Mending Horses

by M. P. Barker

  He returned to his own shanty. His glance fell on the thin slant of weak sunlight coming through the cracked window. Jimmy’s and Mick’s toys still lay where Augusta had placed them the day they’d taken the coffins away. The sight decided him, and he turned back to her door. Better to face her anger than to find out too late that she’d stayed abed with a fever and himself too timid to knock. He rapped hard. “Augusta, are you not well?”

  Ah, there it was: a rustle of cloth, the scrape of a chair on the floor. A cough on the other side of the door, and Liam found himself studying what sort of cough it might be.

  “I’ve taken a little chill, that’s all, Liam,” she said, not opening the door.

  “I’m that sorry to hear. Hand me out your pitcher and bucket, and I’ll fetch you some water. I’ve breakfast and tea ready. I’ll bring it over for you, shall I not?”

  “No. No, don’t bother. I just want to go back to sleep.”

  The door stayed closed between them.

  “Augusta,” he said, his voice lower now. “If you’re not—not alone—I’ll go. You needn’t lie to me. But if you’re truly ailing. . . . I can’t be knowing that and not doing something to—”

  “Then go for a walk,” she said, her words hatchet sharp.

  He bit his tongue against the urge to respond in kind. There was someone there, then. And what right had he to care? She’d made no secret of what she did in the evenings, but as long as he didn’t see her come and go with her men, he’d been able to pretend it wasn’t real. But the idea that one of them was with her now, while the meal he’d made sat cooling on the hearth and his surprise unseen—

  “Bloody hell,” Liam grumbled as he stomped down the alley. What an idiot he was—his dreams, wishes, ambitions, naught but lies that he’d filled his head and heart with so he’d not have to admit how empty his life was. Just another lie, it was, that he could set Augusta on a different path, that there could be more between them than neighborliness, that there was more than pity in the way she looked at him.

  “Tell yourself the bleeding truth, man,” he muttered. He was naught but a laborer, a ditch-digger, and Augusta was naught but a whore. Those were the facts, and he might as well face them. And surely a man should do better than be turned witless by a woman’s—a whore’s sharp tongue. Why should he be wandering about the streets, angry and petulant as a scolded child? Might as well go home and eat the breakfast he’d wasted so much money and time preparing.

  He saw a figure approaching Augusta’s door as he rounded the corner. Damn and bloody hell if it wasn’t herself there, bringing in her own water bucket, her shawl draped over her head. She turned away and gathered the edge of the shawl closer about her cheek, but not before Liam noticed the purple mark surrounding her half-closed eye.

  “Augusta,” he said, and all of his resolve crumbled. He took three broad strides toward her and drew the shawl aside.

  She turned so the bruise was in shadow. “There was a disagreement over my . . . fee.” She tried to push past him to her door. “It’s nothing, Liam.”

  He blocked her way. “That’s it. This—this work of yours. It’s over.”

  She laughed humorlessly. “And who gave you the right to choose my life?”

  “I can’t be living next to you and pretending that what goes on in there”—he jerked his chin toward her door—“that it doesn’t matter.”

  She drew herself up straight. “Who are you to be looking down on me?” She tried once more to shove him aside and open her door.

  He took her by the shoulders and forced her to face him. “It’s not me doing the looking down, lass.” He cupped a hand under her chin and tried to turn her face up toward his, but her eyes darted away. “It’s them.” His contemptuous gesture encompassed all the men who’d shared her bed. “They got no more right to be touching you than I do.”

  She shook her head. “Liam, don’t make me out to be something I’m not.”

  “You’re more than this, Augusta. Can you not be seeing the truth of it?”

  “The truth is I have to eat. I have to live.”

  “Oh, aye? And how long is it you’ll be living with such as this one for your trade?” He brushed a finger whisper-light to her bruised cheek, and she winced away. “What am I to do should the next one kill you?”

  “What are you to do? I hardly see that it concerns you.” She pulled against his grip.

  He held fast and gave her a little shake. “Christ, lass, haven’t I just lost everyone that ever mattered to me? I’ll not be losing another.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You matter to me, Augusta. What you do. Who you’re with. What becomes of you.”

  She finally met his eyes, staring at him as if he’d spoken the words in Irish instead of English. Then she blinked and shook her head. “You don’t know what you’re saying. It’s only gratitude because I helped—”

  He cut off her words by putting a finger to her lips. “And p’raps it’s naught but pity that has you keeping me company. What of it? It’s more than either of us has had from anyone else in a long time. It’s more than most folk have to start on.”

  “To start what?” she asked.

  “Again,” he said, almost in a whisper. “To start again.” He bent to kiss her unbruised cheek. She turned her head, not away this time, but so that her lips met his.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Wednesday, October 30, 1839, North Adams, Massachusetts

  A cymbal crashed, and Pearl leaped through the paper-covered hoop that Francesca and Billy held in front of the entrance to the ring. Close on her heels came Silk, then Lizzie, Kelpie, and Onyx. Rinn jumped through last of all, pausing as he entered the ring to look up toward the box seats, as if the applause were all for him. Daniel directed the ponies in a canter around the ring as the band struck up a jig. But for their plumed bridles and a surcingle around each pony’s belly, the ponies were naked, their glossy coats more beautiful than all the blankets and spangles that Professor Romanov had tricked them out with. No bootblack was needed to hide hooves that were no longer cracked and dry. Their well-brushed manes and tails streamed like banners, and silky fringes of hair fluttered gaily around their fetlocks.

  As the ponies circled him, Daniel wondered if it was right for anybody to feel this happy. He’d never in his life dreamed anything so grand, not even in that secret green place inside himself.

  The jig drawing to an end, he brought the longeing whip smartly to his side. The ponies whirled into position, facing him like spokes on a wagon wheel with Daniel at the hub. Silk still turned to the right instead of to the left, but they spun so handily and spaced themselves so evenly along their circle that Daniel had to forgive her. He held his arms out, and the ponies ranged themselves into two lines, like dancers ready to perform a contra. Mr. Stocking struck up “Flowers of Edinburgh” on his fiddle, and Daniel guided the ponies through a leisurely series of passes and loops and figure eights. They responded as if they were all of one mind—even Kelpie.

  “Flowers of Edinburgh” turned into “The White Cockade,” and the ponies picked up their pace, weaving more complicated patterns. Daniel felt the audience hold its breath as the ponies seemed on the verge of collision, then safely passed each other, then whirled to turn in the opposite direction, pricking their ears and bobbing their heads in apparent acknowledgment of the applause that broke around them. The intricate maneuvers were not only meant to impress the audience, but to distract them from the acrobats maneuvering into place around the ring.

  The ponies settled into a canter on the outside of the ring. Daniel glanced about to make sure that the riders were in their places. Ready, steady . . . no, not yet. Billy still needed a moment to collect herself. Daniel let the ponies make one more circuit of the ring, then he nodded to the acrobats. He turned to face Mr. Chamberlain, who stood at the ready near the band. Daniel gave the whip a tiny flick, then flung his arms into the air and shouted, “Now!”

  With an e
xplosive crack, Mr. Chamberlain set off a burst of colored smoke over the ring. At the same time, Billy and the Ruggles boys leaped onto the backs of the cantering ponies. To the audience, who’d been momentarily dazzled by the noise and smoke, the riders seemed to have materialized by magic. The acrobats waved and grinned at the cheering crowd, then one by one, they stood on the ponies’ backs.

  Good, Daniel thought. Not a wobble among them, not even with Billy and Kelpie. He signaled the riders that all was ready for the next stunt. Each struck a new pose, stretching one leg out in front or behind, leaning forward or backward, each pose more difficult than the one before it. Last was Philo, who performed a headstand on Lizzie’s back.

  Daniel itched to be up there with them, even though he knew his most important job was to stay grounded in the center of the ring. With the tricks still green and raw, someone needed to monitor horses and riders, to slow the pace or stop the performance at any sign of a rider’s unsteadiness or a horse’s unruliness. Even from the ground, though, his heart synchronized with the thrumming of the hooves in the trampled grass. If a pony stepped amiss, he would feel it before he saw it. If the whip was an extension of his arm, the circling ponies were an extension of his entire being. Never before had he felt such a strong connection, not only with the animals, but with their riders.

  Harry Ruggles and Rinn flashed by. Harry tilted his body forward so that it was parallel with Rinn’s back, one leg extended straight behind him, his arms spread like wings. The blazing grin on Harry’s face was echoed in the proud arch of Rinn’s head and the sweep of the bay pony’s black tail, held aloft like a flag. Harry waggled the tips of his fingers as if to say, “I’m flying.”

  Daniel grinned back, then brought his hands together before him. The circle of ponies became two circles, one inside the other, three ponies cantering clockwise and three ponies cantering counterclockwise. The riders leaped, twirled, and changed places as gracefully as dancers, once, twice, three times. The applause crescendoed as the riders began their dismounts one by one, progressing from Billy’s simple leap to single, double, and triple pirouettes from Philo, Moze, and Charlie, and concluding with somersaults from Teddy and Harry.

  The band struck up a frenetic hornpipe, while Mr. Sharp and Mr. Dale set up a springboard, turning the chore into a crazy dance that included cartwheels and headstands as they pretended to test the board’s strength and stability. Then Daniel brought Kelpie and Pearl to the center of the ring. Francesca joined her brothers in a series of vaults from the springboard over the ponies’ backs. After each jump, Billy brought forward another pony, making the leaps more challenging until all six stood in a neat row, seemingly oblivious to the acrobats twirling and spinning over and around them.

  Daniel monitored the ponies for the slightest sign of uneasiness, holding their attention with soft words and tiny changes in the tilt of his head, the slant of the whip. He’d sandwiched Kelpie, the most mischievous, between Pearl and Lizzie, and he’d placed Rinn, the most energetic, between Silk and Onyx, so that the calmer ponies would hold the more fretful ones steady. Kelpie was usually the first to break ranks. A flick of an ear, a roll of an eye or curl of a lip, a shift of weight, a ripple of the skin along his withers would tell Daniel it was time to end the routine.

  The finale was supposed to culminate with the tumblers forming a human pyramid as they vaulted from the springboard and landed one by one on the far side of the ponies, with Francesca at the peak. Then Mr. Sharp would toss a lit torch to Francesca to hold aloft like a beacon. It was a beautiful sight—in practice. But the noise and bustle of a crowd made it hard for the ponies to stay focused on Daniel, and inevitably Kelpie would grow restless long before the final stunt. So Daniel would usually signal the tumblers to break off, and they’d pretend that whatever stunt they’d done last was the true finale.

  This afternoon, though, there was a different energy in the air. Billy joined Daniel in front of the ponies. “Now?” she murmured. He answered her with a smile and a soft. “Aye, they’ll stand.”

  And stand they did, as Harry, then Teddy and Charlie leaped and landed to form the pyramid’s base. Moze and Philo came next, alighting on their brothers’ shoulders as steadily as if on solid ground. Finally, Francesca turned a graceful head-over-heels somersault before becoming the apex of the pyramid.

  Kelpie snorted, and Rinn bobbed his head. They would break ranks any second now. Daniel shook his head at Mr. Sharp; adding the torch might be too risky. It was the best they’d ever done before an audience; there was no point chancing their luck any further. Torch or no, the trick had never looked so grand, the ponies never so alert and handsome, the acrobats never so precise and skillful.

  Francesca leaped to the ground, landing with a cat’s easy grace. Her brothers followed, raising their arms in triumph, then bowing to the cheering crowd. Daniel signaled with the whip, and the ponies reared as one onto their hind legs, came forward two steps, then dropped back to all fours and gracefully bent their right forelegs and bowed along with the gymnasts.

  Daniel whipped off his cap and bowed, not to the audience, but to the ponies and the acrobats. As he straightened, he and Billy shared a grin that warmed him down to his toes. And even though he’d never left the ground, he was soaring.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Thursday, October 31, 1839, Middlefield, Massachusetts

  “Good God, Hugh, you attack that rock like it was the very devil himself.” O’Neill laughed and clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “Pace yourself, man, or you’ll drop before it’s yet dinnertime.”

  Hugh settled his pickax and wiped his sweaty hands on the seat of his trousers. He took a long drink from the bottle of cider that O’Neill offered him, the sweet amber liquid dribbling down his chin. He dragged his forearm across his face, though his grimy sleeve did more to add grit to his cheeks than to dry off the sweat and cider. “I’m fine, Martin. It feels good to be working again.”

  Since arriving at the railroad camp, he’d assaulted his work with the intensity of a fiend. He rubbed his hands together before lifting his pick again, feeling the tough leathery places where healed blisters were turning to calluses. It was hard work, aye, work that left him limp and drained at the end of the day. And that suited him perfectly—to drop onto his blankets and sleep without dreaming.

  It felt good to slash at the mountain with pick and shovel as if he were striking at the very face of God Himself, who’d stolen so much from him. To strike for once with blows that, for all the force he put into them, could do no harm to anyone he loved.

  Aye, it felt good to be working out here in the fresh air, even in the damp and the cold. He could breathe again, no matter that the air was dense with stone dust and dirt. It was free air, fresh and cleansing. Perhaps out here he could work his way into healing. Perhaps . . .

  If only that young teamster down the way didn’t put him so much in mind of Liam.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Friday, November 1, 1839, Pittsfield Massachusetts

  Daniel slipped into the pavilion just in time to watch Francesca begin her corde volante performance. It still captivated him to see her float and twirl high up in the pavilion’s peak, like a white butterfly blown aloft by the music of Mr. Stocking’s fiddling. He held his breath as she let go of the rope, somersaulted, then caught herself and hung by her knees. He was so hypnotized that he almost leaped out of his skin when a long-fingered hand grasped his shoulder.

  Daniel clapped a hand over his own mouth to stifle a cry of surprise. Mr. Chamberlain’s dark, furious eyes glared at him. “Where is she?” the conjurer asked.

  “Uh?” For the moment, the only she Daniel could think of was Francesca.

  “Billy, you dolt. She’s supposed to be on next,” Mr. Chamberlain snapped, apparently so angry that he’d forgotten to keep the lass’s gender a secret.

  “Last I knew, Billy was with Mr. Stocking.”

  He’d not seen much of the lass all day. She’d left the morning’s equest
rian drill to Daniel and the Ruggles boys, claiming she had a new song to learn with the peddler. She’d left Daniel with the harnessing of the ponies’ wagon for the parade, and she’d not taken her place in the caravan until the very last moment. Daniel had thought she’d been in one of her snits, though he’d not been able to figure out what he’d done to anger her.

  Mr. Chamberlain shook his head. “Jonny nearly missed his cue, he was so busy looking for her. Nearly had to have Francesca performing to the slide trombone.”

  “I—um—”

  “Never mind.” Mr. C. twirled one end of his false mustache. “I’ll read some heads or conjure a ghost. That’ll make ’em happy. But she’d better be here for the finale.”

  Daniel found Billy back at the inn, curled in the straw in Pearl’s empty stall, hugging her legs to her chest. He opened the door warily. “Are you ailing?” he asked. She had seemed a bit peakish that morning. He’d never seen her turn away breakfast before.

  “I think I’m dying,” she said. He couldn’t see her face, which she kept pressed against her knees. She held her shoulders tight to her body, as if to hide that she was crying.

  “Dying? You’ve not been at Mr. Stocking’s tobacco again, have you?”

  She shook her head and rocked herself back and forth. “There’s such a griping in me guts. And there’s blood. So much blood.”

  “Blood?” he asked. “Where? What happened?” He put a hand on her shoulder and tried to turn her face toward him. She squirmed away and curled herself tighter. When she finally looked up, her cheeks were wet with tears and flushed bright red. “D-D-Down there. Blood. Just like Mam. There was so much blood down there when she died.”