Father unto Many Sons

by Rod Miller

  “Not yet, Pa.”

  “Wish I could help. Don’t know what to do.”

  Richard yelled from where he sat in the shade. “I do. I got an idea if you-all want to hear it.”

  “What’s that, Son?”

  Richard walked over to the wagon box. “Cut the damn thing in half. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with the front end.”

  Lee pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow and after a moment said, “So we make a cart.” He thought some more. “It’s an idea.”

  “Won’t work, Pa,” Abel said.

  Richard stuttered and stammered and finally spat, “What the hell do you mean, little brother? Just ’cause it ain’t your idea? ’Course it’ll work!”

  Abel stood. “Sure. We could build a cart, all right. But what you fixin’ to leave behind? We ain’t hardly got enough of what we need to get started somewheres as it is.”

  “We could put stuff on the Lewises’ wagons!”

  “Some, maybe,” Abel said. “But not half a wagon load or more.”

  Daniel said, “We will be happy to take what we can—but Abel is right. Our wagons are fairly well stuffed.”

  Lee weighed the arguments. “Abel’s right, Richard—but so are you. Let’s give Abel time to fix the wagon.” Then, to Abel: “Son, we ain’t got a whole lot of time to waste. If you don’t come up with an idea soon, well, I don’t see as we got any choice other than cut down the wagon like your brother says.”

  Abel and Richard locked eyes and held the gaze until Abel turned away. He walked over to the camp equipment under the wagon sheet fly and rummaged around in the bags and boxes. When he came out, he carried a narrow canvas bag. He squatted near the axle and dumped the picket pins from the sack, selected one and laid it next to the axle.

  Lee and Daniel walked over as if hoping to read Abel’s thoughts. Richard and Melvin stood by as well. After a moment, Abel stuffed the picket pins back into the bag and tossed it aside.

  “What do you have in mind, Lad?” Daniel said.

  “Don’t matter. Won’t work. Steel ain’t strong enough.”

  “Tell us,” Lee said.

  “I thought I could make holes in the axle and stick a steel rod in there to span the break—but one of these picket pins would only bend. If only I had a steel rod that was thicker, stronger. . . .”

  Daniel perked up after a moment and stabbed the air with his forefinger. “By George!” he said. “I might have just the thing!” He quickstepped to his lead wagon and climbed over the seat into the box. They watched the canvas rustle, heard the shifting and moving of boxes and bags and after a few minutes Daniel emerged from the wagon with a wool blanket rolled around something and tied with string.

  He dropped the bundle and untied the lashings and unrolled the blanket to reveal a rifle. “Gentlemen, this is a Baker rifle, manufactured in Enfield. Carried by my uncle—a member of the ‘Prince Consort’s Own Rifle Corps’—at the Battle of Water-loo.”

  The rifle’s stock was split and half was gone; only a splinter of the forestock still adhered to the barrel. The ramrod was missing altogether, as was the lid of the butt-trap patch box. The still-elegant scrolled trigger was twisted, the folding rear sight broken off, the cock and frizzen bent.

  Richard said, “What the hell happened to it?”

  “Our home was attacked by mobbers in Missouri. This is some of their work. I kept it for sentimental reasons, hoping one day to have it restored, but I am a right pillock to think so. I fear it is damaged beyond repair. Abel—will its barrel suit your purpose?”

  Abel squatted over the broken rifle and tipped his hat back. He felt the steel of the barrel, running his fingers along its length. “I believe it will, Mister Lewis. Are you sure you want to sacrifice it?”

  “Oh, its value is nil, even for sentimental purposes. If it will solve your problem, it will have died an honorable death.”

  Abel rose and clapped and clasped his hands. “All right, then. Melvin, will you gather up some rocks and build a kiln like they did with bricks at the brickyard—only has to be maybe two feet—and lay a fire in it. We’ll have to haul up plenty of wood from the river. I’ll need a tub of water as well.”

  The men and the women went to work, trooping down the ravine to the river and hauling back buckets of water and bundles of wood. No one of them was certain exactly what Abel planned—nor was Abel—but the work went on.

  Richard, hefting a bucket in each hand and a load of wood strapped to his back, complained every step of the way, heard mostly by no ears other than his own. Melvin walked with him after building his stone beehive, but did not join his brother’s complaints. Mary and Sarah teamed up, as did Emma and Jane, each pair sharing a bucket between them and carrying another. Lee and Daniel each drove a harnessed mule down and dragged heavy logs back to camp.

  Abel stoked a fire in the makeshift kiln and recruited Jane to keep it fed. He filled a washtub with water and shoveled in several spadesful of ashes from the cookfire and stirred them in. He unrolled the stiffened green buffalo hide and worked it into the tub, and when immersed weighted it down with rocks.

  “Well, folks, that’s all I can do for now. May as well have supper. If we take turns to keep the fire in the kiln goin’ all night we can go to work again in the morning.”

  Daniel said, “If you do not mind, Abel, can you explain what it is you plan to do?”

  Richard laughed and said, “I don’t think he has any idea what he’s up to. Whole lot of work for nothin’ if you ask me. And when he’s all done foolin’ around and wasting time, we’ll cut that wagon down and be on our way. Mark my words.”

  “Now, Richard, we chose to give Abel a chance,” Lee said.

  “You chose. Not me. You’re as big a damn fool as he is,” Richard said and walked away.

  Abel let the dust settle for a few minutes. “Here’s what I’m thinking. We get a hot enough fire in that kiln, we can heat up that rifle barrel enough to trim it down to a proper length and narrow one of the ends into a sort-of point. Then we keep it hot enough to burn a hole half as long as the barrel into each one of the busted ends of the axle. Then we stick the barrel in and join the axle ends together. I’m hopin’ that steel will be strong enough to support the wagon.”

  Lee nodded, thought a minute, and said, “What about the buffalo hide?”

  “Once we get it fleshed and scrape the hair off, we’ll cut it into strips and wrap it around the axle. That rawhide should shrink up tight and dry hard as the hickory in that axle. Least-ways I hope so. All I can do now is break down that rifle so the barrel will be ready. Come mornin’ we’ll put some fire to it. We should know in a few days if this idea has any chance of working.”

  Abel thought a minute, lowered his head and shook it slowly. “Could be Rich is right.” He wandered off into the brush, absent-mindedly knocking leaves from the brush with a stick as he thought. Later, he returned to camp and sought out Emma.

  “Miss Emma, I’ve got something for you.”

  The girl studied the sparkle in his eye through the blush shading his face and took note of the cookie tin—biscuit tin, to her—in his hands. “Whatever could it be, Abel? Biscuits—or cookies, as you call them?”

  Confused by the question, it finally dawned on Abel what she meant. “Oh, no! This can—well, it’s just somethin’ I saved years ago to keep trinkets and treasures and such in—you know, arrowheads and marbles and pretty rocks and a lead soldier I found. Such like that.”

  “So it’s a treasure you’ve brought me?”

  Again, her question disoriented him. “Oh, no,” he said. Then, “Well, maybe.”

  With that, he thrust the can into her hands. She smiled, further perturbing him, then worked loose the lid. With its grip released, she lifted the lid and looked inside to see a hairy brown spider the size of her hand scrambling around the bottom of the tin. Despite using all eight legs in the attempt, the tarantula was unable to find a way up the side and out of the container.

  Rather
than the hysterical scream Abel expected, Emma slid the lid back into place. She clutched the can to her breast and flashed her widest smile. “Why, Abel, it is a treasure indeed. How will I ever thank you?”

  Abel watched in horror and confusion as Emma walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Abel’s attempt to repair the wagon proved slow and laborious. The deep bed of coals in the kiln, fanned by whatever came to hand to increase the heat, took time to turn the end of the gun barrel from black to red to orange to yellow to white. Alex estimated—guessed, really—an acceptable length for his axle patching rod and, hammering a hatchet blade for a chisel, using a flat rock for an anvil, cut the barrel. The end was reheated and hammered and drawn to a square-sided point. Then, slowly, slowly, he used the rod to burn—drill—a hole into each broken end. Despite gloves, the palms of his hands were soon blistered and raw from gripping the metal, hot as it was even at the unfired end. He tried wrapping the rod with strips of wool blanket saturated with water, but the resulting steam burned all the more. Dry blanket strips proved a better barrier, but working the metal without proper smithing tools took its toll.

  Abel took his time to experiment with the best combination of heat, pressure, twisting, and cooling water to confine the fire as much as possible to the diameter of the hole. Keeping the holes straight and centered in the axle also required care and concentration.

  Richard’s frustration eventually glowed as hot as the gun barrel. “Pa, how much longer are you going to put up with this nonsense? We been sittin’ here for days while Abel plays around and we still ain’t got any idea if it will work. Had we cut the wagon down like I said, we’d be miles from here by now—and that many miles closer to wherever the hell it is we’re a-goin’.”

  “Son, so far as I know we ain’t late for anything. It says in the Good Book, ‘The patient in spirit is better than the proud in spirit.’You might take a lesson from it.”

  “Oh, the hell you say. Abel don’t know a damn thing about fixin’ a wagon and you know it. Me, I been patient with him long enough. Far as I’m concerned, Abel is the only one bein’ proud here, thinkin’ he knows what the hell he’s doing. And you—you’re willing to go along with it!”

  “Be that as it may, Richard, we’ll all be better off with your help. Look at Melvin—he’s helpin’ out.”

  “Oh, hell, yeah. Stoking the fire and stirrin’ that smelly damn buffalo hide Abel’s got soakin’ in the tub. Ain’t much he’s doin’ that a pickaninny couldn’t do.”

  Richard ducked his head to avoid Lee’s look. After a moment, his father said. “I’ll brook no more of that kind of talk, Son. You know my feelings on that subject. Besides that, it’s hateful toward your brother.”

  Richard turned and walked away. He was standing on the verge of the gorge when Mary found him, tossing pebbles into the void. She did not say anything, just walked up and, arms folded across her chest, stood beside him.

  Richard tossed three pebbles one after another then turned to her. “You ain’t going to read me another damn poem, are you?”

  Mary swallowed hard. “No. I just thought you might enjoy some company. Someone to talk to.”

  He tossed another pebble and watched it disappear. “Well, I won’t.”

  She waited as he scooped up another handful of pebbles and continued pitching them over the side. “Who is it you hate the most, Richard—your father or your brother?”

  All the pebbles sailed away in a single toss. “What the hell do you care?”

  “I do not care. Not really. I just wonder how you can harbor so much hate. They are your family, after all.”

  “You’d never know it. To Pa’s way of thinking, Abel’s the only son worth having.”

  “Why do you say that? According to my observations, he treats all of you well. You, Melvin, and Abel. Your mother shows no favoritism, either, that I have seen.”

  Richard said nothing.

  Mary reiterated her jealousies where her sisters were concerned—the way men failed to notice her whenever Emma was present; Martha’s superior intellect that had always seemed to find answers to most any difficulty; Jane’s favored treatment—by all of them—as the “baby” of the family. And, of course, her resentment at filling her late mother’s role in the family. “But, still, Richard, they are my family. Envy and jealousy must be set aside as inferior to family ties.”

  “It ain’t the same,” Richard said. “Your father and sisters, they expect you to step up on account of you’re the oldest. With my Pa, it’s just the opposite—he gives all the responsibility to Abel, never mind that he’s the baby in our family.”

  “I have seen that. But I have told you before that Abel makes it easy. You are forever challenging your father. Can you blame him for just wanting things to get done without a fight?”

  He gathered up another handful of pebbles and resumed his attempt to fill the gorge as if Mary was not there, nor ever had been.

  Richard did not return to camp for dinner. The other men sat together over their plates, spooning up beans with pemmican stirred in. Daniel sopped his plate with a hunk of corn dodger, then scraped what was left with his finger and licked it off.

  “Tell me something, Abel,” he said, licking his lips. “How did you come to this approach to mending the axle?”

  Abel swallowed the last of his milk and set his cup on his plate and the plate on the ground at his feet. “Truth be told, Mister Lewis, I don’t really know. I looked the thing over and thought about it and nothing come to me. Then, all at once, it was all there. Don’t know how or why or where it come from—it was just there.”

  “Are you confident it will work?”

  “I think so. I hope so. The holes I burned in the axle are ’bout deep enough—should be done by evening. When I slide the ends together there’s some play in them, not as tight as I’d like, but I think binding it up good with rawhide will take care of it.”

  With the need for rawhide drawing near, Abel and Melvin pulled the saturated hide from the tub. The weak lye solution from the ashes and water with the added catalyst of summer heat had done their work, and hair slipped easily from the hide. They rinsed the buffalo skin with clean water then draped it flesh side up over a log. Abel pulled Uncle Ben’s fancy knife from the scabbard and showed Mel how to scrape away the stray bits of fat and meat. When clean, Mel was to turn the hide over and scrape off the hair. After rinsing in three tubs of clean water, Abel figured the hide was ready.

  By fire and lantern light that evening, Abel honed the Damascus steel of Ben’s knife blade to a razor edge and sliced the hide into long strips a couple of inches wide. He stuffed the strips back into the tub of water and turned in for the night. Come the morning, he would wrap the axle, stretching the rawhide tight, knowing it would shrink and tighten as it dried, hoping it would dry tight enough to hold the reinforced axle together and strong enough to carry the wagon.

  He had just turned in when Richard came back to camp and collapsed onto his bedroll.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The men spent the morning standing around sipping coffee in the early morning sun as Abel put the finishing touches on the holes in the broken axle ends where he would insert the stabilizing rod. The talk wandered far and wide, with Richard intervening now and then to complain about Abel’s unhurried wielding of the heated steel to burn the holes to the exact depth that brought the broken ends together.

  Lacking anything better to do, the men did much the same through the afternoon and early evening as Abel wrapped the reinforced axle with layer after layer of the rawhide strips. When finally finished, he set the axle in the wagon bed to dry, which would take a few days. He said, “Well, that’s that, you-all. Nothin’ to do now but wait.” He wiped his damp hands on his shirtfront and said to Daniel, “You was going to tell us about what happened to that rifle.”

  Daniel invited the Pate men to fill their cups, as his story would be a long one. They knew he came from England. They knew he came to Amer
ica to be with the Mormons. They knew he was in Missouri before they met his family in Fort Smith. But he had told them little else, and now he would fill that void.

  “We lived in the west of England,” he said to start the story, “near a town called Preston—not far from Manchester, nor Liverpool. The Lewises farmed there for centuries, but being the fourth of six sons, my prospects lay elsewhere. I kept a public house and we prospered, but depression came to Lancashire and future prospects looked dim. The wife and I were casting about for a better situation, you see, before the money was gone.

  “We were invited one evening to hear a preacher at a neighbor’s house. Lizzie—my wife, Elizabeth—enjoyed a good sermon so we attended. Heber Kimball, that was the man’s name, from America, preaching for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—the Mormons, most would say; they would say Saints. He preached a fine sermon to my way of thinking, but my Lizzie, she was infatuated beyond reckoning. In days to come, we listened to more of his preaching, and that by others he traveled with. To make a long story short, given there was nothing, really, to hold us, and Lizzie’s yearning to meet the Mormon prophet Joseph Smith, we sold out and emigrated—about the first Britons to do so to join the Saints, so I believe.

  “As I have mentioned on other occasions, my Lizzie took ill and died aboard the ship. The girls were as committed to the Mormons as their mother, so when the ship arrived in New Orleans, we took a river steamer up the Mississippi and another up the Missouri to Independence. The Mormons had long since been evicted from that city; exiled to the northern part of the state, so we outfitted ourselves with these wagons and joined them.

  “ ’Twas a city called Far West they were building. Joseph was there, recently come from Kirtland, in Ohio—one step ahead of the law, some said. Be that as it may, the old settlers in that section of Missouri were at odds with the Mormons, much as they had been in Independence.”

  Lee reached out a hand and placed it on Daniel’s knee. “Why, Daniel? What was the cause of the troubles?”