Wagon, Mule, and Boy
“Now remember, Lemuel,” said Mamma, using his given name, “we’ll be having your favorites for your birthday celebration this eventide. We’ll also finish the apple cider from last season toasting your good health, so don’t dawdle!” Her Scot Irish accent always grew heavier when she was in a temper. “When you’re passing the store, stop by and remind your father. You know how busy he gets, what with everybody putting off their errands till Saturday!”
“Aye, Mamma,” said Lem, his mouth watering over the upcoming feast in his honor—roasted wild turkey, corn-and-potato chowder, and Mamma’s apple pie. The pleasant odor of sourdough bread baking on the hearth added to his expectations of a fine repast after a long day’s labor.
“And don’t forget to tell Sukey that I’ll be wanting her help with the cooking this afternoon. Let her know she can bring Big Tom and Little Tom, especially if Big Tom would grace us with some of his fiddling after the meal. How that negro can play! Little Tom ought to be capable of turning the spit at six years old, surely. Fill a jug at the well and take it up to the mill. Walter and Sukey will both be thirsty. Stay on track today, young man. I don’t want dinner getting overcooked because you show up tardy. You need to earn those new breeches and high-tops you got this morn!”
“Aye, Mamma.”
“Five other entire days, they could make their trades without infringing upon Saturdays, but do they? Nay! I hold to Mr. Franklin’s view: ‘Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today!’ ‘Tis a common shame more folks hereabouts can’t abide by his wise words. Why, if it wasn’t for him and a handful of other honorable men, nary a one of us would have a choice about our daily labors. We’d all be slaving to pay King George’s taxes! Thanks be to God for the Continentals!”
Lem’s attention strayed as Mamma continued to rant about taxes on sugar, paper, tea, and many other staples in Papa’s store. His thoughts fell to the objects upon the walnut mantle beside his hand. A large tome and five smaller booklets were held upright between heavy iron horse-head bookends. Lem had learned to read from the black leather-bound family Bible at his father’s knee. He could recite the Farnandis generations, recorded in India ink on the inside cover, and many verses throughout the sacred script. However, Mamma held the highest regard for Statesman Franklin, author of the five brittle tanned copies of Poor Richard’s Almanack. While Lem respected the Bible as the Word of God, he fondly recalled the witticisms, poems, puzzles, and amusing stories authored by Mr. Franklin under the guise of Poor Richard Saunders.
“Lemuel! Have you been a-hearing me? When you arrive at the tavern this afternoon, be sure to inquire of Mr. Coleman if he could spare a jug of cider. I’m afeared we may run short. Tell him your father will reckon the charge against Mr. Coleman’s balance at the store same as always.”
“I will, Mamma.”
“Don’t be talking to his Mistress about it neither. She’s a devout Tory and would sooner spit in your eye than sell ye a drink.”
“I won’t, Mamma.” His mother’s yammering made Lem’s head feel ready to burst. Rather than letting her have another go, he launched away from the hearth, bracing for the chill outside. At times Mamma made silence seem like a woolen blanket on a cold night. No wonder it was called blessed silence.
Treading as lightly as he could in his new knee boots, he made for the side door in hopes of escaping before Mamma could add further tasks to his already lengthy list. Her broad backside was to him as she diced potatoes at the counter. Lem retrieved his shapeless felt hat from the nob of the nearest dining chair and absently pulled it down over his ears. Sallie and Jane, arms and aprons dusted with flour, both looked up from their kneading as he skirted the long plank table. They knew he was trying to sneak away and started giggling and pulling faces as he passed. Little Caroline held the folds of Mamma’s gown and gazed at him with large blue eyes.
Lem felt heat rise in his cheeks. The most they would have to do the rest of the day would be peeling apples and feeding the chickens. Once done with those chores, it would be jackstones and Scotch hoppers for them. He lifted the latch and stole his way out the heavy plank door, shutting it as lightly as he could manage. In his ire, he slapped the latch home. It made an unexpectedly loud clack. A wail arose from Henry II, who had been sleeping in his cradle near the hearth. Lem’s heart sank over the unwise way he handled his anger.
Mamma, her voice barely muffled by the wood between them, yelled, “Lemuel Alston Farnandis! Just look what you’ve done! You’ve awoken Baby Henry! Now, what am I supposed to do? I’m covered head to toe in work for your special day, and now I’ll have to drop everything to calm your brother! Don’t you ever slam that latch again!”
“Aye, Mamma.” Hand still resting on the offending latch, a tinge of guilt settled in Lem’s chest at having been the cause of her tirade and his brother’s yowling. Then, his sisters broke into howls of laughter over Mamma’s parting remark about men not thinking with their brains! This vanquished his feelings of guilt in the matter. He spun away, tromped down the stairs, and plodded across the side yard toward the back of the house. The frozen mud of the driveway, covered in tiny quartz-like crystals of ice, crunched satisfactorily beneath his heels.
Lem breathed deeply to calm his head, expelling white fog into the crisp air. After the stuffy kitchen, getting to his chores was a respite. Although the sun filtered ruddily through the bare limbs of the water oaks that sprawled about the yard, it was still too early to offer warmth. Icy frost sparkled on every stem, fence post, blade of grass, and stone. His eyes followed a lazy ribbon of bluish smoke trailing from the chimney, past the barn, and up through the bare sweetgum forest behind the house.
His approach to the chicken coop vexed Hotspur. He could see the rooster’s silhouette strutting to and fro across the shed roof, tail puffed in agitation. Upon realizing that Lem was not deterred from his course, the shape paused and seemed to swell even more. Hotspur let off a most indignant cock-a-doodle-do, which awoke the hens. Soft clucks began to emanate from deep inside their nesting boxes.
“Sorry, girls,” Lem said as he passed. “You’ll have to wait a while. Sallie and Jane are busy helping Mamma.” In protest of his statement, one of the hens let out a loud pee-kaack! “That must have been one big egg you just laid! Huzzah!”
Another forty paces brought Lem to the front of the weathered gray two-story barn. The buckboard was already parked to the side, so Papa, John, and Walter must have drawn it out by hand before they left for work. It would have made it easier to saddle their horses without the wagon sitting in the aisle, but it also saved some effort on Lem’s part. He was grateful for that kindness.
Throwing the latch to the massive central doors, Lem pushed them inward to send a shaft of sunlight streaming down the main corridor. He could see that the two stalls on the right were empty, and for a moment, he thought the two on the left were also, but then a barely discernible puff of white fog lifted from behind the last door post. Old Bo must have pressed his rump against the very back of his stall to be able to draw his head in that far.
“You don’t want to go to work either, do you, boy?” The mule snorted in disgust, knowing he’d been found out. Lem shook his head. Sometimes the mule’s larks amazed him.
It didn’t take long to get Bo hitched to the buckboard. The gray animal stood sullenly, breath steaming, his left rear haunch drooping as if lame. Lem smiled at this new ploy to get out of work and gave the beast a solid slap on the flank. Slowly the mule stood up straight so Lem could finish cinching the traces properly.
Lem then retrieved an empty water jug from the rack inside the barn door, slung it over his shoulder, and headed across the barnyard toward the well. Papa had smartly positioned the water source halfway between the house and the barn, making it convenient to both. Or perhaps Mamma had made Papa do it that way for her practicality.
As he trudged along, eyes fixed on his destination, recollections of one hot day two seasons ago sprang to mind. Papa had brought from the nearby township of Unionsville an ancient woman he called the Water Witch. She crawled off the wagon carrying a forked hickory limb. It looked smooth from wear. As soon as her buckled shoes hit the ground, she held the stick out by the forks and commenced to creeping around the yard, humming a ditty through toothless gums.
Walter had asked Papa what was going on and Papa had said the woman was dowsing for water. Once or twice, the dowsing stick pointed to the ground, but the woman shrugged it off. When she had walked all around the house without success, she headed off behind the barn with the whole family in tow. Suddenly, her arms began to tremble as if the dowsing stick was growing too heavy. She started to moan and weave and turn in a tight circle. Just then, the tip of the stick dove straight down to the ground.
“Dig heeaah!” she cackled.
Mamma was furious. She grabbed the rod from the older woman’s hand and marched right back around toward the house. When she got to the middle of the backyard between the house and barn, she jammed the stick into the dirt so that it stood up like a Y. She turned on her heel and told Papa to “Dig heeaah!” And that was that.
Lem arrived at the well and gently set the heavy crockery jug down beside a coil of hemp laying on the capstone. He then drew the wooden cover from the center hole to protect his knees as he crawled onto the burred surface. Papa had set the spent granite millstone atop the mortared wraparound at the start of the winter to protect the well from dirt, bugs, small rodents, debris, and leaves. The cap had truly helped keep the water sweet, as the neighbors had discovered soon enough. Since then, folks had been dropping by to fill a jug or two because they “happened to be passing.” Mamma was pleased for the attention, never begrudging anyone a fresh drink of Adam’s Ale. Thus, the coiled hemp rope awaited the next person to draw water.
Lem grabbed the end of the rope and deftly tied it to the jug’s handle. With a tight grip on the rope’s other end, he shoved the pottery through the hole in the capstone. The crock plummeted down the fifteen-foot shaft where it splashed, sank, and gurgled as it filled. Lem waited until the gurgling stopped, then gently drew the now thirty-pound pitcher back up the shaft. Mainly it was shoulder work. The handle was almost within his grasp when the rope broke. There was a loud kerplunk, and more gurgling arose from the well.
“Gol dern!” Lem exclaimed, peering down into the black depths. Alas, he could see nothing.
Mamma threw open the kitchen shutters and hollered, “Heed me now! If I ever hear blasphemy from your mouth again, I’ll wash it out with lye soap!”
“Aye, Mamma!” Fuming, he retrieved another jug from the shed, got it filled, corked, and stowed under the wagon’s bench. At last, climbing aboard, he shook the reins, “Get up now. Haw Bo, haw! That’s a good boy. Haw, Big Bo. Haw!” The wagon slung dirt as it rolled to the left, gathered speed up the drive, and clattered onto the riverside lane. Dark thoughts of having obtained the unlucky age of thirteen this very thirteenth day of January, in the Year of our Lord seventeen eighty-one, stewed in his belly.
