CHAPTER EIGHT
†
The embers of the common fire spat and hissed as a morning drizzle leaked from low clouds. Christiane woke with a start. Walther wasn’t there. She hurried into the shelter, hoping that Ursula had him.
Johann was left on his own. The foot was no longer an inferno of pain, only a dull ache. When the drizzle accelerated, he rolled onto all fours, grunted his way up to kneeling, then propped his good foot under him. Jamming the staff into the ground for balance, he rose unsteadily. Once erect, he tried a little weight on the bad foot. It complained, but he could move it. Perhaps it wasn’t broken. Pulling the staff close to his right side, he limped into the shelter to find his family.
Christiane, cradling Walther, whispered that Johann should stay quiet and rest. He settled against the wall, half-upright, then dropped into a doze. When he awoke, he wrapped up in a blanket and worked his way back outside. The drizzle had relented. At first, his presence, seated on log at the common fire, stifled the women’s conversation while they did their chores and watched the children. As the day wore on, with Johann doing nothing but shifting his seat from time to time, he became invisible. The women’s talk resumed.
Christiane left Walther with him while she hauled out their blankets and clothes and spread them on bushes for airing. Johann wondered at her confidence that the rain wouldn’t resume, but said nothing. Then she went to the river to rinse out Walther’s swaddling clothes. Johann slid from the log onto the ground to play a hide-the-pebble game with the baby. Everyone in the clearing watched as Nungesser was rowed to the sloop to meet with Leichter. Their hopes traveled with him.
A weak sun had passed its highest point before Nungesser dropped awkwardly into the small boat for the ride back to shore. Christiane was feeding the baby inside. Johann levered himself back up on the log. When Nungesser approached the common fire, his stride was purposeful but clumsy. He was no athlete. His black suit, black cape, and black hat accentuated his customary sobriety, though flushed cheeks and a look of self-satisfaction suggested that sobriety might be an illusion.
Nungesser waved for people to join him before the fire. “Come, friends,” he called. His moon face smiled unpersuasively.
Johann stayed on the log. He could see Nungesser only when someone shifted to give him a sight line, but he felt too weak to stand. Also, he didn’t care to call attention to himself, not after the derision of the night before. When Christiane approached with Walther in her arms, Johann pointed for her to step to the front. She stood next to Fritz and Ursula.
“I bring the best wishes of Herr Leichter on behalf of General Waldo,” Nungesser began. “He made a point, again, of emphasizing how much General Waldo values the importance of his settlers—he said that the general always refers to us as his settlers—to the future of Broad Bay.”
“Enough, Nungesser,” a voice called out. “The land. What of the land?”
The schoolmaster cleared his throat. “Herr Leichter assures us that the land will be allocated in the spring, on the terms promised. Each family will get the 50 morgens, but next year we also will labor on a common plot that will be created over there.” He pointed to a level stretch of land north of the settlement.
“What of raising our own crops on our own land?”
Nungesser turned deliberately to the questioner. He waited a beat. “We may do that on our own time, after laboring on the common plot.” An ill-tempered ripple passed through the crowd.
“And payment for the lands?”
“I’m pleased to report that the general will still wait three years for payment.”
Another voice broke in: “When does the three years start? Does it start after we’re through laboring on the common plot? We can’t raise our own crops while we’re raising his.” A murmur of agreement rose.
Nungesser looked puzzled. “The starting point—that was not discussed.” After an awkward silence, he spoke again. “Some provisions will be delivered by the dinghy this afternoon.”
“Is it everything that he promised?” This came from a woman. Johann thought the voice was Frau Reuter’s. He still didn’t trust her husband, but had almost decided that she was all right.
“Herr Leichter said there have been shortages in Boston, so prices have been high. So we will have to supplement the pro-visions ourselves.”
“What of the tools?” Fritz asked.
“Happily, there are many tools,” Nungesser said, “and they will be available for sale this afternoon.” Johann smiled grimly. He had meant to be the one to negotiate with Leichter. He knew more English than Nungesser did and would have been adamant. Now that the news from Leichter was so disappointing—even infuriating—he was just as glad that Nungesser had to deliver it. Would the news be different if Johann had negotiated? From what he had seen of Leichter and what he knew of Waldo, he thought probably not.
“Wait, now,” Fritz called from his seat, “General Waldo is supposed to provide the tools, not sell them to us. That’s what the paper said.” Other voices agreed.
“Do you have the paper?” Nungesser wheeled on Fritz.
When Fritz didn’t answer, Christiane spoke up. “We do. We have it. That’s what it says. I can get it.”
Nungesser shrugged. His oval face took on a resigned look. “I asked about paying for the tools, and Herr Leichter said that if any settler needed credit to purchase tools, it would be available. There would be no need to repay for three years, as with the land.”
“So when does that three years start?” a voice called out.
Nungesser ignored the question. He looked back at the sloop. “You can see that they’re bringing the provisions now, so you men can help store them. The tools will come next.”
* * * * * *
“That man is a fool,” Fritz said through clenched teeth as he crouched next to Johann. “We’re at General Waldo’s mercy so long as Nungesser speaks for us.”
Johann shrugged. “He may be a fool, but we’re at General Waldo’s mercy no matter who speaks for us. I doubt I could have done better. What else are we to expect from the Hereditary Lord of Broad Bay? We are his peasants.”
“So what do we do?”
“Until we have our land, we act like his peasants. What else is there to do?” Fritz stalked away. Johann hadn’t seen him so angry. He wondered if his own calm came from his injury. And last night’s humiliation. Nothing like shame to focus the mind.
Christiane joined him on the log. “You will have to do this now,” he said, “getting the tools. They’ll set up down at the pier. There will be men with guns to make us quiet. I don’t think I can get down there. Even if I got there, I would only collapse.”
She nodded. “So, shall we trade as we talked about?”
“Yes. We have the hoes and shovels from your father, and the buckets. We can raise food with them.”
“But it’s the wood, you keep saying that.”
“Yes, I listen to Robert McDonnell and I believe him. It’s the wood. I must learn to harvest it and use it.” He waved at his foot. “Also, I must be more careful.”
“So, which tools?”
“Not fancy ones for making cabinets and chests, not all the chisels and such that McDonnell has. Get saws, two if you can. A good ax. A good plane. I don’t think we can pay for more.”
“Nungesser said there will be credit.”
“We spit on General Waldo’s credit. It’s a fool’s comfort.” He looked down at the riverbank. Men were unloading a few barrels of flour and salt pork. “What we really need is a rifle.” He looked over at Christiane. “For hunting.”
“But you’ve never hunted.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Only men on a battlefield, with a musket. It’s not the same. In the woods, you must be sly and quiet and smart. On the battlefield you must be lucky. Let’s see about the money.”
Christiane knew that Johann didn’t need to count the money. He could recite to the penny how much they had. But she waited. When Walther
began to crawl toward the fire, she ran after him. When she returned, Johann had emptied his leather pouch into his palm. She sat close to him to shield the coins from prying eyes. He counted them out, dropping each into her cupped hands. It came to four pounds, fifteen shillings. Johann cursed and sighed.
“A gun?” she said.
“Not unless the general is giving them away. They may not even have one.” He held the pouch while she slid the coins back in, keeping one eye on Walther. Every day, the baby moved faster. “Look for McDonnell. If he’s there, ask him to help you.”
“Not Fritz?”
“McDonnell knows this place. Look for him.”
“You trust him? After only these few days?”
Johann nodded. “We must trust someone. And Christiane, trade with them. Like you do in the market.” She smiled. “If they won’t speak German, use fingers for the numbers. Numbers are the same in every language.”
She put the leather pouch around her neck and wrapped Walther in a blanket, then joined the other settlers waiting near the shore. Two boats were returning from the sloop, loaded with tools. The settlers drifted into a line that roughly respected how long each family group had been waiting. They talked little among themselves.
As Johann had predicted, two men with pistols in their belts stood behind the man with the tools, who announced his name as Armstrong. Because he spoke no German, and the settlers spoke no English, the trading was slow. Both sides used gestures and spoke loudly and slowly, as though volume and pace would render an unknown language comprehensible. Christiane couldn’t understand why Leichter didn’t trade himself. He could have done it in German in half the time.
Walther amused nearby settlers by grunting through a bowel movement, which Christiane pretended wasn’t happening. Then he grew restless, twisting in her arms and crying in dismay. She tried songs and bouncing. After nearly an hour, Ursula came by with Sigrid and asked if Walther would like to go with them. Christiane agreed with pleasure, warning that Walther needed a cleaning. She immediately missed his warmth in her arms. She kept her eye on a large saw, a smaller saw, and an ax. They were unsold when she came face-to-face with Armstrong.
Armstrong eyed her with a grin and called back to the gunmen. “Look here, gents, I’m to do business with the apple dumplin’ shop, I am.” He lifted his three-cornered hat in an ironic salute. Appreciative sounds came from his audience. Christiane returned a half-curtsy but didn’t smile. She walked over to the items she wanted and touched each in turn.
“All right darlin’, if it’s business you’re after. You”—Armstrong pointed at her—”want these?” He lifted up the two saws she had touched, but then hefted the wrong ax. The one he lifted was too small, more like a hatchet. She said so in German and walked over and touched the one she wanted.
“More with the hubble-bubble,” Armstrong said, swapping the axes. He set it down next to the saws. Christiane looked the question at him with an open hand.
Armstrong gestured at the pouch she clutched in her hand. “Let’s see how much you have, then we can see what you can buy.”
When he reached for the pouch, she turned away and shook her head, saying, “Nein, nein.” This was not how to trade.
“Now listen, missus, until you learn the King’s English, we’re going to have to do business a certain way. Now hand it over.” He gestured behind her. “There’s folks waiting. Let’s get a move on.”
She told him in German that she wouldn’t be treated that way. She held up one finger for how many pounds she would pay. “Eine pound,” she said. Then all ten fingers to show how many shillings. She pushed both hands forward and said, “Shillings.”
“Missus, that’s insulting, to me and to General Waldo.” He waved her away. “You go on and come back when you can parley like a civilized person.”
“Armstrong!” The deep voice came from higher on the riverbank. Christiane turned and saw Robert McDonnell coming near. The line moved so he could pass.
“Look out, boys,” Armstrong said over his shoulder to his guards, “here comes our very own Scottish laird. Guess he’s got to the apple dumplin’ shop before me.” The smirks returned.
McDonnell nodded to Christiane, then turned to Armstrong. “Frau Oberstrasse will give you two pounds for the lot of them. Cash money.”
Armstrong stroked his chin theatrically. “Sounds like a partial payment to me. We could arrange credit for the balance.”
“Ready money, Armstrong, that’s what we’re talking about.”
The trader turned to Christiane. “Is that what we’re talking about, missus?”
She looked to McDonnell uncertainly. He leaned closer to Armstrong and spoke in a low voice. “You can see, Armstrong, she can’t understand a word, just another dumb cabbage-eater. But you don’t want to be taking advantage of a lady, do you?”
“Well, it wouldn’t keep me awake at night, now would it?” More appreciative sniggering. McDonnell kept his expression severe. Armstrong sighed deeply. “I suppose I could take four pounds for the three of them. Nowhere near their worth, but—”
“Two pounds, eight.”
“Aw, don’t be doing this now. You’ll get my stomach all in an uproar.”
“Two pounds, eight.”
“I’ll let them go for three pounds, but I don’t want to see either of you back here today.” He looked at Christiane and lifted three fingers. She looked at McDonnell, who nodded. “Drei pounds sterling,” he said. She turned away from Armstrong to count out the money. She handed it to Armstrong. McDonnell picked up the tools.
“Warten sie,” she said. “Eine gewehr?” Both men looked confused. Christiane raised her arms as though she was pointing a rifle and said, “Boom.” Armstrong smiled. McDonnell turned to Christiane so they could have a private exchange.
“How much is left?” He pointed at her pouch. She poured the remaining coins into his hand. He shook his head and returned them to the pouch. “Not half enough.”
When they reached the common fire, Christiane thanked McDonnell, who carried the tools. “I’ll just leave these with John,” he said, then pantomimed his meaning. She repeated her thanks and went for Walther.
Johann sat up and smiled at the sight of the tools.
“You found her?” Johann said.
“Aye, it was fair easy. She was the only pretty woman buying tools.” He set the tools next to Johann. “I need you back at work, John. The two lads I had today were so worthless I sent them away at noontime.”
“Tomorrow. This is much better now. It’s only pain.”
“When you’re able. When you’re able.” He sat on the log next to Johann. “Those tools are solid enough. When Waldo actually does something, he tends to do it fairly. And your missus did fine.” He poked Johann in the shoulder. “Tried to buy you a gun, she did.”
“A rifle?”
McDonnell gave him a puzzled look. “Haven’t seen one of those around here. No, a musket.”
“Not enough money?”
“Not nearly. Want these inside?”
“Leave them here. I’ll look them over.” He lifted the smaller saw and inspected it.
“Mind you keep that sharp. Find yourself a whetstone.”
“Yes, yes. Soldiers know how to keep blades sharp.”
CHAPTER NINE
†
The next morning, Johann woke clear-headed. He had more movement in the foot, no fever. His appetite was back.
He rose and grabbed his coat and boots—the good boot and the one slashed down to the ankle bone. Using the staff, he limped to a log at the common fire. His breath forming mist, he pulled on his greatcoat and buttoned it. Then he pulled on the good boot. He unwrapped the bad foot. It looked an ugly range of colors, but the swelling was down. He rewrapped it with only half of the linen, then tried to work the slashed boot on.
Getting down to the riverfront was awkward going. He had to drag his bad foot to keep the slashed boot in place, but he grew more pleased with each shuffling st
ep. He could work. Then he would work on their cabin the following day, Sunday. People might talk about him working on the Sabbath, but there was no choice.
The dawn’s half-light softened the far border between the river and the forest. With no wind blowing, the river was calm, a mirror of the heavens, even of his thoughts. He needed to think. He couldn’t think in the shelter, surrounded by so many arms and legs, so many mingled dreams, so many smells and groans. He needed to speak to God. Clinging to the staff, he sank to his knees.
Johann closed his eyes and fumbled for the thoughts that had troubled him since his accident. He had sinned again, his old sin, the one that always hung over him like a sharpened ax. The sin of pride, the first sin of Satan. It had started with Peter. He had been so angry over that. He still was. He hugged himself with both arms and stopped a sob. He couldn’t forgive God for taking Peter, not for that, but how could he judge God? He knew it was monstrous to judge God—for him, a sinner, to do it. But he couldn’t stop. Peter had been blameless, a small child. What purpose could God have in taking him? God couldn’t mean to punish Christiane. She did nothing to incur His wrath. She never would.
It had to be him, the prideful soldier who stole men’s lives for money. He was the object of God’s wrath, the one whose sins were repaid by the blameless boy. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes.
Johann made himself look across the water. He had to face his sin. His pride hadn’t ended when he left the army. When he arrived in this land, he meant to tame it in a single week. By making a show of working so hard and accomplishing so much, he meant to win favor—with Christiane, with the Germans and the English, with McDonnell, with Armstrong and Leichter and General Waldo.
Johann had aimed to lead the settlement, to seize the place close to the general’s agent that Nungesser now held, but instead he had made himself a laughingstock. He had aimed to claim his land within days of arriving here, but no land claim would be recognized until spring, if ever. He had aimed to build the first cabin of a new settler, but he had to sit nursing his foot while other men worked. And winter was coming, a winter—so the English said—like none he had known. He had to provide for his family. He had to make a place for the American Oberstrasses.
The New Land Page 7