Mr. Albert Fenny had not properly kept up on his insurance, and as a result was unable to rebuild his business. He had placed blame, for his oversight, on his wife for not reminding him to keep up with the insurance payments. Molly accepted the blame, even though she was not to blame.
Albert spent much of his time working hard building his fellow businessmen’s businesses back up. He offered his services at a fraction of what many builders were being paid. He felt his sacrifice and devotion would result in support from those he helped in reestablishing his own business. His fellow businessmen thanked him, but showed no further gratitude towards him. For the next few years Mr. Fenny festered with a growing animosity towards, not only those businessmen that he helped, but towards all businessmen. This attitude also put a great strain on his relationship with his wife.
He worked from time to time and began to frequent the saloons. Molly and Albert argued over money nearly every night. She often went hungry so Gilbert could eat. They needed money and Mrs. Caferty offered her a job as a seamstress at her newly rebuilt clothing store.
Against Albert’s strong objections, Molly went to work at the clothing store. With the majority contribution from Molly’s wages as a seamstress, the Fenny’s were able to start a small livery stable. Albert continued to drink and resented his wife working. Over the next few years the livery business became a butt of jokes around town.
The family resided in a small one bedroom house next to the stable. Often Gilbert would sleep with his mother because Albert would be sleeping it off somewhere in town or in the stable. Once in a while Albert would find a nice warm cot in the jail. When he didn’t sleep with his mother, Gilbert slept on the middle shelf of the closet next to the kitchen. One night, while sleeping in the closet, he was awakened by an argument between his parents. He dozed in and out of sleep as they argued.
“Albert,” his mother said firmly in an affectionate manner, to her husband. She was a soft spoken petit woman, who seldom spoke harshly to her husband. Even though her tone was full of passion for her husband, it was still firm and unusual. “Albert,” she addressed him once again, “I have decided that Gilbert and I are going to Dubuque to stay with my mother for a while.”
“No,” Albert insisted sternly, “you’re not leaving me. You’re going to stay here and suffer. This is your business as well, ya’ know. I’ll get money soon.”
“Albert, it isn’t the money,” She pleaded with him to understand. “I need to get away from your attitude. Things have been hard for you, I know you’re a good man. But you make it impossible for us to live with you.” Her voice began to melt with more sympathetic tone. “Mother, has been wanting me to come to Dubuque for a visit.”
“How long do you plan to be gone?”
“I don’t plan on coming back,” She said. She sensed anger in Albert’s eyes, so she quickly changed her stance, “At least for a while. When you can come to grips with your anger and your drinking, I will return to you.”
“You’re my wife and you are staying here with me.”
Her tone again went back to being uncharacteristically stern. “We are leaving in the morning, for my mother’s.”
“No you’re not.”
“Albert, stop it, you’re hurting me.” She kept her voice low, not to wake Gilbert.
Gilbert’s heavy eyes got the best of him and he fell off to sleep once again. When he woke up the next morning, his memory of his parents argument was blurry.
This Sunday morning was bright with sunlight filling the kitchen. He crawled off his shelf and peeked out into the kitchen. He expected to see his mother making breakfast, but only saw his father taking the last swallow out of a bottle. He attempted to place the bottle on the table, but his inebriation caused it to tip off the table. His father staggered into the bedroom and fell into the squeaky bed. Gilbert noticed mud on the floor obviously from his father’s shoes.
Gilbert looked quietly all around the shabby house, but could not find his mother. He noticed the picture of her that sat on the fireplace mantle was gone. He also noticed most of his mother’s clothes were gone. He looked around outside in the yard for her, but did not find her.
He was hungry, so he found some bread to eat and went back to bed to wait for his mother to come and get him. He lay in his bed playing with a ball he had found laying in a vacant field where he and his mother had picnicked. Eventually Gilbert gave up waiting for his mother and decided to wake his father. He pushed on his father’s shoulder, with no response. So he shook his shoulder a bit harder. His father stopped snoring long enough to crack his eyes open for an instant, but did not say anything as his eyes closed.
“Where’s mother?”
He barely opened one eye and slurred out angrily, “She left us for a salesman.”
Most boys of four, may have accepted this as an answer, but Gilbert knew his mother. He knew she would not leave without saying goodbye or taking him with her. There was nothing he could do about this situation. He knew he had a grandmother and an aunt somewhere. He wondered if he would see them soon or possibly even be raised by them. He loved his father, but was afraid to live with him without his mother.
“Will I go live with Grandmother now?” Gilbert asked his resting father.
Albert barely opened his eyes as he lay there motionless. “You don’t have a grandmother. She don’t want ya’.”
Gilbert would often go to church with his mother. He also knew when to go to church. “Are you going to take me to church?”
“Hell no.” He said firmly as he rolled over to sleep. As the following weeks went by, he continued to go to church by himself. He would often go to the church during the week since his father was often gone from the livery stable. There were a few times the minister, reverend Hand, would often take time to talk to him. Gilbert found comfort in the conversations. He would often join the reverend and his wife for a meal.
While he was walking home from church he saw a carriage leaving his father’s livery stable. The carriage turned onto the street he was on and proceeded toward him. There were four well dressed people, two women and two men. The younger woman resembled his mother, which excited him. His heart sank as he realized it was not her. He noticed the young woman looked curiously at him.
The older woman was speaking sternly, but the younger one didn’t seem to be listening. Suddenly she stopped looking at him and spoke. Gilbert could barely hear what she was saying, but what she said resinated in his mind. “I don’t believe she would have just left.”
“What are you thinking Rachel?” One of the men said. That was all Gilbert heard from the carriage as it wheeled past him.
When he got back to the stables he asked his father, “Who were those people?”
He had a sudden look of horror that changed to anger, “Nobody was here.”
“Those people?” Gilbert badgered his father. “One looked like mom.”
His father was certainly disturbed by the inquisition from his young son. He was on the verge of angrily responding, but found the patience to respond calmly. “Oh them,” he stumbled through the next phrase, “they were some people wanting to leave their horses at the stable while they were in town.”
“They’ll be back then.”
There was silence before he answered, “They will be back in a few weeks.”
Four years later on a clear cool June morning, the eastern sky was showing a beautiful, reddish orange glow. The eight-year-old Gilbert Fenny was beginning to stir in his small tattered bed covered with old rags and blankets. The sun was casting long shadows of trees and buildings onto the ground.
The morning silence was broken by chirping birds and the sound of a milk wagon creaking and squeaking past. The sounds seemed magnified through the crisp air to Gilbert’s ears. The milk wagon, delivering dairy products from the creamery on the north side of town, rolled down Walnut Street from the north toward
Main Street.
Then he could hear the tooting whistle of a railroad steam engine, approaching from the west on the Illinois Central Rail Line. It was the sound of the train whistle that alerted Gilbert that it was time to get to work. He took the responsibility to get himself up to care for the family business, so his father could sleep off the previous night’s indulgence.
Gilbert sat up in his bed stretching his arms and legs as he took a deep sleepy breath. He stood up, pulled on his patched up brown britches and flipped his suspenders up over a white tattered stained shirt. He stepped into his shoes and buckled them up. Then he quietly walked through the house, not to disturb his father. It was not a pleasant experience in the past when he disturbed his father this early in the morning.
The kitchen was messy with dirty dishes collected in the wash tub. The bare wooden floor was swept, but worn to splinters. He grabbed his flat brown cap off the table. One of the table legs was an old piece of wood salvaged from part of the horse stables. There were two wooden crates placed at the table for chairs. He quietly closed the door, then crossed the back yard to the horse stable. Once he reached the stable door, and was out of danger of waking his father, he began to whistle a peppy tune.
He pushed the wooden latch up and over the hooks on the wooden door. With a creaking noise he pushed with all his might to swing one of the heavy wooden doors open. He pulled a stone and a match stick from his pocket to light the few lanterns around the stable. A deep-throated neigh of an old mare made him turn toward her with a smile. He patted the old gray mare on the neck. “Good morning, Greta.” There was a whinny from a chestnut mare in the corner. “Good morning to you Daisy.” He stared into the depths of the brown eyes of Greta and chuckled gently as he passed. “I see you’re feeling much better today.” There was one last horse named Rome. Rome was a prideful black thoroughbred, owned by Mr. Francis Groober.
The young Gilbert took a small can of oil from the shelf and a bucket that lay on the floor near the barn door. He carried both these items to a water pump. He placed the bucket under the faucet, then spread the oil on the pumps’ shaft. He slowly began to pump it. There was a small squeal from the pump for the first few pumps before the oil silenced it. Water soon gushed from the pump making a hollow thud into the bucket. After a few pumps of water, he swirled the contents then dumped it out.
When he had finished filling the bucket, he took it into the stable for the horses. He grabbed a curry comb from a shelf. He placed the bucket down for Greta to drink while he brushed her with the comb. Once he was done with her he moved onto Daisy. Each horse was given special attention by this boy.
Gilbert was smaller in stature, skinny and short. He had short messy brown hair with an uncontrollable colic problem. Which didn’t matter to Gilbert since he couldn’t see his hair. He may have been small, but his heavy work created a strong muscular physic. Gilbert would most often have to feed himself, if he could acquire food to eat. He had become accustomed to eating most anything edible.
Gilbert took great pride in caring for the horses. When he finished grooming the horses, he moved them one by one out of their stalls to walk them around. Once he got the horses out of the stable, he pulled the manure barrel over and shoveled manure into it. Once he had gotten the manure removed, he grabbed armfuls of fresh hay for the horses. The horses all showed great cooperation and affection for the young boy.
He gave each horse a bucket of water and a small ration of oats. The horses eagerly munched on the few oats given to them. “Sorry, I wish I could give you more,” he told them. His father wouldn’t purchase oats for the horses, but whenever Gilbert got a hold of money he would purchase a bucket of oats. He got money from offering to carry bags for people at the railroad stations.
When he finished with his morning chores, he would have normally gone to school, but school was out for the summer, so he would often go to the library. He particularly loved books about horses. He was looking forward to finishing up and heading for the library. While he was putting the comb, hoof pick, and hoof clippers away, a yelling man’s voice broke the peaceful morning. His father approached the stable followed by another man dressed in a fancy riding outfit, named Francis Groober. Trailing behind the two men was a young girl. Gilbert knew her from school, Mr. Groober’s eight-year-old daughter, Clara.
Mr. Groober was a tall husky man with sharp green eyes, who had a very successful brewery in town. Gilbert recognized the outfit from drawings he had seen in the books he read. English aristocracy would wear them when riding an equestrian horse. Gilbert wondered if Mr. Groober was going on a fox hunt or possibly a steeple chase. Mr. Groober, who was generally frugal with his fortune, brought his business to Mr. Fenny’s stable because Mr. Fenny charges less for the poor service he gave.
The two men were obviously in a heated discussion as Clara glared at Gilbert with her blue eyes that stood out in comparison to her vivid red freckles. Clara and Gilbert both attended the Hawthorne school on Main Street west of the river. The Hawthorne school was one of the finest in the state. It was a three-story cross shaped brick building. Clara and her friends considered themselves a class of people, that did not converse with the poor people like Gilbert.
Clara was wearing a full length white dress, trimmed in pink satin lace. This dress had white lace cuffs and a tall collar. There was a pink feathery plume protruding from a large white hat covering most of her dark red curls of hair. Clara looked at him and made a face giving Gilbert the impression something smelled bad. Once she knew Gilbert was looking at her, she turned her nose up and ignored him. This didn’t surprise, nor upset him, because he was normally treated this way at school by most of the children. Gilbert didn’t hate the other children, he knew he was different.
Gilbert ignored her as well and began to listen to the harsh conversation of his father and Mr. Groober. “No! I am taking my horse and buggy elsewhere.” Mr. Groober articulated, “I can no longer trust a business run by a man who is drunk half the time!”
“I’ve been getting caught up; I’ll break your horse very soon and have the wheel fixed today.” Albert pleadingly promised.
“You’ve had your chance, I need the buggy this Saturday, and the horse needs to be broken by next Tuesday,” Mr. Groober spoke. “I’ll send someone for my buggy later.” Mr. Groober firmly made his way over to the stall where the well-bred black thoroughbred colt stood.
He began to untie the colt to walk him out of the stable. Gilbert broke his silence, “Sir, Mr. Groober, sir,” he said, “you may ride him if you wish. He is broken. There is a saddle you can use if you would like.” Gilbert pointed to a saddle on a rail.
Albert looked at his son angrily. Mr. Groober looked at him in wonderment. Then he asked, “What do you mean, boy?”
“My pa had told me to break your horse days ago and I haven’t told him he is broken. He rides very well, sir.” Gilbert looked for approval from his father. “Pa, tell him the blacksmith said he would have a new wheel ready tomorrow?” Mr. Fenny was not responding, so Gilbert continued quickly, “Pa, strengthened the frame and it needed a new rim. If that is all right with you, sir?”
Gilbert wasn’t completely stating a falsehood. He had cleated the split wood back together, then rolled the wheel to the blacksmith’s the day before. He had not, however, done anything with Mr. Groober’s horse Rome. How the horse would react to someone getting on his back remains a complete mystery. Gilbert rode horses regularly, but he had never broken one before.
Mr. Groober looked at the boy in complete disbelief. “Show me boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Gilbert said with great enthusiasm. He knew he had to show great confidence in order to succeed in this little/giant lie. Rome was a spirited, ill tempered animal and the chances of riding him were slim.
Despite the situation, Gilbert knew something drastic needed to be done, because the business was not doing well. They needed Mr. Groober’s patronage and good wo
rd of mouth. Mr. Groober was an important businessman in town, who’s word could help the stable business or put them out of business. Gilbert wasted no time, he got a blanket and a saddle. It was a struggle for the young lad to drag the saddle to the colt.
Gilbert gently grasped the bridle of the colt. He talked softly to the colt while he patted him gently on the neck. He reached down into a bucket close by, which contained some carrots, then fed one to the colt. He guided the horse alongside the fence. He needed to use the fence to assist him in throwing the heavy saddle on the colt. The three bystanders looked on without even considering an attempt to help him. Clara smiled smugly, while he struggled to saddle the horse. Mr. Groober looked at him in amused, amazement. His father looked upon the situation as an embarrassment in the making.
He lashed down the saddle, while he continued to pat and talk to the unbroken colt. He tentatively got on the fence and carefully crawled onto the back of the horse. With his stomach in knots, not knowing what the horse might do, and without delay he gently nudged the colt with his heels. The colt smartly pranced down the street for a half a block. Then Gilbert not wanting to press his luck, pranced him back to the stable giving the spectators the impression this was the finest trained horse in the country. Mr. Groober was excited and couldn’t wait to mount the horse and take him for a run. Gilbert was relieved to have the horse ride so well. Clara was unimpressed by Gilbert’s display of maturity and skill. He avoided eye contact with his father knowing he would not be pleased with his action.
Mr. Groober jumped on the colt and was promptly bucked off. He popped up off the ground and began to brush his smart outfit off. He said something under his breath no one could understand. He gently handled the colt as he mounted him slowly. “I’ll bring the saddle back later.” Mr. Groober commanded.
Allerton and Axtell Page 2