William at once put his hand on his father’s shoulder and said, “Try to remember—he’s only a boy. And he’s different, Father. But he’s a good boy!”
Miles stood there for a long moment; then he said without turning, “You were right to stop me, William. I—I will be more thoughtful.”
“I’m sure you will,” William replied, then added, “you’ve been a wonderful father, sir, and this affair does not mean that I admire and love you any less.”
Miles wheeled and caught at the hand William put out to him. Gripping it strongly, he said, “I will do better, William!” Then he turned to look down at Adam, saying, “I was wrong, Adam, very wrong.”
Adam turned slowly. He had not flinched when the whip was falling, but he seemed to be hurt by hearing this, and he muttered only, “No, I didn’t do the work—I’m sorry to be so stupid.”
William nodded at his father over Adam’s head, approval in his eyes. He smiled and said, “You two must learn to pull together!”
“We will try, won’t we, son?” Miles said, tentatively putting his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “We’ll try!”
Adam said nothing, but there was a light in his dark eyes as he turned to look at the hand on his shoulder.
William said quickly, “Well, I must go!” He wheeled and made his way out, but turning at the door, he took one more look at the pair, the tall man with his hand on the small boy’s shoulder, and he smiled as he left.
Sampson was waiting at the buggy, holding the reins, and there was a strange expression in his face. He did something he’d never done in all his life—he put out his huge black hand, and William took it without thinking. Then the black face broke into a smile, and he said, “I thank you, Mist’ William!”
“For what, Sampson?” William asked in astonishment.
The black man nodded, gave a powerful squeeze to the other’s hand, then said, “Jes’ fo’ being whut you is!”
As William rode away, he wondered at the scene, for it seemed little short of miraculous to him that his father could change so abruptly—but he had prayed much and, being a simple man of faith, he said fervently, “Thank you, Lord—and let Father know the joy of making a man out of Adam!”
CHAPTER THREE
DISGRACED!
Miles was indulging himself in feeding his flock of black banty chickens on a crisp September morning. He had purchased the original pair at the dock from a dark-skinned woman arriving on a schooner, and since she spoke no English, he had no idea of the origin of the birds. Their shiny ebony color had caught his eye, and he had been pleased to find that they bred well and that their flesh was far more tender and delicious than the tough speckled variety he used for his table meat.
“Chick—chick—chick,” he called, and as he tossed a handful of grain to the ground, the small, noisy birds came running to him. As they pecked at the grain, he counted them, and was delighted to see that there were still eighteen hens and six jaunty roosters with brilliant red combs. He nodded to himself, deciding that it would not be too risky to have one of the plump roosters for supper. He knew of six nests containing the tiny greenish eggs, and if a skunk or a blood-thirsty weasel did not get loose, and if no other natural disaster occurred, it seemed as though God would prosper the flock so that he could not only have enough of the succulent dish for his own table but develop the species for sale as well.
“Black Winslows!” he said with a smile. “Now that would be something—to have this breed all over the country with the Winslow name!” He tossed another handful of grain and glanced across the yard. A steady thumping sound had started, and he saw Adam driving dust from a multi-colored carpet hanging on a line. “Be careful with that thing, Adam,” he called out. “You know your mother treasures that carpet more than her assurance of heaven!”
Adam looked up, smiled and called out, “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”
We’re doing a little better, thank God! Miles thought with some satisfaction. Ever since William had spoken so strongly to him, he had been very careful with the boy. He had noticed for the first time that though Adam was slow with books, he was a worker, never stopping until the job was done. Miles had been forced to take note also that Charles, for all his intelligence, was the opposite; he gave short attention to his chores, half-doing them and avoiding them as much as possible. This discovery had precipitated a family quarrel, for when he had caned Charles for neglecting his work, Martha had interfered with a burst of anger more fierce than he had ever seen in her. An armed truce was now in force that made meals most unpleasant, and Miles was forced to notice how merciless and strict his wife was with Adam.
As he threw the last of the corn to the chickens, a horseman galloped down the road and, seeing him, pulled his small roan up and dismounted. “Sampson!” Miles called out to his slave as he went to meet the visitor, “Tell Clara I’ll have one of these Black Winslows for supper.”
“Black Winslows?” the tall black man asked, scratching his head. “Wat in de world is dat, Mist’ Winslow?”
“Black Winslow—that’s what I’m naming these chickens.” Sampson suddenly laughed and nodded, “Yessuh—I tell her—but I thought I was de onliest black Winslow round dis’ place!” The thought tickled him, and he went off chuckling at his wit.
“Hello, Henry. Come in and we’ll have some tea.”
“Can’t do it, Miles.” The man who stepped forward to take Winslow’s hand was very short, but wide as a church door. He had a round red face and when he took off his hat to wipe his brow, he exposed a vast expanse of skull, having only a thin fringe of reddish hair around his ears. “You see this article ’bout George Whitefield in the Boston Newsletter?”
“No—but I can guess what it says.” Taking the paper from Henry Whaley, his closest neighbor, Miles read the item:
Last Thursday Evening the Rev’d Whitefield arrived from Rhode Island, being met on the Road and conducted to Town by several Gentlemen. The next day in the Forenoon he attended prayers in the King’s Chapel, and in the afternoon preach’d to a vast Congregation in the Rev’d Dr. Coleman’s Meeting House. So great and unruly was the crowd that what should have been a prayerful congregation was in fact a turbulent mob. When Rev’d Whitefield was advised that five persons had killed themselves in illadvised leaps from the gallery, he decided the Commons might be safer, and there he spoke to a multitude numbering twenty thousand.
Miles shoved the paper back at Whaley in disgust. “I can’t believe people will go out after such things!” He lifted his voice and called out, “Adam, that’s enough! You’re going to put a hole in that thing. You can go down to Farmer’s and pick up those hinges for me.”
Adam tossed the beater down and ran out of the yard, leaving the two men talking. Ned Farmer’s blacksmith shop was a mile and a half away, on the road toward town, but it was his favorite spot in all the world, so he sped away before his father had second thoughts. His sturdy legs pumped steadily and he stopped only once to get a drink from a cold spring that bubbled out of the ground. As he bent over, his coal-black hair fell over his eyes, and he tossed it back with a sudden motion of his head. He hated his black hair and dark skin, and had cut his hair clean to the skull when he was only five. The fair hair and the skin of the rest of his family made his own dark color stand out so that he felt like an outsider.
Ned Farmer was pumping the handle of the bellows as Adam entered the low building that housed the forge. He was a squat man with huge arms and a pair of soft brown eyes peering out of a square, brown face. “Ah, now, here’s me helper!” he grinned. “Give us a hand, will you now, Adam?”
With a quick nod, Adam took the handle, and with practiced, even strokes forced air onto the coals till they glowed yellow, then red, and finally when they were almost white, Farmer took a pair of tongs, plucked a long glowing strip of metal, and carrying it to the anvil began to hammer it with mighty strokes that sent a shower of sparks across the shop.
Adam left the bellows, and getting so close that
some of the hot sparks landed in his hair, he watched intently as the blacksmith flattened out the glowing iron. Then he took it up with the tongs and plunged it into a barrel of water, making a sizzling sound and causing steam to rise.
“Well, now, I’d guess your father wants them hinges, don’t he?”
“Yes, that’s what he sent me for—but can I do some work first, Mr. Farmer?”
“Well, just a bit, maybe. Get them tongs and fish one of them small strips—but let me soften them a bit.” As Farmer pumped the bellows he watched the face of Adam Winslow with affection. He’d never seen a lad so anxious to work with iron! Since his father had brought him to the forge as a very young lad, he’d spent every free moment with the blacksmith, and now the boy knew more about metal craft than most men. Farmer’s own son had shown no interest in the trade, and now he thought, Too bad he’s not my boy—I’d make a fine smith out of him! He’s got the knack.
Without being told, Adam drew a strip of white-hot metal from the coals, picked up Farmer’s smallest hammer and began to beat it with even strokes. The hammer was too big for him, but the smith noted that he held the piece firmly and the hammer fell evenly—not too hard, not too easy—on the metal, and when the piece hardened, Farmer picked it up with the tongs and said, “That’s a good job.”
Adam’s face flushed with pleasure, and Farmer wondered that the son of a wealthy merchant could be so pleased with the praise of a humble workman like himself. He had no idea how little of that sort of thing the boy got at home.
Adam stayed as long as he dared, helping the blacksmith, and if Miles had heard how freely he talked, he would have been amazed, for at home the boy was taciturn. When Farmer mentioned going to hear the preacher Whitefield, Adam related his experience in Philadelphia, and the large man took it all in. Finally he said, “I never heered nothing like it, Adam! Never! To tell the truth, I allus believed I was a fair sort of man. Good to my family, honest with people.” He ran his hand over his face, and shaking his head, he grinned and said, “Well, Mister Whitefield knocked all that outta me! Just a no-good sinner, that’s what I am—or was!”
Adam stared at him. “What did you do, Mr. Farmer?”
The blacksmith looked embarrassed and bit his heavy underlip before he answered. “Well, I don’t rightly know, boy, but when that man told me to repent and throw myself on God’s mercy, I done it!” He looked up with wonder in simple dark eyes and said, “I tell you, I called out, and it was like I got hit right between the eyes with a sixteen-pound sledge!”
“You fell down?”
“Right enough, I did!” Farmer shook his head slowly, and then he added, “I been in church all me life, man and boy, but I tell you when I called on God, it was the first time I ever really had any notion that He was real—and I ain’t been the same since!”
Adam was taking it all in with wide open eyes, and he said, “Mr. Farmer, when I saw all those people falling down in Philadelphia—I thought it was put on. But if you say it’s real, then I guess it is.”
The muscular hand of the smith fell on Adam’s shoulder, and tears appeared in his eyes. “It is real, boy! I don’t rightly understand it, but since that time, it’s been like Jesus Christ hisself has been right beside me—just as real to me as you are!”
Ned Farmer was not an emotional man, Adam knew, and he saw that he was embarrassed by his own display, so Adam smiled and said quickly, “I’m glad for you, Mr. Farmer.”
“Well, here’s the hinges, Adam.”
The boy took them; then his eyes fell on a pipe sticking up out of a barrel of junk. “What’s that, Mr. Farmer?”
“That? Oh, Squire Mason had me make him some of them—got something to do with a new-fangled way of farming—I dunno’ what.”
Adam went to the barrel and pulled out the pipe, which was about thirty inches long and nearly two inches in diameter. He stared at it, his brow wrinkled in thought, and then said, “Could you put an end on this, Mr. Farmer—and put a hole in it?”
Farmer laughed out loud, then asked, “What in the world you got in that brain of yours, Adam? You going to be an inventor like that Mr. Franklin?”
Adam said evasively, “Oh, just an idea.”
Ned Farmer was somewhat of a tinker and an inventor himself, so he chuckled and took the pipe from Adam. “Let’s see, seal up the end? Why, that’s no trouble—I’ll show you.” He made an end for the pipe, and showed the boy how to attach it, then asked, “A hole in it?”
“Yes, right there—just a little hole.”
In no time, the job was done, and Farmer cooled it in the barrel, then handed it over, saying, “Can you carry this thing and the hinges, Adam?”
“Oh, sure—and thanks a lot, Mr. Farmer.”
“Let me have a look at the great invention when it’s all done, boy, and don’t forget your poor old friends when it makes you rich and famous!” he called out as Adam sailed out the door and headed for home. He shook his head as he went back to his work. Sure will be the ruination of a good blacksmith to make a scholar out of that one!
* * *
“What’s that thing?”
Charles had come into the small building used as a combination shop and storage house to find Adam busily working at something on the work table. There was an injured look in Charles’s eye, and for some reason he blamed his brother for the thrashing he’d gotten from his father. Adam glanced at him, then shrugged, “Oh, just an idea I had.”
Charles peered at the iron tube that Adam had wedged fast into the top of the workbench. “You’re always wasting your time making stuff,” he grunted. “What’s this supposed to be?”
Adam shifted his feet, reluctant to speak, but when he saw that Charles was not going to leave, he said, “Well, it’s a cannon.”
“A what?”
“A cannon.” Adam’s dark eyes glowed, and he began to explain the mechanism to Charles. “Look, a musket is nothing but a tube with one end plugged up. Well, I saw this piece of pipe at the blacksmith shop, and Mr. Farmer let me have it.”
Charles gave a disdainful sniff. “You can’t make a cannon!” Although he surpassed his older brother in many ways, he had no head for mechanical things, and it irritated him to be outdone. “That things’s just an old piece of pipe, and you’re making believe like you always do.”
Adam shook his head stubbornly, insisting, “Well, it ain’t a real cannon, but it’ll shoot. Look, when they shot the cannons off over at the fort, I watched ’em. All they do is put some black gunpowder down inside; then they put the cannon ball on top of that.”
Charles tried not to be impressed with Adam’s knowledge. “Oh, sure, but how do they make it go off?”
Adam smiled, and said, “I watched them and they stuck a flame down in a hole in the back—and there’s the hole we put in this cannon, me and Mr. Farmer.” He pointed to the small hole in the rear of the pipe, and his eyes lit up. He grinned and said, “This cannon would make the biggest noise you ever heard, Charles!”
“Well—” Charles tried to find something nasty to say, and finally blurted out, “You don’t know that! It’s just an ol’ piece of pipe!”
“Is not!”
“Well, if you’re so smart with your dumb old pipe, why don’cha shoot it off then?”
“ ’Cause I don’t have no gunpowder,” Adam shot back. “If I just had some black powder, you’d see something!”
Charles suddenly grinned “I’ll get you plenty of powder,” he yelled. “I know where Father keeps it—and I’ll get some of his musket balls, too!”
Adam was shocked. “You better not! You know he told us not to fool with his guns and stuff!”
“How’s he going to know?” Charles shrugged. He was still angry with Adam, and he turned, saying “I’ll get the powder then you’ll see your old pipe is nothing at all!”
Adam was afraid, and he hoped that Charles would change his mind—but he knew his brother too well for that. In five minutes Charles came out of the house carrying som
ething in his hands. He entered the shop, dumped a powderhorn and a leather pouch containing musket balls on the table.
“There, Big Mouth!” he grinned. “Now, let’s see your big ol’ cannon do something!”
Adam shook his head, looking down at the powder and balls. “I can’t use these, Charles. Father would—”
Charles snorted and struck Adam on the shoulder. “You’re not only dumb, you’re a fake, too! All this stuff about inventin’ things—you can’t really do any of it!”
Adam’s dark eyes suddenly lit with a rare flash of anger, and he snapped, “You’re a liar.”
“Well, prove it!”
“I will!”
Adam grabbed the pipe and began strapping it to a section of round wood about six inches thick and two feet long. As he tightened the leather thongs, Charles asked, “What’s that?”
“You don’t think I’m gonna hold this cannon and shoot it, do you? I gotta have a gun carriage.”
He finished lashing the pipe down, then picked up the unit with a grunt. “Bring the powder and balls,” he commanded.
Charles obeyed, and followed him out the door. Adam struggled as far as the tree line that was beside the house, a hundred-yard strip of oak and poplar separating the pasture from the house. “We gotta get away from the house,” he grunted. “It’s going to make a big noise!”
“What you gonna shoot at?” Charles asked. He forgot his irritation and began to enter into the spirit of the adventure. “Let’s have a target.” He looked around, and spotted a large section of the light gray canvas covering up some equipment next to the carriage house. “I’ll get us something.”
He ran to get the piece, and by the time he got back, Adam had dug a trench in the loamy soil with a stick and had planted the log which served as a mount for the “cannon.” “Stretch it across those saplings, Charles,” he called out, his face intent. “No, farther back than that!”
Charles retreated into the stand of trees and put the canvas across several small saplings, then came back. “Let’s load ’er up, Adam!” he urged.
The Indentured Heart Page 4