by Alex Myers
The man hurried off, limping as he walked, looking back once over his shoulder in Jack’s direction. It was almost as if the old man was begging for Jack to use his 21st century sensibilities and help him out of this situation. There was something old and knowing in the man’s eyes, something that struck Jack in the heart.
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, just ole nigger Hercules. Bought him two weeks ago and he ain’t worth a plugged nickel. He’s too old and lame to do any real work and too stupid to do anything else.”
Jack thought how inappropriate the name “Hercules“ was for the diminutive man.
With a gesture of her hand she said, “This is it, my broken plow.”
Half of the barn was closed off. There was an enormous padlock on an oversized door, another mystery Jack filed away.
Off to the side of the open barn was the plow. Jack hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow he thought it was going to be a little more elaborate than a wedged piece of metal attached to a hunk of wood. He couldn’t tell what was broken and what wasn't.
“The metal piece came off the wood,” she said, bending over to show him.
He bent over to look with her and realized their faces were inches apart. If she noticed, she didn’t seem the least bit sorry about it.
“I think what you need is a whole new piece of wood,” Jack said eyeing the split near where the metal plow had been attached. “It looks like you drop it right in from the top….”
“So why aren’t you married yet, or are you the kind of man who can’t figure out what he wants?” she said, pressing her finger to her chin and showing him her dimples.
Jack was confused. Was she a desperate housewife looking for a father for her kid, or was she a hooker, or something even more nefarious than that? He played along with her.
“Just lucky, I guess. And how about you, Mattie? Have you thought about getting remarried?”
“Oh, I’ve thought about it—just haven’t found the right man yet I suppose….” She was almost standing on his feet. “Or maybe I have,” she said closing her eyes and looking ready for a kiss.
Jack took a step back and stumbled over the plow. Catching his balance, he noticed the silhouette of a tall man where the sun shone through the loosely fitted boards of the barn.
CHAPTER 18
March 1856
Kaz the Gunsmith
“Hello? Is somebody there?” he yelled.
Mattie opened her eyes with a start and turned in the direction Jack was looking.
“Somebody’s out there,” he whispered. “Hello?” he yelled again. The figure stood dead still and didn’t answer.
“Kaz, is that you?” she said. Her nostrils flared with fury.
“Yes, Mrs. Turner, it’s me, Kazmer,” a voice said with a deep, foreign accent.
“ Kaz, what are you doing lurking around out there?”
“I made your plow and I brought it with me.” Jack heard humbleness in his voice.
“Kaz, come inside. I don’t like talking through walls.” Turning to Jack she said, “Kaz is a nice man, Romanian I think. Anyway, he’s the gunsmith in town, and he makes things—bicycles, whatever, as if people have time for such foolishness. He’s sweet on me.” She said it as if everyone was.
“Am I getting in the middle of something?” Jack saw a lot of people walking around with guns and he wasn’t sure how jealous this guy who made guns might be.
“Oh, he’s harmless. And besides, he’s sweet on me, not the other way around,” she said, taking a step closer to Jack.
A long, gangly man appeared in the doorway; he was about six-foot-four with dress pants and shoes, white shirt, vest, and necktie. His hair had totally receded, but he hadn’t done a comb-over. He had his hat in his hands and was shuffling his feet, looking nervous. Despite Kaz’s severely thinning hair and glasses, he was a good-looking man, Jack thought.
“Mrs. Turner, I made you a new plow. I have it hooked up now to my horse. I try it out. It works good,” Kaz said in his broken English. He stepped through the door, just barely though. He stole glances at Jack and went cold when he saw what Mattie was wearing. He stared with an open mouth.
“You better get yourself a good look, because this will be the only time you see me wearing my unmentionables.” Mattie stepped forward and placed her hand familiarly on Jack’s back. Kaz’s face flushed with humiliation.
“I had about plum given up on you and your homemade plow.” She almost snarled at him.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mattie. I’m sorry it took such long time.”
The awkwardness between Jack and Kaz was thick, so Jack stepped forward and introduced himself. “The name is Jack Riggs, pleased to meet you.” He reached for the man’s hand to shake it. When he got no verbal response, Jack said, “And your name is Kaz?”
“Yes, Kaz is my name. Kazmer Sevenski. I am from Poland thirteen years and I am gunsmith, but I love more to make the bicycles.”
Romania, Jack thought, looking at Mattie who just shrugged her shoulders. No one said a word for a long time. Kaz stared at his shoes, Mattie stared at Jack, and Jack looked back and forth between them.
“Well then,” Jack said, breaking the ice. “Let’s go take a look at that plow you made.”
They walked outside and around to the sunny side of the barn. “This is really impressive,” Jack said, upon examining the plow. “You say you made this?”
“Yes, I make this. I make this at my shop. I do a little of everything. Fix guns now most. Bicycle business is not too good in Norfolk. It was good in Boston, but it not so good in Norfolk. I repair wagons, make bars for jail, about anything with the metal. I like working with the metal.”
Kaz’s plow had started with idea of a basic metal blade, but now there were three evenly spaced blades and the support was made of metal instead of wood. The biggest difference was that, with the other plow, a person had to follow behind, holding on to handlebars to guide it, and with Kaz’s version, there was a heavier frame with what looked like a bicycle seat and foot pegs.
“How long did it take you to make this?” Jack asked, seeing the excellent workmanship.
“About three months. I would have it done sooner, but I know nothing about plow. I also had to have these new blades shipped from St. Louis. These blades are a new kind of steel process from England—Bessemer steel.”
Steel! Jack thought. They mix chromium with steel to make stainless steel and the Bessemer process oxidizes out the impurities. I’ll have to remember that, it might come in handy someday. “I bet Mattie will be glad you made a version like this instead of like the kind she had before. Where did you copy it from?”
“I did not copy. I make on my own.”
“You mean you designed this too?”
“That is what took the rest of time to make.”
“Thank you, Kaz,” Mattie said halfheartedly. “Kaz is always inventing me some little thing or another. Some work, some don’t.” She gave him a dismissive wave of her hand.
“You’re the second inventor that I’ve run into recently. Do you know Murphy McCord?” Jack asked.
Kaz’s face turned bright. “I work with Mr. McCord much. He brings many pieces of the metal to my shop. He is a natural inventor-thinker. Me, I have to work very hard at it.”
Jack looked at Kaz through a whole new set of eyes. The man was a true craftsman. The design was really quite ingenious. He could also see the way the man adored Mattie and he decided then and there that Kaz was more valuable as a friend than as a rival for Mattie’s affection. Now, if he only could convince Mattie of that.
“Plow works better with two horses. It is heavy. It still works with one, though. If I had to do all over again, I would make lighter. It is little too heavy. It still works good. Better, yes. It will get fields ready for planting in the, ah viosna—ah, how do you say? Spring? Yes, spring,” Kaz said.
“Can I try it out? That is, if you show me how to use it,” Jack asked. He wanted some time to think, plus t
o give Kaz a chance to talk to Mattie.
“Let me help you hook up two horses,” Kaz offered.
She looked disappointed that Kaz was not going to be plowing the field, leaving her and Jack alone in the house. Mattie said; “Kaz, when you’re done helping Jack, come on in the house. I’ll need you to kill a chicken. I got to get supper in the pot.”
Once Mattie had left, Jack asked Kaz what else he had made for her.
“Mostly furniture. Some I make with wood. Most I make with metal. I put the hot and cold water in her house. I use Mr. McCord’s design for that. Robbie cannot remember to shut the door. I make her a spring on hinge that will shut door by itself. Before she had just piece of leather for hinge,” ” Kaz said, unhooking Mattie’s horse and attaching it to the plow.
Jack just followed observantly. “Everything but the plumbing you designed yourself?”
“I have always been good with my hands,” he said harnessing the horse to the plow. “I wanted to make bicycle, but my family in Poland very poor. When Polish gunsmith from Boston offered my father to have me be his apprentice, I come to America. I have thirteen years and had to work everyday very hard. Mr. Kobylczak was best gunsmith in all of Boston and he has his own metal shop. I soon worked only in metal shop. Never make whole gun for him, only pieces. Four years ago I come to Virginia to open shop of my own.”
A plan was forming in Jack’s head. “What kind of tools do you have in your shop?”
“I have the blacksmithing tools with a large forge and the bellows special I design myself—makes things very hot. I have the hammers, vices, drills, augers, files, plus tools for the woodworking and a boring and rifling bench.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of stuff. Did you bring it down from Boston with you?”
“No, I buy shop with most everything in it. Old gunsmith was killed. I use life savings to buy business from his family.”
“Can you read schematics?”
“I do not know this word.”
“Plans—blueprints?”
“Yes. Plans I can read. I make them very bad, though.”
“Can anyone in Norfolk draw up plans?”
“Yes. Man named Bob Cooper. He is from Georgia. One time I have him make plans for new kind of bicycle I design. I sent my old boss the plans. I never hear back from him though.” Kaz looked troubled as he secured the two horses. “Why? Do you have something you want to make?”
“I think you ought to have the plans for this plow drawn up. Is there a lawyer in town?”
“Yes, several. Why do you want plans of plow?”
“I think you ought to submit a patent of your design. I think you can sell quite a few of these. We’ll also have this Cooper do a rendering of it. We’ll make some flyers . . .”
“Flyers?”
“Pamphlets, we’ll make some pamphlets of your plow and I know a woman who can probably get them in the right people’s hands.” He was thinking of Frances and the Sangers.
“I don’t know,” Kaz said, rubbing his hands together.
“We can talk more about it after dinner.” Jack started thinking of all the other things that people in his time took for granted that would revolutionize this era. Kaz was right about Murphy; he was a natural born inventor. Together the three of them could shake up current technology. Maybe this is part of the big plan—it’d sure beat digging ditches and I bet I could make some serious money. “Show me how this thing works.”
After showing him how to operate the plow and control the horses, Kaz was getting ready to head to the house when Jack said, “There’s something I want to tell you about Mattie and me….”
He saw Kaz stiffen; his brow drew together in an agonized expression.
“Just so you know, my interest in Mattie is purely as a friend.”
Kaz smiled. There was an immediate softening to his features. “OK, maybe we try this patent thing.”
“As long as we’re going to be inventing and drawing up plans,” Jack said, “I might have some ideas for a few other things.”
“We can talk more,” Kaz said. He turned and made for the house, leaving Jack to plow into the future—the old one and the new old one. If I'm going to be stuck here, I might as well make the best of it, and some twenty-first century know-how wouldn't hurt.
He didn’t look forward to facing Mattie.
CHAPTER 19
March 1856
She’s Trouble
Dinner with Mattie, Kaz, and Robbie was strained and awkward. Mattie was used to getting her way with men and, clearly, Jack was pissing her off. She didn’t say a word, not to Jack, nor Kaz or even her son Robbie. Kaz attended her every movement and Robbie sat, not eating, and sulked. Dinner ended with Mattie standing and announcing it was over. She didn’t thank anyone or even say goodbye, she just ushered Jack and Kaz to the door with an arm movement.
The sun was just starting to set when they walked out of the house. Jack realized that he was four or five miles away from town. He hadn’t thought on the way out just how far off the beaten path Mattie’s place was. Who was he kidding? It was 1856 and he had never been further away from the old zip code.
Kaz had a horse but decided to walk it back to town with Jack. As they were about a half a mile away, they saw the slave Hercules lighting a huge lantern on the end of the big dock.
“What’s the story with that dock?”
“There are many things about Miss Mattie that I don’t know. It keeps her in happy mood when I don’t ask.”
Any earlier ticklishness had disappeared. They talked about things they could work on together and how much they both liked Murphy. They were back in town in a quick hour. Jack dropped Kaz off at his workshop two blocks away from the boardinghouse. Miss Nancy was sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the front porch of the house. Jack joined her.
“There’s some stew on the stove,” she said, rocking and looking out into the night.
“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten. It smells great though.”
“Been out seeing the sights?” Miss Nancy asked.
“That I have, and then some. Afraid I might have picked up a blister from these new shoes.” Jack crossed his leg and showed off his new purchase.
“Looks like you put some miles on them or did you buy them used?”
“No,” Jack chuckled. “I did some walking today. I had dinner with Mattie Turner.”
“No,” she said, short and sharp. Her face became hard.
“No what? And why did you get so serious?”
“You shouldn’t have anything to do with that woman.”
Jack smiled. “You almost sound as if you’re jealous.”
“Couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Then why would you tell me to keep away from her?”
“Because she killed her husband,” Miss Nancy said matter-of-factly.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she’s a stinking bitch.”
Jack turned in his chair to face her and smiled. “OK. Why would you call her a stinking bitch?”
“Because she killed her husband.”
“Aren’t we going around in circles? I thought her husband simply died.”
“He did, because she killed him.”
“Wait a minute. I heard he died in an accident.”
“His only accident was marrying her.” Miss Nancy slowed down, patted her hair a little. “Oh, she claimed it was an accident, but everybody knew the truth.”
“And the truth is—?”
“She stabbed him with a pitchfork. Said he fell on it.”
“It is a farm. I suppose someone could fall on a pitchfork.”
“Twice?” Miss Nancy said with withering scorn. “And the sheriff said he crawled about ten feet before he supposedly fell on it again. Suffered quite a bit, too, I heard. Bled to death.” Her white hands were knotted in her lap. She stared straight ahead and rocked with an imperceptible movement of her feet.
Jack chuckled nervously. “Pretty wild
accusations. Doesn’t sound realistic. She had a son with the man.”
“Wasn’t his. It was her lover’s, that lawyer. Abner Adkins.”
Jack’s mind was being blown. “Her lover’s?” He didn’t know that people of this era used those kinds of words. Then it clicked. “Did you say Adkins? As in Frances Sanger’s ex-husband?”
“He wasn’t her ex-husband at the time. They were practically newlyweds. You have to be blind not to see it, the boy looks just like him . . . looks sort of like you.”
“Me? The kid?”
“No. Abner Adkins. Good-looking man, just couldn’t keep his good sense in his pants.”
“You’ve got to slow down. This is a lot to comprehend.” Jack sat forward with his hands on his knees. He looked out to the backs of the buildings that ran along Main Street. Lights started to glow in a few of the upper floor windows. “So, Mattie marries this guy Turner—“
“Walter.”
“Walter Turner—“
“Had to, she was heavy with child, about five years ago.”
“This timeline’s getting all messed up. Robbie Turner is about five or six. She said her husband died a year ago—”
“Year and a half, and the boy is four. But she wasn’t pregnant with him. That was another child. Had him two weeks after the wedding.”
“And where’s that kid?”
“Dead. Her and the husband said it was the pox. But she never took him to the doctor, and they buried him right away. No one else ever got sick. Anyway, that was about the time Walt lost his inheritance. Walt came from a well-to-do family up in Richmond; Walt’s daddy was a drinker and a gambler, died at a poker table, lost everything. Once Mattie found out Walt wasn’t getting any of the family money and all she was going to be was a farmer’s wife, she shortly thereafter got herself a boyfriend, Abner Adkins.”
“While he was married to Frances?”
“Before, during, but not after.”
“Does Frances know all this?”
“I’ll say she does. Mattie marched up to her and spilled it all….”