Olivia, Mourning (26 page)

“They may provide men with employment, but it’s temporary, at slave wages, and under dangerous conditions. Then they take all the money with them and move on to the next mountain.”

“But you can’t farm with trees all over your land. I would love for someone to come in and slaughter the trees on my land and then pay me for their trouble. And people need the wood. We couldn’t build anything if we didn’t have the lumber companies providing us with wood.”

“And making outrageous fortunes doing it. Look, I’m not saying they shouldn’t make money, but I don’t think they are entitled to all of it. The trees are there. The lumber companies did nothing to produce them. They make no capital investment to justify the size of their profits. Some of that money should stay with the people of the state. Those companies use the roads and bridges and water lines the states build, and now all the states are skint, can’t even repair the roads they have. Why shouldn’t the big loggers put money back in that pot?”

“You did nothing to produce the trees on your land, but you’re eager for those loggers to cut them down for whatever profit you can get. I don’t imagine you’ll be donating any of that money to the public domain.” She felt torn between wishing she could keep her big, critical mouth shut and thinking why should she? Wasn’t a woman entitled to an opinion? She loved a good argument and seldom chanced on one. “Not that I think you should, but I don’t see a big difference between you and the lumber companies.”

“Yes, you’re right about that. I quite intend to keep every penny. I’m no crusader. But I can see when a thing’s wrong, even if I put my own hand in it. People like you miss the point – which is that it ought not to be allowed. The government shouldn’t let it happen. The government’s supposed to protect the public domain, not help the rich men who own the railroads and logging companies and insurance brokerages get richer.”

“I’ve never thought about it that way before. Most of the time I’m too busy wondering how I could get to be one of those rich people getting richer.”

“Dreaming of a house with seventeen bedrooms and a ballroom?”

“At this point I’d settle for a couple of windows in my cabin.”

“That’s little enough to ask.” He turned and smiled at her. “Windows are usually put in before the walls go up, but you can cut them out later. But you’d best wait until you’ve passed your first winter here before you go cutting any holes in your house. That’s the reason your uncle built it that way. You get a five foot drift up against your wall, you worry a lot less about light and air and a lot more about how to keep from freezing to death.”

“That’s what Mourning says.”

Neither of them spoke for a while as she trudged along behind him. Then he stopped at the edge of the clearing in which his log cabin stood.

“Oh Jeremy, it’s beautiful.” She edged around him, eager for a closer look at his home.

A spacious roofed porch ran across the front. On the far right side, where the porch wrapped around, stood a large stone bake oven and stove top. Pans and cooking utensils hung on the wall next to the front door. A table and two chairs stood in the center of the porch and a string hammock hung between two posts at the far corner.

“What a clever idea – to do all your cooking outside.” She moved closer.

“Try to. Weather’s got to be really bad before I’ll fry up anything inside.”

“It’s the exact opposite of what my father used to say – people design their homes to hide the kitchen way at the back, so you can’t see how they’re trying to poison you.”

Jeremy’s big red horse stood free in the yard, munching on buffalo grass. “Hullo Ernest.” Olivia approached him and the animal took a few steps to allow her to stroke its head.

“We don’t have time for much hospitality,” Jeremy said. “It’s later than I thought it would be. Unless . . .” He looked at her again in that unfocused way, as if making up his mind about something. “I could take you home on Ernest, but you’d have to ride behind me. Western. And bareback. I don’t suppose you know how.”

Olivia thought she saw him regretting the offer the moment it was spoken, but she accepted it anyway. “I love riding bareback. My Uncle Scruggs used to take me all the time, when I was little. He didn’t care much about the things people say little girls aren’t supposed to do. And I’m dressed for it.” She tugged at the sides of both trouser legs and did a little curtsey.

“Well, all right then. You shouldn’t be on the trail alone, especially without a weapon. So I guess I’ll start a fire and do you for a cup of coffee. Feel free to have a look-see around. Go inside if you want.”

She wasted no time, climbed the three steps to the porch, and lifted the latch on the door. The small cabin was simple, but the most perfect home she’d ever seen. She stood in the doorway, nodding her approval. He had stripped the bark from the logs and treated them, so the walls glowed a bright reddish brown. The chinking was all even-colored clay – no rags, moss, or newspapers – neatly done and kept in good repair. A stone fireplace and chimney rose from the back of the cabin. Not far from it stood a double bed, covered by a feather comforter and with three big pillows propped against the headboard. A lantern hung at the side of the bed, at just the right height for reading. Two cheerful rag rugs gave color to the room. Two windows – real glass windows – let in the rays of afternoon light. He had tacked pictures to the wall on either side of one of the windows. One a portrait of George Washington, the other of Andrew Jackson. Next to Andrew Jackson was a framed document under glass. She looked closer and saw that it was the deed to Jeremy’s land, signed by none other than Andrew Jackson himself.

“Your home is beautiful.” She rejoined him outside. “I see you are a big admirer of Andrew Jackson. Because of New Orleans?”

“No.” Jeremy shook his head as he finished laying a fire in the pit in the yard. “I agree with an article I read when he was President – killing two thousand five hundred Englishmen in New Orleans hardly constitutes a proper qualification for the Presidency. And that’s absolutely right. But Jackson’s more than a general.”

“My father used to say it was Adams who can write against Andy who can fight.”

“Well, lots of people thought like that, but that just means your father wasn’t the only one who was wrong. It was Andy who believes in the rights of man against Adams who believes in the rights of property. Too bad Jackson couldn’t run again, but I guess he’s too old and sick, even if he had been allowed.” Jeremy struck a flint to light the fire.

“How can you call a person who owns slaves a believer in the rights of man?”

Jeremy sat back on his heels. “That is a problem. But he did take six hundred free black men with him to fight in New Orleans. Stood up to a lot of protest about that. That’s more than most white men have ever done. He didn’t invent slavery and he’s always opposed succession from the Union. The good he has done this country far outweighs whatever support he has lent to that unfortunate institution.”

“Unfortunate institution!” Olivia remembered the article in the newspaper that had called people like Mourning the unwanted debris of an unfortunate institution. “It’s not an unfortunate institution! It’s a crime. A sin.”

“Yes.” He got to his feet. “It surely is. So is the way we treat the Indians. Your farm is on land that was taken from them. Do you plan to give it back?”

She stared at him with pursed lips.

“We all make our way in an imperfect world,” Jeremy said.

She sighed. “That’s what I always say. You can’t change the world. All you can do is look after your little corner of it.”

“That’s a simplistic way to look at it, though not without merit. Let me go get that coffee.”

Olivia was relieved to have the conversation over. What kind of girl wanted to chat about Andrew Jackson and the Battle of New Orleans? One who didn’t know how to socialize, that’s who. One who especially didn’t know how to talk to a man.

She suddenly felt sad. She hadn’t spent a single minute being homesick for Five Rocks, but Jeremy’s cozy little cabin had aroused a vague longing to have a place on God’s earth that she cared about, where she wanted to spend her life. A place that would feel like a real home, with people she loved and wanted to take care of. Where she would belong. And Uncle Scruggs’ cabin wasn’t going to be it.

Neither was Jeremy’s. When she’d first stepped into his cabin she couldn’t help but picture herself nestled among the pillows in that welcoming bed, reading Jane Austen while Jeremy sat at the table, hunched over one of his articles. He would glance up at her with soft eyes, smile, and read out a sentence for her approval. But this vision required them to be at ease with one another, and she found it hard to imagine feeling that way with Jeremy. He would probably give her a reading list and quiz her on every book.

In any case, he wasn’t interested. She was in his home only because they had met by chance. True, today he had finally been forthcoming about himself, but he hadn’t asked a single question about her. He had ignored several opportunities to lay a gentlemanly hand on her. There had been no lingering gazes.

And she was no longer certain she wanted him to look at her that way. Was it supposed to be this exhausting to spend time with a man? Her girlish ideas of love had always included a lot of laughing together. There was much to admire about Jeremy, but where was the fun?

“Cold or not, windows make such a difference,” she said, stepping outside.

“Those were a gift to myself. I join a poker game at a tavern in Northville every other Saturday night. Play so badly, I’m the most popular man at the table. Usually allow myself to lose five dollars and quit, but one night I won a big pot. So I bought a hand-tooled saddle for Ernest, a comforter stuffed with goose feathers, and the glass for those windows.”

“How did you get it back here without breaking?”

“That was the hard part. Rigged a travois to Ernest and rode real slow. I didn’t do the final cut until I got it here. Had to buy a special tool.”

“Well, it’s a lovely home. You must be proud of it.”

He poured ground coffee into the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the fire.

“What’s that?” She pointed at a low-roofed structure of rough lumber down by the river. She needed to use his privy and that was the only thing she had seen resembling one, though she couldn’t imagine him putting it there, so close to the source of his drinking water.

“Ice house. Come see.”

He opened the door of the little room, which was dug deep into the ground and had a thick layer of sawdust between its double-walls. A large puddle filled with sodden straw stood in the middle of it.

“I’ll invite you for ice cream next spring. Last of this year’s ice melted just a few weeks ago.”

“Mmm.”

She smiled and once again scanned the area for the outhouse, but there was none to be seen. Need finally triumphed over reticence and she asked him where it was. When he held out both arms and looked around at the woods, she felt herself go red.

“Sorry. Just fooling with you. I do actually have one.”

She followed him around the side of the barn, where he picked up what looked like a heap of hide, bark, and poles. “I use this in the winter.” He carried it over to the far edge of the clearing, stood it up, fiddled with the poles, and a little wigwam materialized. Then he strode back to the barn and returned with a wooden chair that had a large hole cut in its seat. He lifted a flap of hide and set the chair inside the wigwam.

“There’s newspaper and matches inside that pouch hanging on the back of the chair.”

“Matches?”

“For burning the paper. Just take care you don’t set the woods on fire. You’ll figure out the rest.”

She bent over, entered the wigwam, and looked in the pouch. Along with scraps of newsprint and matches, it also contained a small digging tool. So that was “the rest” of what she was supposed to figure out. Instead of one big, stinking hole with a permanent structure over it, you buried your business as you went along, like a cat. Once she overcame her initial astonishment, she thought it a brilliant idea.

When she emerged from the wigwam Jeremy was down by the Geesis, pulling on a rope to draw a crate from the river. She joined him, kneeling to wash her hands in the cold water, and he held up a tin from the crate, asking “You take your coffee with milk?”

“Yes, I do. What’s that contraption?” Olivia asked, nodding at the tree behind them. A pulley was nailed to it. A rope with a large hook hanging from it ran back up the hill to another pulley, nailed to another tree.

“That’s what I have instead of you,” he said. “Watch.”

He picked up the bucket that stood at the foot of the tree, dipped it into the river, hung it on the hook, and pulled hand over hand on the rope to send the bucket sailing uphill to the other tree. Then he yanked on something that caused it to stay in place and walked up the hill with Olivia traipsing behind him in awe. They came to a table holding an enormous pot with a spigot. Jeremy tipped the bucket to pour its contents into the pot and then opened the spigot to complete his demonstration of the system.

“This is where I do my washing up.” He held his hands under the stream of water. “My shaving, too.”

“I want one of those!” She was already planning how she would have her second pulley right over the water barrel.