Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  Later in the night, after the boys collapse on their freshly joined wooden beds and meanly stuffed mattresses, I escape the three snoring bodies. Creeping out of the rectangular living space, I sneak into the tinshop.

  Father has pulled rank as master smith, and determined his preference for the shop’s organization. There had been lengthy arguments about the placement of kettles and where to hang stakes along which walls. Father won every time, his stubbornness more practiced than Tom or Al.

  Tonight, I run cold fingers over the colder iron of each machine in the moonlight. I’ve spent most days stirring oats and preparing the garden, but I also daydream on what it would be to create again, to be more than a woman of the hearth once more. Might be I’ll find out soon enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  9 May 1866

  “And you think naming your damn brothel The Powdered Rose is cute? I’ll show you cute! I’m naming my saloon The Powdered Pig! And I hope people understand that a pig tastes better than a rose!”

  “How dare you!” Fortuna, newly arrived from Deadwood with two prostitutes in tow, brandishes a huge cast iron skillet and then shakes it, jiggling her gigantic bosom with the effort.

  Dell Johnston stares, strangled for a moment, and his tangled beard works hard under dark eyes. He towers over Fortuna, but keeps his distance from her ironware and shouts instead.

  “You gotta pick a new name, woman. I already got The Powdered Keg.”

  “I’m not changing it. I just painted the sign!” She quivers and swings the skillet once more. Dell takes an uncertain step backward, and then grits his teeth.

  “Fine! Someone get me a gun!”

  He’s quickly handed a rifle by David Fawcett, who looks overly gleeful he’s arrived from his Indian trading rounds in time to see something like this.

  Fortuna’s arms go out. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Dell ignores her, spins, and takes aim at his battered sign. With three shots, he’s ripped the rotting wood from the edge of his saloon, and The Powdered Keg’s sign crashes down and splinters.

  “I—” He turns and finds me, where I’m mesmerized by the drama and my arms are full of tin deliveries. “Ah ha! You! The tinsmith’s daughter! You go on and tell the boys at the smithy I want a new sign hanger. A solid iron one. One where I’ll hang my new sign! From now on, it’s The Powdered Pig!”

  This last is a hoarse shout in Fortuna’s direction and then Dell declares he’ll be serving watered whiskey free if anyone cares to join him. Half the crowd does. The rest of us go back to our errands.

  “Now that was worth leaving the Sioux for,” David Fawcett says, his proper English accent out of place with his countless deer hides, buffalo furs, and tinkling trade beads. His wife, Caroline, grins and herds their passel of adopted Indian children, her chatter to them an unfamiliar Lakota dialect. As they move along Main Street, a woman screams, and a privy goes toppling from the top of the roof of one of the homes near the pig farm.

  “Oh ho! That damn Horeb’s at it again!”

  “It wasn’t empty. Someone find Doc Gunnarsen!”

  “Someone find Horeb!”

  The privy’s contents spill along the side of the shack, emptying a mess and a very drunk cowboy onto the ground. Three young boys go sprinting toward the Rusty Nail. The doctor is typically found either on his small ranch or drinking whiskey.

  I move to deliver a few goods to the general store, and Harry Turner leans on the porch railing, looking intrigued and laughing about the privy practical joke.

  “Here’s some of your wares,” I tell him, handing over the watering cans he had hoped to sell. “And you wanted a lantern for your house.”

  Harry takes them up and glances over the handiwork. “Nicely done. I’d expect that for the wait I had.”

  “We ran out of tin sheet over the winter,” I say, lifting my chin and pulling my shoulders back.

  “So I’ve heard. I also heard you made Toot Warren her requests.”

  “She asked first!”

  “Maybe.”

  His skepticism makes me feel mulish, and I push my mouth together at first.

  “I suppose I should pay you our agreed price. Even with the wait.”

  “You know the first wagon train just arrived to camp at the old buffalo jump a week ago,” I retort. “They brought our tin, which you’re lucky we could get the money to pay for! If you want to cheap us out, you can expect an even longer delay next order.”

  Harry raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you be playing games with me, girlie. You’re too new for that. And don’t be speaking so baldly about your money. It’s vulgar.”

  Goddamn him and his condescending tone! I glue my lips closed and just wait for him to pay me. We desperately need the cash. We’re behind on our loan to Percy Davies and the bank for the lumber, and heaven knows what kind of rent Father is paying. Plus the borrowed funds from Percy for the tin sheet to actually make more wares to sell. To make more money. It’s an unending circle of shortages.

  I know it’s one more reason Tom needs to join the Army again. For all Father abhors the notion.

  Harry hands me the coins, and I count them quickly.

  “Well, we’re settled up,” I say.

  He looks at me strangely and lifts the tin lantern. “You think this will be enough to cover your grocery credit over the winter?”

  “It ought to. That’s hours and hours of work.”

  “You all might have a big opinion of your time, but it costs dear to get grocery supplies out here too.”

  “It costs dearly to have the tin brought out!”

  “Then you all should have thought of that before deciding to set up a shop out west,” he says plainly.

  “My Father—” Once again, I slap my mouth together and stare at Harry’s faded vest. When I finally force myself to meet his eyes, his own soften under the bushy brows.

  “I’ll check the account,” he says quietly, and turns to go into the mercantile.

  I tighten my mouth and wait outside. Father should be the one soothing the customer! He’s the reason we didn’t have enough tin in the first place!

  Turning back to the street, I watch the drama between the menfolk unfold, unable to care too much, chewing on my own inadequacies and my own lack of charisma. If I even had an ounce of Horeb’s, I’d be better off …

  “Someone gonna get Horeb at the lumberyard an’ tell Mikey O’Donnell he’ll be one man short! I’ma gonna … kill ’im!” The cowboy who was stuck in the privy Horeb locked and shoved on a roof last night stumbles down Main Street and swerves, still drunk and trailing a horrible stink. David Fawcett roars with laughter so loudly I’m sure he’ll choke on his own spittle.

  Doc Gunnarsen shambles over, freshly watered from the Rusty Nail and sniffs. “I’m not looking you over till you take a dip in the creek.”

  “Doc! I coulda be mean hurt!”

  “You’re walking, so not that hurt.” The doctor turns back on his heel and ambles slightly sideways back into the Nail.

  When I enter the general store to check on Harry and our account, I run into Lara O’Donnell and try not to cringe as she starts in immediately.

  “Oh Marie Kotlarczyk! You’re goin’ to be speakin’ with Father Jonathon about the summer picnic, then? Have ye already? No? Well, soon then. And be sure to catch Tina Brinkley at Mass, she’s the best pie baker in town. After me, o’ course.”

  “I haven’t done a thing yet.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Been busy,” I tell her.

  “How?” she says, her voice sing-song. “Ye have no husband or children an’ you live in town. How hard can it be for you?”

  “I have men to clean after and cook for!”

  “Oh Marie,” Lara laughs. “But everyone knows ye can’t cook worth a damn.”

  She breezes out, and I sigh.

  “You didn’t have to say you’d help her with the church picnic,” Sadie says at my elbow, leaning on a b
room.

  “I didn’t. She assumed.”

  “Then tell her you can’t.”

  “Sadie! You snipe! Do we pay you to gossip or sweep?” May Turner asks as she swings through from the back room. Sadie jumps into action, and I wander to Harry, where he’s scratching down math next to our name in his great book.

  “Heard about old Brinkley selling farmland?” Harry mentions to me as he runs his finger down the ledger.

  “I have.”

  “Heard about Oddvar wanting to sell too?”

  “Who?”

  “Oddvar Svendsen. Your landlord.”

  My heart jumps. “I haven’t heard of that.”

  Harry’s eyes gleam and he looks very pleased that he’s able to pass on new gossip. “Ohh, well, you should talk to your Father then. Or Percy Davies. Anyway, here’s your balance.” He points to the black mark and I sigh. We’re still deep in debt to the general store and the bank, and though I hate the idea of my brother disappearing for a year or so, I will be glad for the money!

  Waving to Sadie, I step back outside. Spring in Flats Town is muddy and wet, but the air is clear and clean and brushes the sky in a way that it never did in Chicago.

  When I get home, I pull out raised dough rolls and get to work. I am baking bread two days early, so Tom and Jimmy can have something in their sacks when they leave for Fort Laramie. Colonel Henry Carrington, with almost nine officers under him, are to arrive there in June and the boys have received word they are to join Company K. Tom, from holding previous Army posts, is considered a contractor employee due to his specialty, though he and Jimmy will also be included as enlisted men in a fight. I can’t tell if Tom is glad or resigned about re-enlisting. I only know he’s angrier than usual.

  Jimmy and Thaddeus help build the last of the interior walls in our barn-turned-shop, so the place is filled with hammering, floating sawdust, and sawing every late afternoon. The cacophony drives me next to madness, and I busy myself with as many kitchen chores as I can, so I might disappear to the large hearth in the blacksmith’s house.

  The silence in the kitchen is open and wide and overlarge. I put the risen loaves on the tin sheet and set it to bake in the copper biscuit oven. I am grateful Walter allows us to use his hearth, and in return, I usually leave some of the food behind. Bread is one of the few things I do not do poorly, and though there is no bread oven, I have mastered the smaller reflector biscuit oven next to the fire.

  As I watch the metal gleam and quiver, I let the worries simmer through me. Where will I find help? If I’m to work a bit in the shop, and Jimmy is gone, someone will need to help me, though we cannot even afford it and no one seems to need work anyway. Everyone is busy with their own houses, scraping by and pushing against the elements. Perhaps I’ll ask Susan Brinkley at Mass. She and her daughters-in-law, Cora and Marta, have been very kind. They’ve offered clippings of geraniums, and clumps of rosemary, and roots of roses for spring plantings.

  I take out some mending from my possibilities bag, and as I do, my fingers feel the slice and prick of a piece of tin. Turning over the small sheet in my hand, I debate. The idea forms itself slowly, and I start to bend and curl the tin carefully around the handle of my knife, holding one of the edges down to lessen the chance of a warped corner. The piece is small, but neatly cut, and I ease it around without too much trouble.

  When I’m finished with the curve, I know already what it will be. Glancing around the kitchen, I see the usual untidiness. For all Jimmy’s cooking skills, he is still a man, and keeps the space full of odds and ends hovering between home and shop. There is always a bowl of nails. I go to the crock and lift the loose cover off to select a slender one.

  Now if only I had a hammer! Even a rawhide one would do. I look around again in the hopes of spying one out, but the only option is a wooden spoon sitting in another crock on the sideboard. That crock is decorated and painted in the patterns of Poland. I wonder if Walter’s wife did the design.

  I take one of the larger spoons. Squatting down near the hearth again—both for warmth and to keep one eye on the loaves of bread—I start to aim and crack the small nail through the thin metallic sheet. The bang is muted against the soft wooden floor and the wood makes a dull popping sound against the nail. I pull it away and realize the dent is not through at all.

  “So then, you’ll want a true hammer.” The low voice is filled with amusement.

  Walter’s craggy face looms over me.

  “I haven’t one.” I hide my embarrassment under a tart response.

  “Here you are, then.” He pulls out a small hammer from his belt loop, and as he hands it over, his fingers shake with a noticeable tremor. Just as soon as I see it, it is gone.

  “Thank you. I just …” I look down at the metal in my hands, contorted and full of scratches. “Well, the bread is baking and I thought I’d see about puttering a bit.”

  Walter leans over me, the smell of fire and charcoal lingering on his shirt.

  “You’re making a tarka do gałka muszkatołowej nutmeg grater?”

  “I’m going to try. I’ve seen many repaired and made, over the years.”

  “You should have hammered the holes before you curved the piece.”

  “Ah. Damn. I forgot the order of it,” I curse myself. “I’ll use it as is.”

  “Maybe, but you will have a distorted grate now instead, or at least, it will be hard to create a perfect half circle. One should always punch holes before shaping the metal.”

  I sigh, wishing in this moment I could be an apprentice and learn from everyone, at any time. “Well, it’s what I have. How do you know all these little details anyway?”

  “Well, then, we had our fair share of nutmeg grater repairs before the Kotlarczyk family arrived,” Walter grins at me quickly with a smile reaching the depths of his dark eyes.

  I return to the metal, slowly banging it flat again against the flagstone and then slamming holes using Walter’s old hammer. He peers overhead. When I finish, I start to re-curve the grater. He stops me and hands over a few pieces of leather hide.

  “To save your hands,” he reasons.

  It is hard to do such small work holding the leather, though, and without the proper stake. I recall the needlecase iron Father had pulled out on the wagon journey, and I know it would be the right one. Walter does not comment as I use the rounded handle of my knife again, nodding slightly as if he approves of my salvaging.

  “You’ll want to put a cover and a base on,” he says. “So then, let me see what I have around the shop yet for scrap.”

  He disappears into the front forge, and I check on the bread. It has risen well and is on its way to turning a deep, golden, brown.

  The side door swings open and I look up, half-hoping for Jimmy. He has been sparingly but endearingly attentive, as if he does not want to hope too much that I might give him a promise before he leaves. I still do not know if I might. I like him very much, and I like how he has no qualms about cooking, and I like that he does not care how I play around with the tin. His attentions are sweet and thrilling: the soft looks across the table, and when his hand brushes against mine as we manage the kitchen duties together.

  “What are you smiling about?” Al’s head pokes around the corner of the door.

  “Why aren’t you helping the others?” I counter, quickly hiding my disappointment.

  He looks a little guilty, then steps in completely, his fingers flicking absently against the frayed seams of his broadcloth pants.

  “I just …” He shifts to take a view of what is baking on the pan bed under the oven hood. “How many are you making?”

  It is an odd question. I frown, looking at the browning bread.

  “I have enough for the two going toward Fort Randall, and then one for Walter and Thaddeus, and two for us.”

  Al looks uncomfortable and it puts me on edge.

  “What is it?”

  “I … might you save one of the loaves for me?”

  �
�Of course. Father and I can share the other.”

  He twists his hands behind him, and inhales, looking down at his feet. “No. Not for … I am going to go, tomorrow.”

  I gape at him. “Al. You can’t be serious.”

  “They’ll let me. I mean, Carrington or his officers will take me. Or someone at Fort Laramie will. I’m sixteen, I have my two front teeth, and—”

  “Father will never let you. He won’t. He’s already worrying about Tom going.”

  “He doesn’t have a choice.”

  “You can’t!” I wish to pause his rashness, to implore that he not leave me alone, that he and I will have a grand time playing at running the shop, that we will have so many moments of laughter. Would he give that up?

  “I must. I have to, if I’m going to live out here.”

  “What?” I cannot fathom his reasoning. “But—you already are living out here, Al. How does going to fight … whatever his name is … this Red Cloud Indian have anything to do with it? How will raiding an Indian campsite make it easier to live in Flats Town?”

  “It might be just building a fort.”

  “You have to build a business. Why, Al?”

  “You always ask too many questions,” he says lightly, and his dismissiveness hurts. A loud bang echoes from the forge behind the door, and he looks up quickly. “Who’s that?”

  “Just Walter. Puttering.” I gesture backward, and the half-finished nutmeg grater glitters against the copper hood and flame. Al’s eyebrows lift, and he holds out his palm to take a closer look. I hand it over, nervous but a little proud of my initial try.

  He turns it around, considering. Then he glances up toward the doorway between the living quarters and the forge, and he speaks terse and fast. “I need to go to face the Indians. The stories I heard on the journey here … they are too much to sleep well, to feel safe. You saw me the day the thieves tried to go in our wagon. I need to know I can stand against them, to face them, to hear their hollers and war cries for myself and know I will survive.”

  I stare at him. The deep fear splays across his face, pure and heavy. It seems to suffocate him. Is this why he has been less inclined to be so chatty around town, to leave the mailing of letters to Tom, to sit and work on the backlog of tinkering?