3stalwarts (125 page)

“Me, I’m George Halleck. This is my brother, Joe.”

Jerry shook hands.

The wagon lanterns passed over them and the dust rose in their faces. The dogs were barking again. Joe Halleck lifted a whip made of a five-foot birch wand with a leather thong bound to the end.

“Go on. Git, you.” He cracked over the backs of the sheep, starting a flurry of hoofs. The nearest dog yapped excitedly, and threw himself at the rear end of a lagging ewe.

“The beasts are getting fractious. We’ve come from beyond of Lansingburg to-day.”

“That’s a long pull with driven cattle.”

The cows passed slowly, turning their faces right and left. The lead cow wore a bell which clinked dully, as though it were half choked. Two more men, their dust-laden cheeks streaked with sweat, followed the cows. George Halleck named them to Jerry.

“Abel Marcy and Abijah Judson.”

The men merely grunted. Abel Marcy rubbed his reddened eyes. Their tempers were on edge with their long walk and the task of keeping the cattle to one side of the road. As soon as they had passed, the dust cloud covered them; but their hoarse voices broke out from time to time, and Joe Halleck’s long whip, still farther ahead, snapped waspishly.

George Halleck and Jerry fell in behind to watch for stragglers. George’s long body sagged as he walked.

“I never argued for wet travel before this,” he said, “but now I’m minded for a week’s rain. My skin’s parched.”

Once in a while he tilted his head to look back at the rider.

“He gets to mooning,” he explained to Jerry. “He’s likely to ride clean off’n the road if his hinny takes the notion. It wouldn’t differ to me only he’s carrying a lantern of Ma’s.”

“Who is he?”

“Damned if I know. We picked him up in Lansingburg this morning about sunrise. He thought he was traveling west. He was reading a book. And he never knowed he was heading straight for Canady. Ma talked to him, and now we’ve got him along. Hello! Ma’s stopped again. Maybe she’s spied water.”

He lengthened his stride. As they came up with the restless cattle once more, they heard the stout woman shouting for George. Over the settling dust they made out her red face peering round the side of the hood.

“Yes, Ma. I’m coming.”

“George. There’s a creek here.”

The cows lowed behind them as they scented the water. Jerry heard a rushing brook. A bit ahead the road crossed a low bridge.

“George, just you step over that fence. Look if there’s camping ground. Here, take a light with you.”

As she reached over her head for the lantern, Jerry looked up at Mary. She met his eyes for an instant, and then looked away. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“I’ll come with you,” he told George, his voice strong.

“The ditch is easy here,” said George, crossing it in a stride of his long legs. The snake fence zigzagged in front of them. They swung over. “Looks like pasture ground. No, it ain’t. It’s just a grass piece against woods. It would do fine, don’t you think so?”

“There’s plenty of room,” Jerry said.

George lifted his light.

“No bogland,” he said. “The bank’s dry to the crick.” He lifted his voice. “All right, Ma. We’ll take down a part of the fence.”

It took the two of them only a minute to remove one angle of the fence, and at Jerry’s suggestion they laid the rails in the bottom of the ditch to take the yank off the wagon reaches as the wheels came down. He held up the lantern beside the gap.

The fat woman spoke to her team. As they took up the roll, she swung them expertly.

“Jim! Hup! Hup, you Prince!”

The collars bucked up from their withers, slapped down as the traces snapped the weight, and they scrambled up the farther side. The lantern in Jerry’s hand found cups of light in their thrusting quarters. The top of the wagon swayed, lurched down and up; and the stout woman wheeled the team round to face the gap.

One by one the other wagons crossed, the women driving them handily. Then Joe Halleck came running forward to guard the road against break-aways. His whiplash writhed and snapped in the dust, and he kept yelling, “Hey, hey, hey!” The two men behind the critters began to shout; the dogs made a bedlam of barking; and the sheep poured through among the wagons. The cows followed. The old lead cow paused on the edge of the ditch, as if she fingered it with her front hoofs; then she crossed clumsily with her udder bumping between her legs. As soon as they were all through, the stout woman drove her wagon across the gap, closing it.

“Don’t appear there’s no farm near,” she said. “We won’t make trouble, anyways.”

She swung over the wheel with surprising agility, striking the ground lightly, almost bouncing.

Jerry waited at the crossing for the pole-bearer to come up. He carried the pole like a cross, his eyes lifted to the stars. As he rode, his lips moved silently in time to the twitch of the hinny’s ears.

“Hey?” cried Jerry. “We’re spending night here, mister.”

The man’s lips ceased their silent speech, his eyes were lowered and vaguely sought out Jerry in the earthly night.

“Eh? Stopping here, you say? It’s late, isn’t it?”

His voice was pleasantly modulated. He turned his face to the wagons, drawn up now in a line behind the stout woman’s. Under the lantern he bore, Jerry had a good look at his face. A fine straight nose, a forehead impractically high, and that gentle mouth.

He did not touch the reins, but the little mule scented rest and water and pasturage. She began twirling her right ear. Briskly she went down into the ditch, crossed the fence rails on nimble feet, and edged round the stout woman’s wagon-pole. Jerry followed, swung the pole to close the entrance tightly, and set his lantern on the eveners. The camp gathering was complete.

The movers followed a system that established their camp swiftly. The four men had unhitched the teams, and now were giving them a brisk rub-down. The women divided their labors. One went to the creek with the dogs to keep an eye on the sheep. Another was filling the feed troughs with grain for the horses. A third had got out a brass pail and milking stool and disappeared among the cows. And the fat woman herself was properly engaged in building a fire and managing supper. She had a lantern on the ground, a little way from her wagon, a faggot of dry sticks beside it. Jerry saw Mary crouched down watching her.

“I always gather me a faggot in the morning,” explained the fat woman; “then I’m ready for supper.”

She began laying the sticks of the faggot in a small open pile. Then she opened her lantern, dipped another stick in the oil, and touched it to the flame. It made her a small torch, which she placed carefully under the pile and shielded from the breeze with her broad hands. The flame began to climb.

“Where’s that boy of yourn, dearie?”

He stood still in the shadow watching Mary’s eyes roam the camp ground. The flicker of the growing fire animated her face and put coppery lights in her hair. Her eyes passed his, lingered a moment, and returned. They were secret with a strange bashfulness.

“Here I am, ma’am,” Jerry said, stepping towards them.

The stout woman turned on her heels. She blew out her round cheeks and grinned.

“My name’s Betsey Halleck, boy. Everybody here calls me Ma.”

He grinned at her.

“All right, Ma Halleck.”

“All right, Jerry. If you want to make yourself useful, get an axe out of my box and get me some good wood. I’m partial to birch, but most anything will suit me, seeing it’s dry.”

She turned back to Mary.

“There’s a stew pot and kettle along with the axe, dearie. Would you fill them for me by the crick?”

Mary rose without a word and followed Jerry to the wagon. They leaned in over the tailboard side by side. Their hands encountered each other in the darkness and stole away.

Suddenly Ma Halleck chuckled behind them and, as she lifted the lantern, surprised their hands with light.

“You’d do easier with a light,” she said, and saw them off on their tasks. She herself fished out a firkin and returned to her fire, humming to herself. Presently the ringing strokes of Jerry’s axe sounded in the woods. She saw his light glimmering in the trees. And then Mary returned with the filled pot and kettle.

“He’s a nice boy, dearie. Young for his years. But he’s a nice boy.”

Mary said, “Yes,” in a low voice. Ma Halleck eyed her sidelong. She made a kind of sigh high in her broad nose. She said nothing as she went about the details of sorting the materials of her stew and setting the iron crane.

Supper was her chief business; and from the firm closing of her plump lips Mary deduced a devotion to good cookery. She watched Ma Halleck closely, gathering knowledge for herself.

From the firkin, as the water heated, Ma Halleck took cuts of meat. “Spring lamb, dearie. A measly little boy lamb. He didn’t look equal to travel, so I had him for this journey. I wish hogweed was growing. There ain’t nothing like a hogweed stew. But I’ll use some kept turnips for tonight.”

As the pot started simmering she dropped in the turnips and a savor began to creep among the wagons. Mary saw Joe Halleck pause in his tethering of a horse and lift his face.

“You might set the tea to boiling, dearie.”

She shoved over a packet and Mary, calculating, quickly sifted tea leaves into the kettle and hung it in its place.

“Where do you come from, dearie?” Ma Halleck was paring off slivers of cheese and adding them to the meat stew.

“I’m from England.”

“I don’t know that land. We’re all from Rutland County. That’s Vermont. Wallingford way. Been in this state long?”

“I landed to-day.”

“To-day, now? Gracious me!” She lifted her shining round face, but her black eyes were kindly. “You’re right strange then. I’d not have guessed it, dearie. Was you from Albany?”

Mary nodded.

“How’d you meet up with him?”

Mary’s voice trembled.

“He was passing through when we were at the dock. And he saw me.”

“You all alone?”

Mary nodded. “I was a redemptioner. He bought my papers.”

“Him? Why, he ain’t but a boy.”

“He was heading west. He’d saved up his money. He wanted to buy him land in the west, he told me. But he seen me, and it took about all his money.”

“Just like that.” Mary’s eyes lifted timidly. Ma Halleck was smiling.

“Tell me all about it, dearie.”

“I didn’t have nowhere to go when he handed me my papers.”

“He handed them to you?”

“Yes,” said Mary softly. “He did. And then we met up with a funny old man that gave us a ride in his wagon and that knew him. He brought us to Schenectady. We crossed the bridge just ahead of you.”

Ma Halleck nodded.

“And what are you going to do, dearie?”

“Just afore you come along, he took my papers off me again.”

“Did he?” There was a new note in the stout woman’s voice.

“Yes. He tore them up and threw them away, and then he asked me to marry him.”

Ma Halleck sucked an audible breath through her teeth. She glanced a moment at the bowed head of the girl, and her plump lips smiled softly.

“And you said yes,” she said gently. “All on short notice, both ways. Well, I don’t wonder. When are you a-going to do it?”

“Jerry ain’t said.”

“Do you love him, dearie?” Mary lifted her eyes. They looked at each other. “Yes, yes. You’d go anywhere for him, wouldn’t you? You’ll labor for him.” She jerked her head. “I’d thought he was a swelled-up boy. But he’s done a good thing, I guess. For himself anyways.”

She stirred the pot with a horn spoon. Clouds of pungent vapor enveloped her shining face, and a kind of distillation of it seemed to bead the red skin.

“I’m glad we come acrosst you,” she said as she replaced the lid, “for I do love a wedden.” She appeared to ruminate. “I had two in my time. I done well with the first, George and Joe, and Angy and Esther, and their two men with them now are all right. And George’s girl is a nice little chit. She’s going to have a baby come fall. Then I married a man named Wilson Goudger. Seemed like I couldn’t stand it single. He took most of my money off ‘n me and yankeed out west. Used a partial of it on a section in the Purchase, and most of it on my hired girl. He come back repentant home and died. So now we’re going out to my land. But I’m my own woman now and aim to remain. So, seeing my children is all Hallecks, I think I’ll stay one myself. I never did feel proper wedded to Wilson. But I do love a wedden.” She cut a square of maple sugar. “That’s Vermont sugar, dearie. Made by me. Just drop it in the kettle for a sweeten.”

The milker returned with the pail brimming.

“Not so much, tonight, Ma. Just the one pail.”

“It’s the travel,” said Ma Halleck. “Angy, this is Mary Goodhill. Angy’s Judson’s wife.” As the other two women approached, she introduced them:

“Esther, her name’s now Marcy, wedded in March. And this is George’s Prue.”

They seated themselves beside Ma Halleck and Mary. The two daughters resembled their mother, cheerful-faced, plump if not so stout, strong-looking girls. George’s Prue was a slip of a thing. The child already showed under her brown wool dress and she opened the laces for comfort as she sat down. Alone of the four women, her eyes questioned the night.

The men came up and sat down at the other side of the fire. Except for George’s “How’s for eating?” they said nothing.

“I wish that Jerry boy would come along.”

They saw him then with an armful of good sticks.

“Birch for you, Ma,” he said, and flung down the load like an offering before her. “I had to hunt it some.”

“It’s wild wood,” said the fat woman, bending for a stick and laughing. “This stick’ll make me the last bubbles. I do like birch. It’s cooking wood.”

She laid the stick, and all their faces watched the oily sputtering run over the curled bark. Ma Halleck arranged a stack of bowls in front of her knees. Her nostrils spread as she lifted the lid, and her lips moved gently.

“There’s cups for tea,” she said to Mary; and began to serve. “Where’s the minister?”

Jerry cast her a quick glance.

“Yes, boy. He’s a minister traveling to the Black River Country. Sent out by Hartford City in Connecticut. He got lost and we’re bringing him as far as Utica. Mr. Atterbury!” Her hearty voice reechoed from the wall of woodland.