt. Though he never complained, Reinhold could tell his brother was discontent. After six months of living and working on the farm, he’d expected Jakob to adjust, to like the farm, to find a measure of fulfillment here. Sure, life wasn’t easy. But living in the country with fresh air to breathe and space all around was still better than eking out an existence in the crowded city slums. Wasn’t it?
Why, then, wasn’t Jakob experiencing the same satisfaction when completing a job or the same appreciation for the beauty of the land?
Reinhold stifled a sigh and reached for the scythe. “Time to get back to work.” As he straightened, a distant curl of smoke caught his attention. Against the clear blue of the cloudless sky, the dark gray line was distinct and made his pulse spurt with anxiety.
He couldn’t be sure if the smoke was coming from his property or if the fire was on the Turners’ land. But under the dry conditions of late summer, any fire in the area could quickly spread and take with it whole fields of crops. In fact, one gust of wind could fan a few sparks into an inferno, destroying everything he’d worked so hard to cultivate.
With a jolt, he started toward the smoke, heedless of trampling the alfalfa. “Looks like there’s a fire!” he called over his shoulder to Jakob. “We need to put it out now before it spreads.”
Reinhold ran hard, not bothering to stop and retrieve his hat when it fell off. Jakob’s footsteps pounded behind him, urging him faster. When they rounded the field, Reinhold stumbled to a halt at the sight that met him.
His post-and-rail fence was on fire.
A new sense of desperation cinched his middle, drawing it tight. He’d bought the rail posts on credit, hauled them out to the farm, and spent hours constructing the fence to keep Mr. Turners’ cows and sheep out of his alfalfa. He couldn’t afford the loss.
“Take off your shirt!” he called to Jakob even as his fingers worked at his own buttons. Three posts and the connecting rails were in flames. Tongues of fire lapped at the boards on either side, and sparks had landed in the grass underneath.
How had the fire started? He scanned the area, searching for signs of what might have happened. Some farmers liked to set fires in the spring to burn off the previous year’s growth. Mr. Turner had burned grass and leaves earlier in the year farther up on his land, and the pungent scent had spread everywhere.
Reinhold’s sights snagged on the butt end of a cigar near the burning post. It was possible Higgins had been careless. That would have been just like the Turners’ hired hand to smoke away from the house so he wouldn’t get in trouble with Mrs. Turner. And it would be just like Higgins not to care how his actions affected anyone else.
Reinhold kicked at the nearest post and then cursed, giving vent to his anger . . . and his remorse. Every time he thought of how he’d almost killed Higgins last year, the memory only fueled his self-loathing.
He stomped on the small flames in the grass and ground them out, all the while yanking at buttons. When he finally had his shirt off, he took the opposite end of the fence from where Jakob was and began beating at the fire with the garment, trying to put out the flames—or at the very least keep them from spreading.
Jakob swatted the flames too. But after several minutes of fighting the fire, Reinhold realized the boards were too dry and the flames as greedy as a hungry street urchin.
“Keep the grass from catching fire!” Reinhold shouted as he lowered his now-blackened shirt and began to tramp out the sparks in the grass again.
A faint call from the direction of the house drew Reinhold’s attention. Barclay Duff and two of his boys were running their way.
Relief swept through Reinhold, and he lifted his hand to acknowledge them before he turned back to the fence with renewed zeal and hope. Maybe he could save the structure after all.
The two Duff boys arrived well ahead of Barclay, who was a hefty man, not just from the muscles he’d developed from all his farm work, but mostly because his wife kept him happy with a steady supply of pies, cakes, and cookies—a steady supply she’d made available to Reinhold when he’d lived there last winter. Euphemia’s good cooking was just one thing among many Reinhold missed about his time with the Scottish family.
Fergus and Alast
air, at twelve and fourteen, were the youngest of the five Duff boys. Stocky and muscular, they were hard workers just like their father. They took their shirts off and started pummeling the fire next to Reinhold. By the time Barclay joined them, his face was red and his breath wheezed from the exertion.
Even though the fire was mostly under control, Barclay stripped off his shirt anyway and helped until they’d extinguished every spark.
“Me and the boys were almost here when we saw the smoke,” Barclay said as he swiped at the sweat coursing down his temple and cheeks. It ran through the smoke and ash and pooled at his thick mustache. “Pushed my team so fast the last half mile, I thought they might sprout wings and fly.”
“I’m grateful you got here when you did.” Reinhold wiped at his own perspiration and took stock of his rail fence. Three sections were blackened and crumbling, but the boards on either side of the burnt area were singed and nothing more. “Would have lost the entire fence if you hadn’t shown up. Might have even spread to my alfalfa.”
“I was more surprised than a catfish bitin’ bait when I saw the smoke. Thought to myself what Dunderheid would think of burning grass on a dry day like today.”
“Not me. I’m no Dunderheid.” Reinhold toed the cigar stub in the charred grass. “If I had to take a guess, I’d say Higgins was out here smoking and avoiding Mrs. Turner’s wrath.”
Barclay made a disapproving sound at the back of his throat. “That skinny longlegs is a crabbit.”
During Reinhold’s months living with the Duffs, he’d grown accustomed to Barclay’s strange Scottish sayings. And while he didn’t understand everything that came out of Barclay’s mouth, he’d learned well enough that the burly farmer was a fair man with a kind heart. Even though Reinhold hadn’t deserved the ally, Barclay had become one anyway.
