by Win Blevins
Hannibal’s fire and lean-to were between the half-fallen-down cabin and the little dock. Staked near the fire was one of the handsomest horses Sam had ever seen, a glossy-coated sorrel, beautifully conformed, and looking like he was built to run.
Hannibal pulled the stake, moved it away from the fire, and put a feed bag on the horse. “Funny animal,” he said. “He likes to look at fires.”
Sam looked around. He knew this place well. Once it belonged to a Delaware Indian family, but they’d moved on before Sam was born. Owen had bought the forty acres to have a good place to build a dock, so he could float sacks of grain down to Pittsburgh. Having an interloper, even a temporary one, made Sam uncomfortable.
“This is our land,” he said.
Hannibal put kindling on the fire and sat on a log before he replied. “Seems like every inch around here is owned by somebody now. Wasn’t that way when I grew up. People built this cabin were my aunt and uncle, the Walkers.”
“Walkers? That’s a white name.”
“Like MacKye,” Hannibal said, and chuckled. He dipped a tin cup into the pot over the fire, drew up whatever mix was in there, and dumped it onto a tin plate. “The Walkers were full-blood Delawares, good people. Somebody gave them the name Walker as a joke, because of the Walking Purchase.” He handed Sam the plate and a spoon.
Sam welcomed the diversion. “What’s the Walking Purchase?”
Hannibal chuckled, and now Sam could see his teeth and eyes flash in the firelight. “Now that’s a good story. When William Penn came into this country, the Leni-Lenape, the Indians you call Delawares, were a big tribe. We hadn’t done the big fight with the Iroquois yet. Damned Iroquois whipped us so bad, they told the Leni-Lenape we couldn’t speak of ourselves as a tribe anymore, or call ourselves men.”
Sam was eating hard at the stew. The coals had done well—it was still warm.
“Anyway, we Delawares were real friendly to William Penn. Way later, his son Thomas came up with the Walking Purchase. Claimed he’d found an old treaty said the Delawares gave William Penn a big piece of land, from the fork of the Delaware and Lehigh rivers as far as a man could walk in a day and a half. That meant as far as a good man would normally walk, maybe thirty, forty miles. But Thomas came up with a trick. He hired three fast walkers to go as far as they could, took the distance of the farthest one, and claimed all that land for himself. It was about twice as much land as the treaty meant, if there ever was any treaty. We Delawares got so mad about it, we left that part of the country and came to the Ohio River, here and on west. Raided hell out of the Pennsylvania frontier for a long time, on account of that.”
Sam said, “So this was Delaware land once.”
“People think land belongs to them. Some live on it a while, then they leave or get pushed off and others live on it. Sometimes the others are critters, not even men. Process goes on forever. The land ignores the ones who say they’re owners, keeps on making grasses and trees and birds.”
They sat in silence, eating. Sam wanted more stew, but he didn’t want to eat what might be Hannibal’s breakfast. Suddenly he thought, got out his birthday taffy, and handed Hannibal half.
“Ummm, dessert,” Hannibal said with a smile.
“How come you dress like a white man?” He looked at his companion’s outfit—pants with the crotch cut out, a breechcloth, a fine-looking cotton shirt with a pleated front, bearskin coat with the fur on, a derby hat, and moccasins—a bewildering combination.
“Since my father’s white, my mother’s Delaware, I dress however I want.” Hannibal spooned more stew onto Sam’s plate. “You want to tell me what happened up at the house?”
Sam felt his throat tighten up, so choked he couldn’t eat, maybe couldn’t even talk.
“Katherine got betrothed to Owen.”
“The girl you were loving down here yesterday and your brother.”
The two men ate in silence, then stared into the fire.
“You know they were sweet on each other?”
Sam shot the words out hard. “It was me and her, I thought it was us, we always looked at each other like … something special, and we …” The silence felt like a big lump. Then, slowly, like a question, “We did love each other down here yesterday.”
“First time you did that?”
“Mmmm.” Hannibal knew that meant yes.
“You didn’t notice them making eyes at each other the same way?”
“She never!”
“You two make any promises yesterday?”
“Everything was plain enough.”
“Maybe not. She say anything to you today, explain?”
“She came to my room. When they gave me the news of the … betrothal, I pretended to trip and went to bed. Later Katherine slipped into my room. What she said was, ‘Yesterday I told you, That’s all. You were my first. But I meant it. I have nothing more to give. There’s nothing else to say.’”
They both pondered the words, like turning a coin over and over in your hand to feel if it’s real silver.
“Sounds like she was saying, ‘That’s once and for all.’”
“Guess so.”
They pondered that.
“I don’t get it,” said Sam in a hurt tone.
“Me neither.”
They sat.
“Any ideas?” asked Hannibal.
“Too mad for ideas.”
They sat.
“You want to hear any ideas?”
Silence. Finally Sam muttered, “I guess.”
“O tiger’s heart in a woman’s hide.”
“That the Bible?”
“Shakespeare. It means a woman can be fierce about getting what she wants.”
“Does it apply?”
“Maybe. Suppose Katherine was attracted to you, or you and Owen both. Suppose, for whatever reason, she thought Owen was better husband material.”
“That’s stupid.”
“He’s older, has a good living. Her parents would point such things out to her. You’re handsome, but you have a footloose way about you.”
“Hmmph.”
“An unmarried woman might consider herself at liberty until she’s betrothed. But not after.”
Sam appeared to be considering that. Hannibal thought it appealed to him.
“Then she played swift and loose with me.”
“Maybe she did.”
“You believe that, what you said?”
“Might be true. Might not.”
They gazed into the fire.
“Any other ideas?”
“One.”
“Let’s hear it.” Sam sniffed, and kept his head down toward the fire, so Hannibal wouldn’t see the quick tears.
“Did you declare yourself?”
“No.”
“Tell her you wanted her?”
“No.”
“Mmmm. Let’s say she felt a spark for you. But she’d made up her mind for Owen. If I guess your ways right, maybe it was because he spoke up and you didn’t. Maybe because he was the more sensible choice. He won her head, you had her heart.”
Hannibal let that sit. “She thought she had to tell you about the betrothal. Even though you hadn’t spoken to her, she knew from your eyes how you felt, and she felt the same way. So she sought you out, privately, to tell you there in the woods yesterday. Maybe she got mixed up. Maybe she hadn’t made up her mind all the way. Maybe she was beginning to feel trapped—just one man for her whole life and all that. She was afraid she was making the wrong choice. And you still didn’t speak up. Maybe all those things put together.”
He waited, pondered. “Anyway, when she found you yesterday, she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Instead she gave in to an impulse—she kissed you. Did she start the kissing?”
“Yes.”
“Her heart got wild in her. She wanted one adventure in her life, and you were it.”
“Her adventure, but not her life.”
“Yeah.”
Sam looked up fro
m the fire into Hannibal’s eyes, and saw that his brown face was wet with tears.
“How come you’re …?”
“Nothing like watching people.” Openly, without embarrassment, Hannibal wiped his face with his bare palms. “What do you think about that guesstulation?”
“Sounds good.”
“But it’s all guessing. Here’s what’s real. She’s made up her mind and she’ll stick to it.”
Sam choked back a big, ugly, throat-blocking sob.
“You know that, Sam. You can drive that stake in the ground and measure from it.”
Sam hid his face in his hands.
Hannibal watched the fire.
“Tell me, what do you want?”
“Katherine.”
Hannibal waited. Then, “Set that down. What do you want that you might have?”
“Katherine. And … I want out of here.”
“Because you’re embarrassed in front of your brother?”
“No, I been thinking on it a long time. This country’s changing. My pa, he took me into the woods to teach me the ways, help me see how things work. All this land, its shapes, its waters, its critters … I liked that.
“Know what? Not so much of it left. More people moving in, chopping down the forest to make fields, using the word ‘wilderness’ for what feels like home to me. Pittsburgh is cutting the hills away for coal mines. A man even built a blast furnace there. When the Erie Canal is finished, settlers will flock in and make a civilization, they call it. Not my kind of world. More machines and more people and especially more people who work the machines, and are even turning themselves into machines.”
Sam stopped, surprised at himself. He’d never said so many words in a row all his life.
“You know what you want, then?”
“Go west. I was planning to take Katherine west. Go down the river and look around…. I don’t know what all. I want to go. Look.”
Hannibal listened to the meaning behind the words. “Yes, you do. That seems not so wild a dream.” Then he judged carefully and took the risk. “When are you going?”
“Real soon.”
Hannibal let that sit with Sam, and then let it sit some more.
“Why don’t I just go now?” Sam blurted out.
“Why not?”
Sam snorted. “Why not?” He lifted his head and looked at the infinite stars. “No reason why not.”
Hannibal listened to the words and the heart behind them.
“I want to go. Now. Tonight, to the Ohio and head west.”
Hannibal followed Sam’s gaze into the stars. So many more stars when the moon is new.
“Oh, hell, I’m not ready.”
“What do you need?”
“I don’t need one damn thing!”
They searched the stars for a sign, a voice, an answer.
“I’m wearing what clothes I need. Got Pa’s rifle, and my shot pouch.” He went glum. “Got nothing to eat, got no money.”
“How will you get to Pittsburgh?”
Sam’s voice began to sound excited now. “I could take the small flatboat. I can float at night, I know the river. Boat belongs to the family, though.”
“What the family owns, is it part yours?”
“Half mine, I guess.”
“If you go away and leave Owen the mill, the house, the whole place, is that worth more than the boat?”
“Hundred times more.”
“Then can’t you honestly take the boat?”
“And sell it in Pittsburgh. Are there flats and keels heading downriver now?”
“Always are. And always a way when you aim for what you want.”
“By God. By God.” Sam searched Hannibal’s face. “Am I crazy to do this? Do it right now? Tonight?”
“Everything worth while is crazy, and everyone on the planet who’s not following his wild-hair, middle-of-the-night notions should lay down his burden, right now, in the middle of the row he’s hoeing, and follow the direction his wild hair points.”
But Hannibal saw he’d lost Sam’s attention. The young man was thinking of … Pittsburgh? The river? Boats? St. Louis? New Orleans? Katherine?
Hannibal stood up. “I’m going to bed now. Up early to get that bear.” He padded to the lean-to. “Here’s some dried meat for when you get hungry.” Hannibal handed Sam an oilcloth wrapped around brittle sticks of meat.
He stepped to the good-looking horse, took the feedbag off, and stroked its muzzle.
“It’s a clear night,” Hannibal went on. “You won’t get rained on. Here’s an extra blanket.” He tossed it to Sam. “Use it while you sit by the fire and think. Or sleep in it tonight and go home in the morning.
“If that’s not your true home, set out to find it. If you go, tell people on the river you know me, especially in St. Louis. Take the blanket with you. That and the meat are my gifts for your adventure.”
He squatted and lit his small lantern. He rolled into the lean-to, wrapped himself in his thick, wool blankets, and fished his book out of his carry bag. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the young man sit gazing into the fire. He wondered what Sam Morgan saw in those prophetic tongues of flame. Then he opened Don Juan and tried to concentrate on it. He liked the rhymes of this Lord Byron.
Sam sat. He stared. He thought about it. Then he stopped thinking, and only sat and stared. Before long he knew.
He rose and stretched limbs stiff from sitting too long, and from the cold. He jumped up and down lightly on the balls of his feet. He gathered the blanket, dried meat, and rifle and strode down to the dock.
The blackness was almost perfect, but Sam knew the boat. He brought it flat against the dock, wrapped the Celt in the blanket, tied thongs around the oilcloth, and stowed them both behind the middle seat. He looked back at the forest where he grew up, then shook his head. His mind was already on forests of the future.
On the bank, from behind the horse, Hannibal MacKye stood watching.
Sam took the big step into the bottom of the boat, and flinched at the thump of his own foot. He walked to the bow and untied the painter, a knot he’d tied himself dozens of times. He took his seat in the middle and unshipped the oars.
Then he noticed. Before he’d taken a stroke, the current gently pulled him away from the dock, the haven his family owned. It drew him away from the bank, the place he’d lived all his life. Without any effort on his part. When he’d got ready, something pulled him.
He took several strokes toward the current, the river’s muscle.
On the bank Hannibal MacKye listened to the rhythmic creak of Sam’s oars, once, twice, three times, forever. His lips murmured a language he did not speak often enough anymore, his mother’s language, a prayer for the well-being of a young man off on the adventure.
Chapter Four
It all flooded in on Sam, hard. The sour smell of ale, beer, and whiskey. Of sodden sawdust. Of a hundred dirty, sweating bodies, white, red, and black. Of clothes seamed with perspiration from laboring backs and arms and legs for weeks, unwashed. Of sooty oil burning in the lanterns hung high overhead. Of smoke from leaky stove pipes. Of stew bottom-burned on the stove. The brew of smells was almost stomach-turning.
The sound was a low rumble, like standing next to a shoal. The ingredients were the sounds of normal conversation, the tinkle of coins, the cry of toasts and mugs clanking against each other, the soft snick of cards dealt from a rough hand, the anger of arguments, the bray of boasts, threats, and rancor.
It was a topsy-turvy sight. A seething jam of men lifting their mugs and glasses, staggering, gesticulating, throwing darts at a circle on a board, gambling at cards, bumping, crowding, and clapping backs. Bed rolls thrown against the walls, many men’s beds for the night. Doors to rooms where the better-off slept, always two to a bed, often strangers.
A rank air of roughness about the drinkers, men who would be found at night in any waterfront dive, added a sense of hazard. Something about that Sam liked.
It wa
s his first time in a tavern. To make the adventure more delicious, it was a waterfront tavern, the roughest sort.
Two dollars and twenty-five cents nestled in his hunting pouch—most of a week’s wage for those foolishly willing to hire themselves out. He was following his wild hair, as Hannibal said. Tonight he meant to find out what ale tasted like. Or beer. Or whiskey. Or all three. Everything stretched out in front of him, all of life, to be slurped up.
He went toward several planks that were slapped across barrels to make a crude counter. Behind the planks and in front of the casks was a man wearing an apron and exchanging drink or food for coin. He was doing a lot more business in drink, from the look of it. Sam traded a half dime for his first mug of ale.
He turned to find a round, cherubic gray-haired man smiling up at him from a seat at a barrel serving as a table. The round fellow and his hulking companion sat on kegs. “Come,” said the aging cherub, “join us.”
Sam said to himself, ‘Why not?’ and did.
“Grumble is my name,” said the round man, sticking out a cordial hand. “This here’s Hiram, another new friend.”
Sam propped The Celt between his legs to free his right hand and shook with both of them, mumbling his name. Then he tried his first sip of ale. Thick, yeasty, nutty—not half bad.
“Are you from here?” asked Grumble with an amiable smile.
“Near,” said Sam, “but I’m on my way … somewhere else.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever the river takes me.” Sam was feeling his freedom.
“Young or old, a man should have some adventure,” allowed Grumble. “I’m headed down the river myself.”
Sam saw now that the cherub wasn’t a small man at all, in fact was substantial, but his size was round-about instead of up and down. Grumble’s hands drew Sam’s attention. They were small, delicate-looking, and wonderfully clean, with clipped and polished nails. Grumble had a bald head with a monkish fringe of hair and a grandfatherly smile. Sam put him at about fifty.
Hiram, on the other hand, was a monster, well over six feet, bear-built, and hairy as a bear too.
