3stalwarts (126 page)

The minister came slowly from the creek. His face was shining from his wash. His mild eyes benignly surveyed them.

“Set down, Mr. Atterbury, and say us grace.”

He sat down in the gap between the men and women, folded his hands, and lowered his eyes before the fire. His shadow reached far behind him to the hood of the wagon in the gap. The light rippled on his fine silver hair.

“God bless us, and guide us. Make us thankful for this good food, and give us grace to appreciate Thy blessings. Amen.”

His gentle eyes lifted and his hands went out automatically for his bowl. As they ate silently, a sheen lighted the sky in the east over the wagon tops.

“The moon’s lifting,” said George, pointing with his spoon.

They ate and drank comfortably, warm in the firelight. Their faces relaxed as their weariness slowly faded. George’s Prue kept her eyes on the eastward moon. There was a queer mysteriousness in the tilt of her face, as if she dreamed, and were afraid to dream. Jerry turned from her to Mary, and he saw that she too had been watching George’s Prue.

And Ma Halleck looked from one to the other, and then she turned her eyes on her children, one by one, as if she counted them.

She leaned over to the minister, and touched his knee.

“I do love a wedden, don’t you, Mr. Atterbury?”

“Eh, madam?”

The minister’s vague eyes were startled.

“I do love a wedden,” said Ma Halleck, her black eyes glancing in the firelight. “And a man’s got to pay for his keep. So you owe me a wedden.”

The minister smiled vaguely.

“Gladly, madam,” he said politely. “Who can I wed?”

Something moved in Jerry’s being.

“Me,” he said strongly. “Me to Mary Goodhill.”

But when he looked boldly across at her, she was looking down. And he flushed at the open smiles of the others. All but George’s Prue were looking at him. But she had heard nothing. She was humming to herself, and now she began to sing the words.

“Awake, awake, you drowsy sleeper, Awake and listen unto me, There’s someone at your bedroom window, A-weeping there, most bitterly.”

Her small voice was clear. Silver gently lighted her face from the rising moon. As if a magic had touched them they lowered their eyes, all but George, who silently shifted his lean frame to sit close to his wife.

Jerry felt his skin prickling round his eyes. And then a new voice softly joined the singer’s, clear as her own, but with a quiet strength.

“Mary raised her head from her drowsy pillow, To see who calling her might be, Whom did she spy but her own true lover, A-weeping there most bitterly.”

Angy and Esther joined in in a faint humming undertone to the plaintive tune:—

“He said, ‘Mary, dear, go ask your father, If you my wedded bride may be …’”

The cows ceased chewing their cuds, the sheep stood still. One of the dogs that had drawn up to the circle of firelight lay down, trembling on its paws, and whined in its nostrils. Along the creek peepers sang.

The moon rose through the fleece of clouds and soared over them. In the quiet Ma Halleck rose from the fire, gathered the dishes, and went down to the creek. She made no sound at her washing, but when she returned, she said, “You can share with Joe tonight, Jerry. Mary, you come into my wagon with me. Mr. Atterbury can have blankets under my wagon. We’ll start early tomorrow— if there’s to be a wedden in the evening, we’ll want to stop early.”

4

“/ wont need no remembrance”

“Lordy me,” said Ma Halleck for the fiftieth time, “how I do love a wedden!”

She stood beside the wheel of her wagon, her black eyes staring across the flat land towards the river.

“Seems how the rain was a good thing, dearie,” she remarked over her shoulder to Mary; “seems like the land lays brighter for it.”

The wagons had hauled off the road again; but this time with an hour yet to spend before sunset. They were drawn up in a triangular strip of pasture, harboring a sugar bush of old trees, so tall that the Mohawk Na-tion in its time might have held tribal powwows in their shade. The rough trunks glistened, wide apart. Round their roots the ground was beaten hard. It was a dry spot to find after an all-day rain.

“Get back of the flaps,” said Ma Halleck sharply. “Now, Jerry, what call have you got to be nosing around this wagon?” Her tone was severe, but her black eyes danced. “You go unhitch from Prue’s wagon, and send George up to mine— if you’re so minded to unhitch.”

“George ain’t here. He stopped back behind us when we came by Failings’.”

“Now what do you suppose he’s doing there?” asked Ma Halleck, smoothing her skirts over her broad hips. ” ‘Pears to me that’s a queer way to act when there’s a wedden planned! Well, then, you send Joe up here.”

She watched Jerry turn sheepishly back to George’s wagon, heard Joe’s guffaw, and saw her sons-in-law wink at each other. A delighted grin spread her plump lips.

“That’s the way men are,” she said over her shoulder. “They take a wedden lightsome. Seems as how they don’t feel nothing into it and all they think about is something to drink out the fire with. It’s different to us. Seems like it comes into a woman’s nature. It’s like spinning on a wheel, or drawing thread across a loom— only it’s different, too.” Her voice lifted to a brighter note as her bouncing humor reasserted itself. “Now, dearie. Here’s your chance to make the sugar bush while your man’s busied up with the horses. Tend yourself and come along back by the fence. It don’t do for a man to meet his woman ‘fore the rightsome time.”

She watched closely for signs of insurrection from the men, her ears conscious of Mary’s swift flight into the shadows of the old trees.

Mary’s face was calm, but her shoulders drooped as if they felt the burden of an old acknowledgment of her sex. Before the sun, the old trees seemed to bow down their shade upon her through the washed evening air, and cover and guard her.

Across the rail fence, Ma Halleck watched a man ploughing. His furrow lay close to the fence, and his team were bringing him towards the wagons.

The wet earth was shattered into crude lumps by the share; and down the field crows, prospecting for worms, hopped stiff-legged like boys on stilts and shouted through the stillness. Ma Halleck was glad of the rain, for it had garbed the valley with a scent of spring. She went lightly down to the fence, where the water that had attracted them welled up, and leaned upon the railings.

“Evening, mister,” she greeted the ploughman.

He stopped his team at the end of the furrow, took off his hat, and mopped his face with his sleeve.

“Evening,” he said. The blue eyes in the square German head were kindly.

“Heavy ploughing,” remarked Ma.

“That is so.”

“Do you mind if we camp in your pasture?”

“Nein. Mine cows along the river are. You going west?”

“Yes, I’m heading my family for the Purchase.”

“So. You stop early tonight?”

“Yes. We’re going to have a wedden.”

“Ja?” His eyes slowly passed over the wagons while his gnarled fingers sorted some sweat from his beard. “Which is it?”

“There’s the boy. The girl’s in the sugar bush. Mister, do you know where I could get some wood for a big fire?”

The German turned round to lean his back against the crosspiece of the helves.

“None near. I tell you, though. This corner post is bad in the fence. I was laying two new sections next week. You burn them rails.” He turned his eyes on her, as she thanked him, and asked, “Yours the boy?”

“No. Neither one of ‘em mine. They’re going along with our train as far as Utica.” She looked at him closely, and her voice bubbled up, “But I do love a wedden, mister.”

He opened his mouth and laughed.

“Me also. I’m Heinrich Hartmann.”

“Betsey Halleck.”

She bobbed a comic curtsey. And he smiled.

“Give good luck to the young ones. Me, I must plough.”

“What are you planting?”

“Parley.” He waved his hand. “I like to see it from mine house, a parley field.”

From where she stood, Ma Halleck saw his frame barn, bright red, and the white house beyond; a prosperous farm. The flat land was rich land.

He spoke to his horses and they dragged the plough round to the homeward furrow. He did not return.

Jerry Fowler, with a red face, was rubbing down the last horse when Ma Halleck passed him. She showed him the rails the German had donated.

“You and Joe can bring them up. Me, I’ve got to get supper.”

She was back at her wagon again in time to guide Mary across the clearing.

“Inside with you, dearie. I’ll have the girls with you soon.” She sought out the minister. “Now, Mr. Atterbury, where are you heading for?”

“I thought I’d just wander down to the river awhile. I like to have time to myself before a wedding, or a burial.”

“I like a short service,” said Ma. “Don’t you think they’re the best?”

He regarded her mildly. And suddenly his eyes clouded. He made a wide gesture with his white hand.

“Yes, yes. Here. That could almost wed them. I don’t know.” His eyes were struggling with some kind of puzzlement. “There’s a strange feeling in this place— in all this valley.” And he lifted his eyes to the sky, and saw the sun like a red chariot wheeling across the clouds. Watching his retreating back, Ma Halleck gave herself a brief shake. There was work to do.

But Esther was coming in with the milk from the cows which had found browse beyond the spring, and Angy was carrying up two buckets of fresh water.

“You, Angy and Esther, you tend on Mary. Her and Jerry will have my wagon for their wedding night,” she directed as Prue came towards them. A smile fluttered her lips as she added, “No maids for the bride— you’ll have to do; and Esther’s but just turned the corner.” Esther giggled. “But Prue’s a woman finding her time. She’ll help me.”

Prue’s small face was wistful; but it had put on the wedding smile.

“We’re going to make a feast, Prue.”

And Mrs. Halleck sprang into activity… .

Down by the last wagon the men had finished their work, and now Joe cornered Jerry and sat him on a bucket, and with his two brothers-in-law hopped up on the tailboard, looking down.

“There he is,” said Joe, working his lean face into becoming solemnity. “Jerry Fowler, we want to question you on your fitness for the wedded state.”

Jerry kept his eyes along the reach of the wagon, but the blood had reddened even his ears.

“Jerry Fowler, was you brought up in Christian Faith?”

Jerry gave them a short glance. They squatted like three foolish frogs a-row.

“That’s a serious question,” said Abijah Judson, stroking his pale moustache. “Difficult for a young man to answer. But we got to report to the Reverend— Fowler. “

Jerry’s face was burning. Over and over, above the thumping of his heart he kept seeing the end of the Mohawk Bridge in darkness, the shadow of her face; he heard the peepers, and her voice; and the scent of her hair was in his nostrils. And these grinning frogs, to ask him questions.

“He’s all bebuzzed in his head. Not a clear-thinking boy.”

“No,” said Joe, in his nasal Vermonter’s voice. “Hardly thought on the troubles of the wedded state. Answer our question.”

“Yes,” said Jerry, desperately.

“Do you shave mornings?”

“No.”

“He shaves of nights. That’s mark of a lightsome fellow. I knew a man that shaved of nights. He never was married, but he calculated fifteen children round the county to be hisn. His name was Jerry, too. Jerry Parson was his name. A rampant man.”

The tailboard quivered under their hams.

“Well, he’s passed on the faith, I guess. Just squeaked by. Now we come to the practical business of marriage. You, Jerry Fowler, answer these questions. When a man goes home does he blow out the lantern?”

“He don’t seem very knowing. But he’s young.”

“Does he turn it down, then?”

“If he don’t turn it down, does he turn anything down?”

“By crinkus, this lad’s a mortal strange man for a mortal!”

“He don’t appear very learned, that’s the honest fact of it.”

“Don’t know what a girl’s going to do, if she meets up with him.”

“Do you take off your shoes in the kitchen?”

“He ain’t very good.”

“Shucks! He comes from York State. Near by where the Shakers are.”

“That’s the trouble. They’re big shakes at shucking. Don’t give Christians room for tillage.”

“How do you measure property?”

Jerry lifted badgered eyes.

“By the acre,” he said at last… .

Up by the fire, Ma Halleck, putting corn dough to bake in a pan, looked over at Prue. “Now what are them roosters roaring at?”

Prue shook her head.

“There’s George coming at last,” and her voice was clearer.

“Makes you homesick, honey,” Ma Halleck said understandingly, “all this doing, withouten your rightful man?”

But Prue did not answer. Her eyes were for her husband, coming with long strides. He circled Ma’s wagon and thrust a bottle under her apron.

“It’s the best they had, Ma. A wedden gift to drink them with.”

Prue smiled into his eyes, and a sudden answering hunger in his face paled her cheeks. Then she crimsoned, and he said, “Lordy, Prue!” and fumbled her dark hair… .

Inside Ma Halleck’s wagon the three girls knelt on a feather tick and looked through Mary’s two bundles.

“I fancy seeing you wear that reddish dress,” Angy said. “It’s a real pretty piece of wearing. I’d like to see you wear it with that white wool shawl.”

“That was my mother’s,” Mary said.

“I’m partial for that, too,” said Esther. “And that bit of blue ribbon braided in your hair. I’d like it. I had white in my hair when I was wedded.”

Mary sat back while the two young women poked through her small belongings.

“There’s a pretty silver chain,” Angy exclaimed, undoing a wrap of linen. “My, and there’s a ring, too.”

“Are you going to be wedded with a ring?” asked Esther. “Abel wedded me with a ring.”

And she held up her hand for Mary to see the slim silver band.

“It comforts a girl to look at a ring— just to feel it on her hand.”