He took a quick breath, determined to hold his temper in check. “We’ve been over this already, Joshua. The stump comes out. Now go get the chain fixed.”
Joshua reached out and flipped the torn shirttail. “You was nearly killed, Pa,” he said quietly. “I say it stays.”
Benjamin straightened slowly, but Joshua stood his ground, glaring back at him. Nathan hopped down into the hole, stepping between them, facing his brother. “Look, Josh,” he said, keeping his voice easy. “Ain’t gonna do no good to argue about this one. The hole is already dug. It’s got to come out. Pa and I will have it ready by the time you get back from the village.”
For a moment Joshua glared at his brother, then finally shook his head, muttering in disgust. Without looking at his father, he climbed out of the hole. He drug the heavy chain back over and hooked it up behind the mules, his face still twisted with anger. He snapped the reins and moved off behind them.
If Benjamin saw, he gave no sign. He just stared across the field at Joshua’s receding figure. Finally, with a bitter sigh, he turned, picked up the shovel, and confronted the stump once more. Nathan fell to work beside him.
Benjamin Steed was tall, almost six feet, and solidly built, but most people did not think of him as a particularly big man. His bone structure was lean, and the few pounds he had put on over the winter had quickly melted away once they had started clearing the forest again. His features were finely cut, albeit with a nose slightly out of proportion to his mouth. His eyes were pale blue, almost lighter than the sky when he smiled, but darkening quickly when he was angry. That was not often, for Benjamin was fourth generation New England stock and had been born and bred to hold his emotions in check. That was what infuriated him most about his deteriorating relationship with Joshua. Normally he was slow to anger, deliberate in his choice of words, taciturn sometimes to a fault. But lately Joshua had a gift for overturning his father’s determination to stay in control.
He stopped, leaning on his shovel, letting his eyes run across the land that was now his. The soil where they had recently cleared the underbrush lay dark and rich, waiting for the seed they would soon plow into it. He estimated they now had nearly thirty acres cleared—more than his entire farm in Vermont—with that much again and more yet to go. He loved it and reveled in the pleasure it gave him to be taming it.
This was the Finger Lakes region of New York, so named by the Seneca Indians, who just fifty years previously had been part of the mighty Iroquois confederation of nations. Lakes Canandaigua, Keuka, Seneca, Cayuga, Owasco, Skaneateles, Oneida—all were set in long, narrow valleys, as though the Great Spirit had dug his fingers into the soft earth and gouged out places for the clear blue water to fill. It was wonderful country, rich with promise. And from the moment Benjamin had laid eyes on this place, he had known it was to be his. Now with six months of work into his particular corner of it, those feelings had only deepened. In a few years their farm in Vermont would pale in comparison, and then his family would understand why he had come.
Fifteen minutes later a shout from across a small meadow brought Benjamin’s and Nathan’s heads up together. Benjamin took off his hat and mopped at his brow with a rag from his back pocket. His face softened, the eyes crinkling around the corners. His youngest son was coming on the dead run, the big, rawboned, half-breed dog loping alongside him, tongue lolling crazily out one side of his mouth. Further behind, he could see the figure of his wife, following in the track Matthew and the dog had made across the brown grass, wet now from where the frost had melted. She was carrying a pitcher and two tin cups.
He tossed the shovel out and climbed out of the hole, knowing what had brought about this unexpected visit to the fields. His wife would have seen Joshua come in, and whether or not she had talked with him, she would know there had been trouble between him and his father again. This was her way of assessing the damage, seeing if there was anything to be done to repair it. “Looks like it’s time to take a break,” Benjamin said.
“Mama always knows when it’s time,” Nathan said with a grin. He likewise tossed his shovel out, taking his father’s outstretched hand for a pull up.
“Pa! Did you get it out yet?” Matthew was calling to them even before he was close enough to see the stump still in place. He pulled up with a frown as his father shook his head. The dog stopped alongside Matthew, took a quick disinterested look into the hole, sniffed briefly at the shovels, then bolted into the trees to see what might be waiting to be stirred up.
Looking very much like a miniature Nathan, Matthew walked around the periphery of the hole, soberly sizing up the situation. “Looks like you’ve got the biggest roots, Pa,” he said soberly. Then nodding, sure of his assessment, he added, “Can I chop that root there, Pa?”
Mary Ann came up in time to hear the question, and shot her husband a sharp look. But Benjamin was already shaking his head. “Not quite ready for that yet, Matthew.”
Nathan looked at his father. “There’s a lot more dirt to come out of the hole before we can chop the root,” he said, his face grave. “But I’m too tuckered to do any more right now.”
Benjamin nodded, equally sober. “Me too. I’m plumb bushed.”
“I’ll do it,” yelled Matthew. He grinned up at his father, knowing he was being teased, but not caring. Benjamin smiled again, his eyes clearly reflecting the pride he felt for his youngest offspring, then pointed to the shovel. With a whoop Matthew was into the pit and stabbing awkwardly at the soil around the roots of the hickory stump, barely able to manipulate the length of the shovel in the confined space.
“Still haven’t got it out?” Mary Ann stopped next to her husband and peered down at what was left of the huge old hickory tree.
Benjamin wiped at his forehead with his sleeve and shook his head. “It’s hangin’ on to the earth like a baby possum to its mama’s belly.”
Mary Ann just nodded, biting back a comment. She had loved the giant old tree and had suggested way back last fall that they just clear around it and leave it be. But Benjamin had grumbled about nothing growing in its shade and having to plow around it all the time, and the issue was eventually dropped.
She lifted the pitcher. “I brought some cold buttermilk.”
Without waiting for an answer, she set the cups on a nearby log and poured, then stepped back as husband and son picked them up and began to drink. She smiled, her eyes softening with affection. Benjamin drank his steadily, the pale blue eyes shaded by heavy dark brows, completely lost in thought as he surveyed the land over the top of his cup. Mary Ann wasn’t even sure he tasted the sweetness of the buttermilk. For a moment she compared him to Joshua. Her oldest son, now almost twenty, was so like her husband in the lean hardness of his body, the angular features, the mouth perpetually set in what appeared to others as grim determination. If he were here, she knew without doubt he would down the milk in three gulps, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with each swallow. Then with what would almost be a groan of pleasure he would hold out his cup for a refill.
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.”