Pillar of Light Page 4

  This mental image dramatized the differences between her husband and son as well as any words could have done. Though strikingly similar in physical appearance, their temperaments couldn’t have been much further apart. Joshua went at life like it was some kind of contest of pulling sticks or leg wrestling. He hurled himself at it with frightening intensity, battering at it, trying to pull it off balance enough so he could make it his. On the other hand, Benjamin Steed viewed any overt show of emotion as though it were indicative of some inner flaw. His approach to life was more like that of a careful builder. You selected your materials with care, then simply put things in their proper order, moving methodically from one task to another until the structure was complete.

  Mary Ann’s eyes narrowed slightly. The clashes between the father and son were happening with increasing frequency. Joshua would no longer back down from his father’s unbending will. In fact, it seemed almost like he sought opportunity to butt heads, relishing the chance to validate something deep within himself.

  Mary Ann sighed. If they had stayed in Vermont, Joshua would almost have certainly gone on to marry the Mendenhall girl and start his own household. She knew instinctively it would have solved the problem between Joshua and his father. But Faith Mendenhall had been just one of the other things they had left behind in Vermont.

  The lines of concern pulling at the corners of her mouth and eyes slowly disappeared as Mary Ann turned to watch Nathan. He was sipping at his cup, holding it with both hands, savoring the cool sweetness of the buttermilk as he savored most experiences in life. As lean as his brother, but with a softer cut to him, Nathan was more the product of Mary Ann’s side of the family. Sometimes when she looked at him, tears came to her eyes. She knew this must be very close to what her own father must have looked like at almost eighteen years of age. And Nathan had the same gentle temperament as her father, the same quick smile, the same sensitivity to people.

  Benjamin straightened and handed the cup to his wife, pulling her out of her thoughts. “All right, Matthew, that really helped. Let Nathan and me get back in there.”

  With a sigh, half of disappointment, half of relief, Matthew leaned the shovel against the stump and climbed out of the hole. But as he straightened he suddenly cried out, pointing across the field toward the house. “Look, Pa, somebody’s comin’.”

  They all turned to peer toward the cabin. There was a buckboard out front. A man was returning to it from the house, accompanied by Melissa and Rebecca. The man stopped for a moment to see that the horse was tied securely, then started across the fields toward them.

  “I think it’s Martin Harris, Pa.” Nathan had lifted one arm to shade his eyes.

  Benjamin nodded, recognizing the well-dressed figure and the purposeful stride. They waited, not speaking, as their nearest neighbor moved toward them. The acreage purchased by Benjamin Steed lay directly northwest of the Martin Harris farm, or more accurately, one of the Martin Harris farms. He actually owned four different farms of eighty acres each. When Benjamin first came to Palmyra and heard about the acreage north of town, he stopped at the Harris home to inquire about it. He had been impressed. It was a clapboard home of generous proportions with a well-kept yard and farm buildings. Benjamin had liked the man immediately. Evidently the feeling was reciprocal, for Harris had gone out of his way to assist Benjamin with the details of the sale.

  As he strode up, Harris swept off his hat and bowed slightly to Mary Ann. “Mornin’, Mrs. Steed.” As was customary for him, he was well dressed in a long jacket with tails, linen shirt, vest, and trousers. The hat was beaver skin and well made. He wore a gold ring on one finger, and a watch chain dangled from the pocket of his vest. In his mid-forties, he was not a particularly tall man, only about five feet eight inches. But he was of medium build and of a narrow face, and this, coupled with the long, tailored coat, made him seem taller than he was. He wore a neatly trimmed beard, Greek style, running from sideburn to sideburn underneath the chin, but leaving the face and the front of his chin completely clean shaven. He had clear blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a sharply defined nose, straight and pointed. At first impression he seemed to be stern and cheerless, but the impression was quickly dispelled once he started to converse, for he was of a pleasant and affable nature.

  Mary Ann nodded and smiled in return to his greeting. He put the hat back on and shook hands firmly with Nathan. “Mornin’, Nate.” With soberness he did the same with Matthew. “And how is young Master Steed?”

  Matthew beamed. “I’m fine, Mr. Harris. Thank you for askin’.”

  Finally Harris turned to Benjamin and gripped his hand. “Good morning, Ben.”

  “Hello, Martin.”

  Harris turned back to Mary Ann. “Mrs. Harris sent over a jar of blackberry preserves. I left it at the house.”

  “Well, how nice of her. Please give her our thanks.”

  “I will.” He turned back to Benjamin. “I stopped by to see if there was any provisions you or your wife might be needing from town. I’ve got some wheat being ground at the mill.”

  Mary Ann looked at her husband as he started to shake his head. She spoke up. “There are a few things I’d be needin’, Ben.”

  Harris nodded. “Just tell me what you need.”

  “Thank you for thinking of us.” Collecting the cups and pitcher, she took Matthew’s hand. “Come, Matthew. Let’s go to the house and make a list.”

  “I could use some help getting the grain on the wagon,” Harris said to Benjamin with half a smile. “If Matthew here and the girls wanted to come with me, I’d be obliged.”

  Matthew whipped around, his eyes wide. “Oh, could we, Pa? Could we?”

  Benjamin hesitated. Mary Ann watched him, then softly said, “It would be good for the girls, Ben.”

  For a moment their eyes held, then he nodded. Matthew let out a whoop.

  Martin Harris laughed softly. “You go along to the house with your mama, Matthew. Tell your sisters to get ready. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  The boy was off like a shot, with Mary Ann following after him. For a minute the men stood, watching them go. Then Harris turned and surveyed the stump. “Hickory, huh?”

  “Yeah, and not about to let go, either.”

  Harris nodded. “I can remember with my pa. I thought we was never gonna get the land cleared.”

  “You’d never tell it now,” Nathan said. “You’ve got some of the finest land in this part of the country.”

  “Wasn’t always so. My father came in ‘94. Bought six hundred acres for fifty cents an acre. But his problem was he loved huntin’ and fishin’ too much. Sometimes the farm got neglected.”

  “Is it true what they say?” Nathan asked. “That he shot the last wolf in the area?”

  There was a soft laugh, and Martin nodded. “Everybody used to call him the Nimrod of Palmyra Township.” His eyes got a faraway look as he let his mind go back. “They also called him ‘Trout Harris.’ Back then the land teemed with ducks and geese, deer, elk, wolves, bear. And the fish, ah…” He sighed with pleasure. “People talk about the good fishing now, but back then you could almost walk across the creeks on their backs—trout, whitefish, smallmouth bass, even a few Atlantic salmon in Mud Creek.”

  They all stood quietly for a moment, savoring the memory of better times. Then finally Benjamin looked up at the sky. “Well, living off the land nowadays ain’t what it used to be. We don’t get enough wheat and corn in this season, it’s gonna be a lean winter.”

  Harris nodded again, then pulled at his lower lip as he looked at Benjamin. “Ever thought about hiring help?”

  Benjamin looked surprised.

  “Spring’s coming hard on us now. You’ll be wanting to plant within the month.” He stopped, watching Benjamin for a reaction.

  He nodded gravely, keenly aware of the implications of what Harris was saying.

  “You had some money left over from the sale of the farm, Pa,” Nathan said. “I know we’ve been saving i
t, but we do need to get more land cleared.”

  “Know a family a mile or so south of town,” Harris went on. “Name of Smith. They’ve got two boys who hire out doing farm work. I’ve used them before. Been right pleased with their work.”

  Benjamin leaned down and plucked off the stem of a dried weed. For several moments he chewed on it silently, looking once again out across the small area they had cleared, then at the stands of trees and brush yet waiting for them. Finally, he turned. “Maybe you’re right, Martin. Tell me how to find these boys. I’ll go on down there tomorrow and have a talk with them.”

  Chapter Two

  By the second decade of the nineteenth century, Palmyra Village, lying near the western edge of Palmyra Township about twenty miles south of Lake Ontario, had grown from a primitive frontier outpost to a prosperous, bustling town of nearly three thousand people. Much of the growth could be directly attributed to the Erie Canal. Governor De-Witt Clinton’s “big ditch”—considered to be America’s greatest engineering feat—ran just two blocks north of Main Street and paralleled the entire length of the village. The full three hundred sixty-three miles of the canal had finally been opened just eighteen months before the Steeds had arrived in Palmyra Township. Twenty-eight feet wide at the bottom, forty at the waterline, and carrying four feet of water, the canal represented a project as prodigious as any Egyptian pyramid. But with its completion one could travel from Lake Erie to the Atlantic Ocean without leaving the waterway. The time it took to transport goods from Buffalo to New York City was reduced from twenty days to six, and the cost dropped from a hundred dollars a ton to eight.

  Joshua Steed loved the dock area along the canal. So instead of going on to Main Street, he would always turn left just after crossing the waterway and drive along Canal Street. It was a world of its own, sharply separated in many ways from the village life which lay just one block south. There was a constant stream of barges moving both upstream and down. The mule and horse teams plodding slowly along the canal banks kept the boats moving at a steady pace of four miles per hour—as good as any stagecoach on the rough, muddy roads of the time. Surprisingly, the barges were a splash of color meant to assault the eye. Most carried passengers as well as freight, and their captains painted the topsides with the gaudiest shades of reds, greens, and yellows imaginable to attract business.

  Most villagers looked down on the canal boatmen, or “canawlers,” as they were called, with the utmost disdain and not a little fear. Smoking a tobacco strong enough to choke a goat, driving their animals with language not even found in the barrooms of America, unashamedly fraternizing with the sluttish, hard-looking women who slept with them as part of their jobs as “cooks” on the barges, they would send the genteel women of Palmyra scurrying just at the sight of them.

  “Low bridge! Everybody down.” The bawling cry of a canawler brought Joshua around. A large boat, hold filled with potash and salt pork, was approaching the bridge he had just crossed. The deck was already lined with the passengers, anxious to be off the boat for a time. This one, coming from the west, was almost certainly from Buffalo, which meant the women and their businessmen-husbands were headed for a visit to Philadelphia or on to New York City. Dressed in their finery, hooped skirts swishing, the women would come mincing down the gangplank, tippy-toeing so as not to step in any of the droppings along the wharf, holding their noses against the smell of the mule, horse, and ox teams backed up with their wagons to either load or unload freight.

  Joshua pulled on the reins lightly, turning the mules and the small wagon he was driving to move out of the way of one of the great Conestogas moving toward him, its canvas top looking like a ship’s sail. He let his eyes sweep the busy scene. Stevedores, in their sweaty shirts and smoking foul-smelling cigars, manhandled bales of cotton, sacks of grain, and boxes of dry goods on and off the barges. Young boys from the village darted here and there, bringing messages from businessmen in the city, carrying jugs of rum for the dockworkers, or just generally making pests of themselves. It was a constant bedlam of sounds—donkeys braying, dockworkers cursing, heavily laden wagons creaking across the planks, dogs snarling over some discarded scrap of food, wheat brokers shouting at each other for a better price.

  Joshua loved it. He loved being in the city, for that’s how he thought of Palmyra Village. He knew it was nothing compared to New York or Boston, but he had never been to those cities, and after the quiet hill country of Vermont, Palmyra seemed wonderful enough.

  Then, glancing up at the sun, Joshua snapped the reins, moving the mules into a little faster walk. If he was to meet the Smith boys by ten o’clock, he’d better get moving. He had one more stop to make, and there was no way he was going to miss that.

  Once on to Main Street, Joshua let his eyes scan both sides of the street, savoring the differences between this part of the village and Canal Street. For the most part, the log huts of earlier times were gone now. One- and two-story frame homes lined the street, with picket fences surrounding neatly tended yards and tall poplars shading the residential properties. In the heart of the village, business thrived. There were now thirteen dry goods stores, three apothecaries, the three-story Eagle Hotel and two other inns, two tailor shops, several saddler and harness shops, a law office, three blacksmith shops, and the print shop and bookstore where the Wayne Sentinel was printed each week. Local elementary schools around Palmyra and surrounding townships contributed students to the well-kept grammar school within the village itself. And the Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists all had churches in town, as well as the Roman Catholics, who had been one of the first to come west with the settlers.

  Joshua stopped in front of a two-story frame building. Over the door was a neatly lettered sign which read, “General Dry Goods Store—Josiah McBride, Proprietor.” He swung down, tied the mules to the hitching rail, then stopped. With one sweep of his hand, he took off his cap and jammed it in his back pocket, smoothing his hair back as best he could. With a final tuck of his shirt into his trousers and a quick intake of breath, he went inside. A bell nailed to the inside of the door tinkled softly.

  Even though the day was overcast and cold, coming out of its brightness into the dimness of the store left him momentarily blinded, and he stopped next to a large keg filled with nails. He absently ran his fingers through the nails, feeling the sharpness of their points against his flesh. He marveled for a moment. As a young boy he had helped his father make nails in the forge behind their house. Now the large foundries in Boston and New York churned them out by the thousands.

  “Good morning. Mr. Steed, isn’t it?”

  Startled, and with a quick stab of disappointment, Joshua turned around. A short, balding man in a leather apron was peering at him. “Good morning, Mr. McBride. Yes, I’m Joshua Steed.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well…” Joshua’s mind was racing, trying to find a way to stall. “I’ve got a list of things, but I need to look over some of your tools first.”

  McBride nodded. “Help yourself. Tools are on the back wall. When you’re ready, let me know.”

  As he started to turn, Joshua thought of something. “Oh, Mr. McBride.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to know the Smiths that live down on Stafford Road?”

  Josiah McBride turned back around very slowly, peering over the top of his glasses at Joshua. “Why do you ask?”

  Joshua fumbled a little, surprised at the sudden coldness in the storekeeper’s voice. “I…uh, my father has hired two of the sons, Hyrum and Joseph. I’m supposed to meet them across the street at ten o’clock. I’ve never met them before…” His voice trailed off, stopped by the look in McBride’s eyes.

  “Your family’s new here.” It was not a question, just a blunt declaration.

  “Yes.” Joshua was wary now.

  “That would explain it.”

  “Explain what?”

  But just then the bell tinkled as a woman entered the store. McB
ride suddenly became all business. “It’s none of my affair, but you may want to tell your pa to think about that.” With that he spun on his heel and went to greet the woman.

  Joshua stood there, bewildered and a little bit angry. What had brought that on? Finally he shrugged it off, moving to the back of the store. He studied the rows of tools hanging from wooden pegs hammered into the wall, moving slowly, taking his time. He felt foolish and awkward, noting the curious looks McBride kept shooting his way from time to time.

  Just as he was ready to give it up and bolt for the door, the bell on the door rang softly again. A woman and a young girl entered and exchanged greetings with McBride. The storekeeper turned and called up the stairs. “Mother! Lydia! I need some help down here.”

  Joshua felt his hopes leap. There was the sound of two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs from the living quarters above the store. The first was heavier, measured and determined, followed almost immediately by a lighter, happier set. He fought the temptation to turn around, feeling a surge of excitement. He took a finely honed ax down and began to examine it closely, hoping against hope.

  A woman’s voice floated back to him. “Hello, Mrs. Carlton. Hello, Miss Amy. What can I help you with?” Joshua felt his heart beat faster. McBride’s wife had taken the new customers.

  Joshua ran his finger along the edge of the ax blade, keenly aware of the sound of Lydia’s footsteps coming up behind him, then of the soft fragrance of her perfume. Still he didn’t turn.