Cloudsplitter (22 page)

The Old Man studied the glowering sky and said, “Mister Epps, I believe it will soon snow.”

“Probably no more than some rain will fall down in the valleys,” Mr. Epps said. “But you are right, Mister Brown; going to snow up here. Might amount to nothing, might turn out a real blizzard. Never can tell this time of year. You want to wait it out?” he asked Father. “Can hole up in them trees yonder” he said, pointing out a nearby grove of tall pines backed and partially sheltered by a high, rocky outcropping. The dark cliffs were close enough to the trail so that we could reach their protection easily with the wagon and make a safe overnight camp there.

Several large, wet flakes of snow brushed past my face. Father asked Mary how she felt. “I’m fine,” she said. “Don’t do anything strictly on my account.” But she did not look well: her face was gray and pinched with discomfort, if not pain, and she was shivering.

“I’m concerned somewhat for the livestock,” Father said to Mr. Epps. “If we’re out here all night in a snowstorm, we’ll do fine, but we might lose a few of the sheep. The animals are pureblood and aren’t yet bred for winter exposure, and they have been kept inside since November.” He asked if there was a farm between this spot and the valley ahead, where the tiny village of Keene was located.

Mr. Epps answered that we would not see a house or barn until we got down off these heights, but we were closer to the Keene valley now than to Elizabethtown, so we should not go back. He remembered that there was a large farm located down in the valley a mile or so this side of the village. We might be able to put up there if this turned into a real storm.

Father removed his hat, and with his hands against his thighs, he lowered his head and prayed silently for a moment, while we stood by and watched. Then he turned to us and said, “Let us keep on, children. Our heavenly Father will protect us.”

“Well, yes, but we better cut us a brake while we got good trees for it,” Mr. Epps said. “A few miles yonder, them big wheels going to need a spoke pole for getting this load downhill.” I quickly pulled the axes from the wagon and took Watson into the trees a ways, and in short order we had cut and trimmed a spruce pole that was long enough to pass through the rear wheels of the wagon.

By the time we resumed our journey, the snow was falling heavily. The mountain ridges on either side had disappeared from view, and as we plodded ahead we could see only a few feet in front of us and to the sides. We were all now shrouded in blankets, except for the Old Man in his greatcoat. The snow was wet and stuck to us, turning us white, even Mr. Epps. Father and I stumbled along in front, searching out the trail a few feet at a time, waving Mr. Epps and the team on as we found it. Hours passed like this, until finally the ground under our feet began to tip and fall away, and we realized that we had reached the beginning of the descent to the valley.

Mary and Sarah got down from the wagon to walk behind it, and Mr. Epps drove the animals now by walking beside them at their heads, talking to them in a quiet, calm voice. Father instructed Ruth to carry Sarah on her back and told Oliver not to let go of Annie’s hand. Watson and Salmon were to hold the livestock back from the wagon a good ways, but keep them moving, he said, don’t let them huddle up and stall, especially the sheep. Then he and I attached a length of rope to each end of the brake pole. I walked on one side of the wagon, and Father walked at the other, ready for me to shove the pole across to him, under the wagon bed and through the spokes, whenever the wagon threatened to rush the horses.

It was a slow, nasty business, coming down that long, rocky trail ten and fifteen feet at a time all the way to the valley. At first, the slope was a gentle incline, and Father and I were able to hold the wagon off the horses by tying the driver’s brake back and pushing uphill against the box from the front, our feet skidding and slipping clumsily in the snow. But soon the descent quickened, and the wagon started to break loose. I grabbed the spruce pole out of the wagon box and slung it across to Father, and we each raced to a tree beside the trail and lashed the rope around it, locking the wheels. Then we let the lines out slowly and inched the wagon down the rough trail, skidding it like a sledge, until the ropes had run nearly all the way out, when we each tied the end to the tree and scrambled down to the wagon and chocked the wheels with rocks. Then we stumbled back uphill to the trees, untied the slack ropes, and walked them forward a ways, where we wound them around a nearer pair of trees. We drew them taut again, reached down with our free hand and removed the chocks, and let the wagon slide another few feet. Over and over, endlessly, it seemed, we followed in the blinding snow the same elaborate, painful procedure, and somewhere out there in front Mr. Epps calmed the snow-covered horses and kept them moving together on the nearly invisible trail. My face froze, and the rope burned my hands raw, and the rocks tore at the tender, exposed skin of my palms and fingers, while slowly, bit by bit, we lowered the wagon through the storm to the valley floor—where, as we descended, the clouds seemed to rise, and the snow gradually turned to sleet, then to cold rain.

By the time we got to level ground, it was almost dark, but we could see again. There were maple trees with fresh buds glistening on wet limbs, a meandering river, cleared, flat meadows covered with new grass, and steep mountains rising swiftly from the plain and disappearing in low, dark gray clouds.

In spite of our ordeal, we appeared to be in good shape. The team of Morgans that Mr. Epps had advised the Old Man to buy looked positively heroic to me now. Mr. Epps seemed as shrewd to me as he did to himself. I grinned at him, and to my surprise he smiled modestly, almost shyly, back.

My hands and Father’s were raw and blistered, and our clothes were soaked through. Poor Mary and Ruth and the children came trudging along behind us, looking miserable, wet, and cold, but immensely relieved to be down from the mountain. And further back came the red Devon cattle and Father’s precious long-faced merino sheep and the pigs, with Salmon and Oliver, using the collies, dutifully keeping them together, hollering and chasing after the stragglers, beating them back into line with their sticks. A short ways ahead, I saw a white, two-storey farmhouse with a long porch facing the road and a large, unpainted barn and several ramshackle outbuildings behind it, and when I pointed the place out to the Old Man, he merely nodded, as if he had known it would be there and did not need me to show it to him.

Finally, when we had all come up and were gathered together beside the wagon, Father removed his hat and prepared again to pray. This time, however, he ordered us to do likewise. “Let us give thanks, children,” he said, and we each uncovered our heads, every one of us, even Mr. Epps.

In his clear, thin voice, Father said, “Heavenly Father, we humbly thank thee for bringing thy children one more time safely through the storm. We thank thee, O Lord, for protecting us and our worldly goods against the travails and terrors of the mountain fastness and the fury of the storm. We who are wholly undeserving of thy boundless care and protection, O Lord, we humbly thank thee. Amen.”

Mr. Epps said his “A-men!” and quickly snapped his hat back on. I followed, and the others did also, except for Father, who remained bareheaded, face screwed up and eyes tightly shut. Uneasily, because of Mr. Epps’s presence, perhaps, we all walked a few steps away and did not look at the Old Man, and a moment later, as if wakened abruptly from sleep, he re-joined us, seeming somewhat distracted, if not downright dazed. This was his usual manner following prayer, however, and we were all quite used to it and never remarked on it, even amongst ourselves. From our viewpoint, simply, the Old Man prayed with greater intensity than the rest of us. From our viewpoint, the Old Man did everything with greater intensity than the rest of us.

By the time we reached the roadside farm, the rain had ceased, and the clouds had drifted back up the snow-whitened slopes to cover only the mountaintops above, revealing a broad, grassy floodplain here below. A mile or so further, Mr. Epps informed us, was the village of Keene, where eight or ten additional families resided. “Mostly, they just scratches out a living. Not much different from us folks up there beyond the notch in Timbuctoo” he said, pointing to a sharp cut in the distant high ridge to the west.

Father said, “That, Mister Epps, will soon change.”

“Yassuh, Mister Brown” he said, and our eyes met for an instant, and I saw that he did not believe that the Old Man would be able to change anything, anywhere.

As we approached the white house and barn, we noticed that the place, clearly a once-prosperous dairy farm, was showing distinct signs of inattention—broken fences and tumbled walls, windblown shingles on the ground, a two- or three-year-old pile of dung collected behind the barn, and none of the abundant cleared land tilled yet.

The place was owned by a man in his mid-twenties, a Mr. Caleb Partridge—whose youth, when he opened the door to Father’s knock, surprised me—and his middle-aged wife, Martha. The couple welcomed us in, evidently pleased by the unexpected prospect of extending food and shelter to such a bedraggled party of travelers. Mr. Partridge, a tall, gaunt man with a thick black beard and heavy teeth, had a brutish handsomeness about him. His wife was pink-faced and plain as oats and seemed almost simple in her shyness, for she giggled nervously whenever one of the adults spoke, even when I was the speaker, and listened with great seriousness to whatever the children, Annie and Sarah, offered by way of conversation, as if only they did not frighten her.

The couple, apparently childless, resided there alone with an aged woman, whom the man introduced as his wife’s mother. She sat in a corner of the large kitchen, mumbling and nodding agreeably to herself, while we warmed our faces and hands and dried our clothing before the huge fireplace and while Mrs. Partridge fussed over Ruth and Mary and the little girls, bringing cloths to help them dry their hair and serving up bowls of hot cider and ample portions of freshly baked corn bread.

Later, when the boys and Mr. Epps and I had fed and bedded down the animals and returned to the house, we all seated ourselves at the Partridges’ long trestle table before a steaming pot of venison stew. Mr. Epps, however, hung back by the corner of the fireplace, where he stood with his dark face held deliberately away from us. Finally, Father noticed him there and said, “Ah, Mister Epps! Come quickly, or your bowl will be snatched by one of these greedy children!”

The Partridges, all three, even the old lady, looked up at Father with expressions of mild surprise on their bland faces. But Mrs. Partridge quickly fetched another plate and spoon, and Mr. Epps crossed to the table and joined us, seating himself with serious mien between me and Watson and directly across from Father, who then took the liberty, as he put it, of blessing the meal—whereupon with great appetite we all did eat.

We stabled our animals in the barn that night and—except for Mary, Ruth, Sarah, and Annie, who were given pallets inside the house by the fire—slept in the loft above. It had once been a fine, tight structure, but now the roof leaked, floorboards were rotting, and the hay was several years old and filled with dust and debris. Two scrawny milch cows were all the Partridges seemed to own for livestock, and they looked like aged, weak milkers ready to quit.

Apparently, most of the Partridges’ cattle had died off in recent years or had been butchered for beef or sold. For income during the long winters, Mr. Partridge had taken to killing large numbers of deer and shipping the venison by sledge south to Albany. He complained that the place was too large for him and his wife to work alone, and there were no men in the area who hired out. The woman had inherited the property from her father, a veteran of the Ticonderoga campaigns in the Revolution, who had taken a land grant here as payment for his military services and thus had been one of the first settlers in the region. Mr. Partridge, the landless third son of a New Hampshire grower of flax, had himself been a farmer for hire, had wandered here from New England, and had come to ownership of the farm nearly six years ago by marrying his employer’s only child and heir a few months before his employer’s death.

I learned all this the next morning, following our departure from the farm, from Father, who had stayed up late talking with Mr. Partridge, after the rest of us had staggered off to the barn to sleep. The Old Man had a way of eliciting personal information from strangers when he got them alone. His questions were disarmingly direct, and his inquiry seemed almost scientific in its detachment, which in a sense it was, for he was not so much interested in a man’s personal life as he was in learning about his character and about human nature generally. Usually, when Father interrogated a person new to him, his immediate aim was to move the inquiry, by way of questions about family and background, to the question of slavery and race, so as to distinguish friend from foe, certainly, but also because, according to Father, it was on this question more than any other that a white man revealed the true nature of his character.

“Our benefactor and new neighbor, Mister Partridge;’ he said to me as we walked along at the head of our little caravan, “is one of those men who says he finds slavery and Negroes equally repugnant. But I believe that he would happily accept both, if it saved his wife’s farm from ruin and left him free to hunt and fish.” He added, “I doubt he’ll be of much use to us.”

We had left just at sunrise, under a cloudless deep blue sky with the morning star and a half-moon floating high beside us in the south like a diamond and a silver bowl. The road was somewhat mudded from yesterday’s rain, but Mr. Epps expected it to be dried out by the time we got up into the mountains again, where, he explained, the road crossed mostly stone anyhow. After passing through the tiny settlement of Keene—a post office, general store, log church, tavern, and a half-dozen log houses huddled together and guarded by mangy, long-haired dogs that all seemed to be related—we crossed the East Branch of the Au Sable River and made our way easefully uphill past freshly plowed fields, switch-backing towards the notch that cut through the range of mountains which lay between us and North Elba.