3stalwarts (122 page)

“I was going out to the Purchase to buy me some land.”

She said, “Purchase?”

“It’s a westward territory in this state. Then I saw you. If it hadn’t been for Bennet, I’d have gone on. Now I can’t buy. They wouldn’t sell me twenty acres-they sell no lots under forty. I’ll have to work a spell. You see I can’t keep you.”

It was now the girl who looked away; so that he could examine her undisturbed by her grey eyes. She had a strong chin and the line of her throat was youthfully clear. Nineteen. The wind was feathering the hair at the curve of her cheeks, making a spray like spun copper.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“No blame to you. I wanted to. I don’t know why.”

“I’m grateful.”

He leaned his wrists upon his knees and stared between his feet.

She said in her low voice, “Perhaps you can find someone to buy my papers.”

He was silent. Then he said, arrogantly, “I didn’t buy them for that.”

She still averted her eyes.

“You oughtn’t to lose your money. I’m sorry. But if you’ll let me go along with you, I’ll find work where you work until I’ve paid off the papers. And I’ll work for you.”

“But I can’t pay for coach fare.”

“I can walk.” She met his eyes at last. Her cheeks were pink. “The captain said I was strong.”

“It wouldn’t be right for you to go along with me.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

He tried to stare her down; but she met his eyes quietly, until he turned his head. Then her lids fluttered and suddenly drooped, and she colored deeply.

“I don’t mind. It’s legal, isn’t it?”

He seemed to be putting himself a question that he could find no answer for. And all the time he was aware of the wind and the sun. A great bird as white as glass was flying up the river, a gull searching the banks. And while he tried to think, the city came to life. A trickle of men, of all sorts, men who looked like tradesmen, like farmers in their unaccustomed tweed suits, gentlemen with high hats, began to filter through the park towards the Capitol. In twos and threes they mounted the broad steps and disappeared into the great doors behind the marble pillars. The Senate was going back into session on the Canal Bill.

“I couldn’t hardly expect work here,” Jerry said. “It might be better out westward.” He thought of the conversation he had overheard in the coffeehouse. If the bill passed there would be work for him, maybe, on this canal.

“Have you any money?” he asked the girl.

She shook her head.

“I used up what we had— it was only a little. My mother had to have medicine. It cost a lot on the sea.”

“Then we’ll have to save mine as much as we can. We ought to sleep out if we can’t get free lodging.”

“I don’t mind.”

He saw the shadows of clouds sweeping down the Berkshires, and he felt the lift of the wind against his eyes.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll go by the Mohawk route. The country’s better settled.”

Her answer was to stoop for her bundles.

“I’ll carry them,” he said. “You take mine and the jug. We can eat what’s left for supper.”

They faced each other. His face was red and set; hers quiet, but her eyes were bright and the color remained in her cheeks.

“Come on, Mary.”

He turned for the northern gate of the park.

‘You’ve got something money dont usually buy 9

When at last Jerry stopped beside the road, Albany lay seven miles be-hind them.

“Let’s sit down for a while.”

He had been following the teamsters’ footpath off the shoulder of the pike, but inside the row of Lombardy poplars. The slender, pointed trees bent to the wind, swaying like dancers from their hips, while the dry upper branches rattled sharp as castanets. As far as they could see the road ran straight and flat through the barren land. They had been walking for three hours; but not once had they seen a thriving farm. The apple orchards had a shrunk, parched look; the endless forests of pine were stunted. Jerry had heard of the Schenectady upland, and now that he was passing through it he felt a fine contempt for the soil and the man who was fool enough to settle there.

“How are you feeling?” he asked the girl.

She had kept up with him well, but when she stopped, the vigor went out of her and her back drooped a little. But she smiled at him.

“I’m feeling all right. I’ve lost the use of walking since being on the sea.”

“You’re doing fine.”

He sat down beside her with his back to the same tree. Her hands were folded in the lap of her brown skirt, and she leaned back with perfect relaxation. She had loosened the shawl, and inside the square yoke of her dress he saw her breast rising and falling evenly.

The white sandy dust that carpeted the pike lifted from time to time in eddies of wind. When a wagon passed, it was thrown back in a great cloud that the wind spread upon the grass, dulling the new green. There were few farms, and fewer taverns. Now and then, at the doors of the latter, idlers had watched them past; and Jerry had felt them speculating behind his back, and wondered if they could guess.

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.