Lost Nation: A Novel

by Jeffrey Lent

  He said, “The leg will heal all right?”

  Hutchinson said, “It’s what the sawbones tells me. Though he claims it will ache with the weather. As if the rest of me don’t already.”

  Blood said, “I rode down here to talk to you.”

  “Under what authority?”

  “None but my own.”

  “As a citizen of New Hampshire?”

  “As a free man who desires to remain an American. But that choice doesn’t lie within my hands. Or for that matter with the State of New Hampshire. My allegiance right now, by necessity, lies with the community of men with whom I reside. It does not mean I approve of their actions, some or all. But it binds me to respect those actions, if not the consequences.”

  “A pretty enough answer.”

  “I’ll not tell you what you want to hear.”

  “That would make you a rare man. What’s your interest?”

  Blood said, “Beyond no great desire to see men killed or maimed over little? Beyond that, my interests are simple—I have a business established in a place I wish to remain.”

  “Cut-rate rum and a underage whore.”

  “Paltry compared to the spires of Lancaster, I admit. And the girl is of age.”

  “It’s true. Lancaster is no busy seaport. As for the girl, I don’t care.”

  Blood said, “I don’t brag over my past. What other men know is not my concern. Nor what they think.”

  “Did I cause offense?”

  “I’m not here to discuss myself.”

  “Fair enough, Mister Blood. Enough of pleasantry I say. Shall we get to the meat of the matter?”

  Blood nodded. “I’m not used to the saddle. I’m a little sore myself.”

  “Your treatment did not go unnoticed.”

  “I don’t blame your men. I’d ask you let the matter drop.”

  “Mister Blood. Men are nothing without discipline. Now speak your piece or leave me to rest.”

  “All right,” said Blood. “The problem is the border—or the lack of one. Between the United States and Canada. Britain. No one knows if it’ll be the Parallel or up farther north to the headwaters of the Connecticut. There’s no one doubts, that if the territory is deeded to the States, it will become part of New Hampshire. Except for a Canuck trapper or two, maybe a couple of fellers like the Watkin man you come and took, most all the men hope that’s the way it ends. The question, in their minds, is a simple one. There’s conflicting deeds to most all that land. There’s two companies downstate that each claim it all. But no judge will look at those claims until the boundary issue is decided.”

  “I know all this.”

  Blood went on. “But the men up there—some with one deed, some with another, some with both, some with none at all—the way they look at it is they’ve done the work in good faith. They’ve cleared their pitches, built houses, barns, cleared fields, sowed and harvested them. Established trade and homes and brought their families in or made them there. Any man, in such circumstances would feel the right of establishment is in their favor.”

  “For some more than others.”

  Blood continued. “The rest is simple. Because they don’t know which way it will go in the end, what Washington and London determine, they feel if they allow either side to establish jurisdiction, it would threaten

  their deeds if the other side prevails. They would be looked on as suspect. All they’re really trying to do is remain neutral until the issue is resolved. Looked at that way, you can’t blame them.”

  “It’s an interesting case, idn’t it?”

  “It’s toil and livelihoods is what it is.”

  Hutchinson nodded. He said, “I understand that Daniel Webster himself has taken an interest in the case and is speaking to others in Washington. So it may not be so long before the boundary is settled.”

  “Are you speaking of months or years?”

  “It’s politics Blood. Stones roll uphill faster.”

  “It makes my point. These men live each passing year in great frustration, in the fear of working for naught.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hutchinson. “But I do not. I’ve been told the country up there is within my jurisdiction and until I’m told otherwise I intend to treat it that way.”

  “I know that. I know you aren’t the sort to act where you hadn’t ought to.”

  “So what do you suggest?’

  “Some compromise. If you have complaint against one of the inhabitants then bring it into the country. There is a Committee of Safety formed. They would listen to you and if the justification is sound they would cooperate with your needs and turn over to you whomever you sought. They can be reasonable men.”

  “Will you name them?”

  “Not until we have agreement.”

  “There it is Blood. You’re protecting men you know have no authority. How could I do business this way?”

  “A handshake would gain my trust.”

  Hutchinson said, “But I have no trust in you, Blood. It’s too late for your proposal. I have other accounts to settle.”

  “Give me the writ against Watkin. I’ll carry it home and if it’s judged to be fair, he’ll be turned over to you.”

  “And the others?”

  “What others?”

  “I returned here with a dead man and two others with dire wounds. Not to mention a man turned into a simpleton when your Committee of Safety broke Watkin from jail. It has moved beyond some simple compact as you suggest. The people are angry. I share that anger. You see, you come too late. With too little. Under the circumstances, you come with nothing at all.”

  He was quiet then, his eyes oddly mild upon Blood.

  After a moment Blood said, “Many had no desire for it to pass as it did.”

  The sheriff said, “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that.”

  Blood said, “I had hoped to reason with you.”

  Hutchinson said, “This is what you may tell Emil Chase and the rest of them: Tell them to take pause and consider it well. Tell them to surrender themselves to me here, all of them, every man-jack that was in the fight yesterday, every man who broke the fugitive Watkin from jail, Watkin himself. Within the week. If they do that, I’ll consider it an act of good faith. Otherwise you may happily inform them that the sheriff sends his regards and when we meet again it will be with overwhelming force and we will arrest every boy over twelve and all men of whatever age. That we shall burn the country over so the women and children will have no choice but to return to their families downstate if they have them or go to the poor farm in Bath. That when we are done there will be nothing left but charred timbers and black stones to show men were ever there.”

  Blood said, “That would be a terrible wrong.”

  The sheriff said, “It’s my decision. They have a week.”

  Blood studied the sheriff. “I hope your leg mends well.”

  “Those strike me as the first false words you’ve spoken today, Blood.”

  “Perhaps,” Blood said. “Tell me. Will I be able to ride out of here safely?”

  “I don’t know,” Hutchinson said. “Why don’t you try it and see?”

  It was well after midnight when he crossed over Halls Stream, considered the westernmost headwater of the Indian Stream territory. As he did a party of his neighbors rode out from the woods but he did not speak to them and they did not press him but all rode together some distance before the men turned back to watch the road leading from the south. Blood rode another hour, passing the darkened tavern and came up to the mill and the house opposite and stabled the horse and went to the dark house where a single window showed candlelight on the ground floor. He knocked lightly and Emil Chase let him in. They sat at the table and talked in low tones. Blood told him all. And finished by declaring that he was done with it, that he had failed at what he could attempt and would offer nothing more. As far as Blood was concerned the men of Indian Stream had not thought things through. That they had prepared their own d
estruction. He kept his eyes hard upon Chase as he spoke.

  Then went out into the night with a half moon beaded on the slight chop of the lake and walked down the road to the tavern. Where he knocked and shushed Luther through the door while waiting for Sally to rouse and unbar the door.

  He told her nothing but sent her back to bed. Stirred up the fire and stretched before it, seated on a low stool, his legs extended toward the flames and crossed at the ankle. He was sore all over. After a time he went into the tavern and poured a noggin of rum and went back and nursed that down. He set a small spider to heat over coals raked onto the hearth and fried two eggs while toasting a hunk of bread speared on a long fork. He ate the eggs from the pan and wiped it clean of yolk and grease with the bread. Then climbed the loft ladder and lay on his thin mattress stuffed with marsh grass. He had no sense of being tired but passed immediately to sleep.

  He woke sometime later, jerked out of bed with a searing cramp in his right leg, a pounding knot of flesh. He hopped around the room, crying out and beating at the rigid flesh to try and break the cramp but it would not cease. He went down on his knees, then his side. His toes were curled back so tightly he thought they might break. It was as if every insult his body had taken throughout the day had arrived and joined force in the muscles of this one leg.

  Sally’s head appeared at the top of the ladder. Alarmed she cried, “Blood? What’s wrong?”

  He’d bitten his tongue. He moaned, “Help me, girl.”

  She came and eased him to the bed where her hands worked his leg as he clenched his teeth until the cramp was gone. Her hands continued over the rest of him until he reached for her and turned her roughly so she was under him and she cried urgent to him and he responded. And then there was the long slow time both had learned with the other in the ten days since her birthday.

  She was all he’d ceased hoping for. Everything he did not deserve.

  There was a second frost and the white pease wilted. Sally pulled the plants by the roots and tied them in bundles and hung them upside down in the barn to dry them in their shells. The carrots and parsnips could stay in the ground yet. There were rows of beets to contend with. She pulled a handful and took them in and put them on the table before Blood.

  “What do I do with these?”

  “They for dinner? Just boil em. You know how.”

  “No. I’m asking what to do with all them out in the ground. We’ll never eat all of em before the ground goes hard.”

  “Pickle em,” Blood said.

  “Pickle em? You going to show me how?”

  “How? You just—pickle em. Slice some onion to put in. And pickle em.”

  “I don’t have the first idear how to pickle.”

  Blood studied her a moment. She thought It’s not my fault I don’t know. She returned his empty gaze. And realized he didn’t know either.

  After a time he said, “The first thing we do is set down and make a list of what staples we be short of. For the winter. I’ll write it up for you. Then you carry that list up to Mistress Chase and show it to her and ask if there’s anything come to mind she’d think to add. Then, ask her how to pickle your beets. She’ll tell you.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere near her.”

  Blood went on, “I can’t trade in Lancaster. Or Bath or anywhere else downstate. So I’ll yoke the team and go over to Canaan Vermont. There’s a store there. What they don’t have they can order for me. It’s time now. I’ve been setting lazy all summer but things are tightening and there’s supplies we’ll want come winter. Maybe I’ll take Gandy with me so he’ll know the way and I can get things set up with the men there to do trade with him. Although Gandy’s days are numbered. He’ll be gone into the woods and bogs pretty soon. But he’d make the trip with me. There’ll be things he wants too. So, let me get a piece of page from the tally book and let’s make that list.”

  “I told you. I ain’t going near that woman. She despises me. And I got no use for her, neither.”

  Blood looked at her. “Do you know how to pickle beets?”

  “No.”

  “Then you got a use for her.”

  “There’s others could tell me. You could find out yourself.”

  Blood said, “Sally. When there’s someone don’t care for you, someone maybe even that’s an enemy to you, the best thing to do is go to em and ask for something. It makes them feel good, like they got something on you, just the littlest jeezly thing is enough. What they thought all along is confirmed—that they’re better than you. See?”

  “I don’t want her thinking she’s better than me. She ain’t as far as I’m concerned.”

  “That’s right. But see, if you didn’t know she felt that way, and you went asking something, then she would be the one wins. But. If you go knowing you’re going to make her feel that way, and don’t care, then you’re the one wins. And she won’t even know you beat her. See? It’s a clever game.”

  Sally thought about it. She said, “But nobody but me’ll know I won.”

  Blood said, “Nobody but you matters.”

  Blood bolted the door after her and went through into the tavern and unlocked the door of his storeroom and took a candle-lantern in and made inventory, tried to calculate sales. And his own needs; he would not underestimate those. He had ample rum but would try to obtain more. It could be a hard winter. He was more concerned with powder and lead. There was enough for an ordinary winter but the coming fall and winter held the possibility of being not at all ordinary. He counted and added weight in his head. He would try to buy or order more pigs of lead, more kegs of powder from the men in Vermont but had no idea if they’d be willing or not. Until he went there was no telling how they felt about the recent events. Humor was what he counted on. He could always go to Canada. It occurred to him he might be forced to buy in small lots, meaning several long trips. It was time to find Gandy. He sat at the counter, using the last of the fresh-made ink to write out the quantities he hoped for, scattered sand over the page and waited and blew it off, folded the paper and tucked it into the back of his tally book.

  He went again into the storeroom and carried out two kegs of powder and took them one at a time on his shoulder up the ladder to the loft and set them behind the carriage of the swivel gun, behind the supplies of powder and ball already there. Back in the storeroom he set aside an equal amount of lead pigs and swore to himself that before the week was out he’d dig out the iron crucible and mold the lead into balls and store those overhead as well. It would be a vast amount of firepower, enough so if he failed to procure more powder and lead he might not have as much to sell as would be demanded of him. And so resolved one day soon to replace the simple loft door with one of thick hemlock planks. To loosen the ladder from the wall, so it could be drawn up into the loft. It was not perfect—he could still be burned out. But he was willing to believe the eight-pound gun would forestall such effort. He considered filling empty kegs with water and hauling them also into the loft. No. If it came to fire he would already be lost. But he would cost them dear.

  He was gambling. For the first time in years the whims or actions of other men might impact directly upon him. But Blood was not ready to quit, would not allow himself to flee. It was not pride but something else. What bothered him most was he could not say what that might be.

  Sally came back in. Her face was serious, her mouth twisted, clamped shut. She carried hugged against her chest a three-gallon pottery crock with a woodstave lid. She set it on the table, got the bucket and went out and some few minutes later returned with fresh water which she sat next to the crock. She took up a tin dipper and drank it down and filled it again and drank that too. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at where Blood sat at the table. She dug his list from her skirt pocket and unfolded it and passed it over to him. At the bottom of his list of things was written in a spiked uneven hand The vinegar is a gift, the crock a loan. Get this girl some stout winter boots and heavy woolen clothing in r
espectable gray or brown. It’s not right to mark her so with tawdry raiment. Not suitable for her nor the other children & women.

  Blood indicated the crock. “That’s vinegar?”

  “To pickle the beets. You do em in a crock. With salt.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Well I didn’t.” She stood, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers.

  “So how was it?”

  “It wasn’t nothing like you said.”

  Blood thought I’ll walk up there and strangle that woman, she was cruel to this girl. He said, “How so?”

  “She was grim when she saw me at the door. Shooed her children off to another room. There was one girl, nine or ten, kept peeking until she told her shut the door. Then she was kind to me. She didn’t invite me to set for tea or nothing like that but she was kind. Tight with words but they all are, these women. Asked me my business and I showed her the list and she read through it and then looked at me and asked if that was all I wanted of her and I asked about the beets. She took me into the kitchen and got the crock and vinegar, all the time talking about how to fix em. And all the while she was doing that I felt like she was trying to say something else to me. But she didn’t. She had me tell it back to her and then she set at a little desk and wrote what’s on the bottom of the list and told me give it to you. And she looked at me a minute before she handed the list back to me. At the door she stopped me. Put a hand on my arm. And told me if there was anything else I needed to know, to come to her anytime.”

  Blood studied her. He said, “That don’t sound so terrible.”

  “It wasn’t. It was just—”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Peculiar someway. I sure don’t feel like I won anything.”

  It was the company of women, Blood thought. Something she had never really known. Not in the everyday-world sense of things. What she knew of women was the underside, a world of women made more by the world of men than of women themselves. And thinking this, he realized the world of women was one he’d never truly known himself, that his marriage ended before he gained sufficient sense to comprehend fully the woman who had been his wife. And thus all others. He knew little of women, beyond the ever-more-vague memories of Betsey and himself before what he thought of as his troubles began—a time when they were more children than Sally herself. He understood men, he believed, better than most. But of women he knew almost nothing. It was part of what he denied himself, save for those creatures of the underside sought only for the occasional release it seemed no man could live without. And even those times infrequent for they left him foul and rancorous for a week or more afterward. As if he’d indulged himself. This through the long score of years. Until Sally.