Russell Banks - Cloudsplitter

The price for the Morgans, because of their age, was less than that for the Narragansetts, but still more than Father had in his pocket. Father said, “I believe I will take my friend’s advice!” and held out the money, all his money in the world, I knew. “But you’ll have to take a few dollars less than what you’re asking, especially if, as you say, they’re not worth shoe-leather.”

Mr. Clarke did not want that. He shook his head and said, “Tell you what, Mister Brown. You keep your money. And you can keep that old broken-down gelding of yours, too. Me, I don’t like to see a white man made a fool of by a nigger. So I’ll swap you even, the team of ’Gansetts for any one pair of those fancy cows you got. You can choose the cattle yourself Father hesitated a moment. Morgans were not so famous then as they are now, especially outside the state of Vermont, and neither Father nor I knew much about the breed. And, whatever his reasons, Mr. Clarke’s eagerness to sell us the others did seem to our advantage. But Father said, “No. I will sell you the gelding, sir, as we agreed, and if you’ll accept it, I will add to it what remaining cash I have for those bays, the Morgans. As my friend here has advised me. And I will keep all my cattle.”

I was not sure he was doing the wise thing, but knew better than to offer my opinion. The Old Man had made up his mind. To my eye, the Narragansetts were definitely the superior team and well worth the weakest pair of cattle from our herd. The transaction Mr. Clarke had proposed would have left us with five cattle, an excellent team of horses, old Dan, and sufficient cash to protect us against a weak harvest.

Father said, “The bays, sir.”

Mr. Clarke gave Father a thin-lipped smile, took his money, and wrote out a bill of sale. Then he made Father sign a receipt for the horses. “Just so you don’t change your mind, or tell folks I cheated you,” he said, and with no more words, he retreated abruptly to his office.

“Well, Mister Brown, you catched the man out,” Mr. Epps said, as we unhitched the small, weary-looking pair of Morgans and led them from the darkness of the stable into the bright light of the yard outside, where their looks did not improve. “Believe me, these bays going to carry you where you want to go, and they still be drawing your plow across your field long after you gone. Make you a good saddle horse, too.”

The Old Maris eyes flashed with pleasure, and he clapped Mr. Epps on the back. “You know, Mister Epps, I love it when one of these racist Yankees hoists himself like that!” he exclaimed, and laughed.

“Yassuhr,” Mr. Epps quietly answered, and we drove the horses back to camp.

Shortly after dawn the next day, we departed Westport for North Elba. The sky, I remember, was cloudless and bright blue — one of those cool, dry northcountry mornings that let you see sharply all the way to the far horizon. Our teamster, Mr. Epps, sat up on the box with Mary, who was feeling poorly. Little Sarah, who was four that spring, settled herself happily between her mother and Mr. Epps. The rest of us walked, with Father and me out at the front of the team, while a short ways behind the wagon, Ruth walked hand-in-hand with seven-year-old Annie, and the boys Watson, Salmon, and Oliver herded the sheep, cattle, and swine along at the rear. The horses, to my surprise, seemed untroubled by the loaded wagon, and they responded quickly and smoothly to Mr. Epps’s commands. Of course, we were still on a relatively flat, dry road and would be for half the day, at least until we got to Elizabethtown, where the steep ascent supposedly began.

Father wanted us to leave Westport with dignity and evident seriousness of purpose — so as not to comfort any of the locals who might think us foolish or pitiable, he explained. Consequently, we moved briskly, heads held high and eyes squarely on the road before us, and kept the separate parts of our caravan distinct from one another, as if we were a military parade passing in review. We wore jackets and waistcoats and hats, as usual, and the little girls and Ruth and Mary wore mob hats and shawls over their shoulders, and their dark outer skirts were appropriately long. Farmers leaned on their hoes, and women and children came to their kitchen doors, to watch us as we passed out of the town and headed northwest towards the first gentle hills of the interior.

A few miles beyond the settlement, we came to a tilted, unpainted shanty that served as a tollbooth and signaled the start of the new Northwest Road to Elizabethtown, more cart track than road. A bar blocked our way. The Northwest Road had been cut through the forest by a private company that had purchased the narrow band of land on which it ran, so as to profit from the traffic. Evidently, Father had not anticipated this, for when he had made his only previous journey to North Elba last fall, he’d come in from the lake at Port Kent by a somewhat more northerly route — through Ausable Forks and Wilmington Notch — with no toll road.

An old, grizzled fellow in floppy trousers and patchwork shirt emerged from the shanty, hobbling on a badly constructed crutch — a veteran, to judge from his U.S. Army braces. He scrutinized our wagon and animals for a few seconds, spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, and said to Father, “Cost you forty cents for the wagon and team. Cost you seventy cents for them there cows. The sheeps and pigs can pass free.”

Father drew himself up and said, “My friend, I have no money. We’re not hauling freight to sell at a profit. We’re a poor family on our way to settle a piece of land in North Elba.”

“Don’t matter to me where you’re headed, mister. Or why. I charges by the axle and the hoof. Far’s I can see, you got two axles and at least nine sets of hoofs. I’m ignoring them sheeps and the pigs. You want to use this road, it’s going to cost you one dollar and ten cents, total.”

“I’ll have to pay you on my return^’ Father said. “Can’t do that.”

“And if I refuse to pay you now?”

This puzzled the old fellow. He gnashed his wad of tobacco and spat again. “Say what?”

Father turned to me. “Remove the bar, Owen.”

I walked over to the barked pole, which was laid into a pair of notched posts, lifted one end, and swung it away, clearing the road. The toll-taker, with Father blocking his approach to the bar, stared in disbelief. Immediately, Mr. Epps chucked to the horses and drove the wagon through, with Ruth and Annie following somberly behind, and then came the cattle, driven by Watson and Salmon, and the sheep, driven by Oliver and the pair of dogs. Oliver wore a mischievous grin on his freckled face and waved at the toll-taker as he passed by.

Father said to the old man, “I apologize for my son’s rudeness. He’s nine years old and should know better. And I give you my word, friend, on my next return to Westport, I’ll pay the toll.” Then he and I replaced the bar and hurried to catch up to the others.

As Father strode past Oliver, he reached out and with the back of his hand struck the boy a hard blow across his unsuspecting smile. “Never mock a man for doing his duty!” he said, and without breaking his stride moved rapidly alongside me to our former position at the front.

After a few moments, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw that Oliver’s face was bright red from the blow. He had turned his head to the side in an attempt to hide his tears, while the other boys stared straight on down the road, politely averting their gaze.

Back in Springfield, Father and I had fitted out the box of our wagon with a white canvas canopy stretched over a bent willow frame, for the purpose of protecting the contents and shielding Mary and Ruth and the smaller children when it rained. Also, we intended the wagon to provide a little privacy and serve as sleeping quarters for the females. Until Westport, this had worked out fine, but now, with so many supplies added to our household goods and tools, passengers were obliged to stay out on the open seat at the front with the driver, for there was no room for anyone to sit or lie down under the canopy.