Duncan Down the Mast Road

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-4835-7556-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 160 Seiten

Fourteen-year-old Obadiah Merritt is living at home in Lee, New Hampshire with his mother Patience and their slave Pluvius, while Obadiah's father is away in New Jersey involved with the Revolutionary War. The mayor approaches Obadiah wanting to hire him and his oxen Judge and Jury to cut one of the King's pines for the mainmast of a ship under construction. Obadiah is thrilled with the opportunity to do a man's job and to get a man's wage. Patience Merritt is less pleased with the idea of her son doing dangerous work and being around what she considers to be 'godless men with vile oaths.' The story follows Obadiah's trials and tribulations as the young teamster works his way down the mast road. Down the Mast Road is a historical fiction written by John M. Duncan and originally published in 1956. This new edition was published in 2016 by the Lee, New Hampshire Heritage Commission to mark the 250th anniversary of the town. The text was transcribed from the original book by Scott Bugbee.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Duncan, John

Leseproben

2 The Major sat in the kitchen with his fat stomach against the table and under it as he rested on his pudgy forearms. An empty mug that had contained milk and a plate with crumbs of Patience Merritt’s johnnycake had been pushed back away from him. There were golden crumbs on the curve of his flowered waistcoat. He looked up and smiled broadly as Obie entered, but he let Mistress Merritt speak first. “The major would like to talk to you,” she said. She hardly paused in her work, busying herself with ladles and crocks and pots. The place smelled fine of new-made apple butter. The boy turned to the major. At fourteen, Obie’s leanness and manner of standing Indian-straight made him seem tall. His leanness, though, was a matter of flesh, not bone, for his wrists were large and his hands broad and knotty. The major judged him shrewdly. If he grows up to fit those feet, he’ll be a big one all right, he thought. He looked closely. Gray eyes, overconfident for a boy as young as he, were wide spaced in a face that still retained the browning given it by the summer sun. A brown, even now, so dark that it made his tow hair lighter than it really was. The major noted that the boy did not smile a greeting in return. A self-important little brat, he thought. Then he said, “Ha, grown to be quite a man, quite a man, I’d say.” His voice was bursting with a geniality that his small eyes lacked. They continued to appraise the boy as he talked. They missed nothing. “Been talking with your mother,” he continued. “About the first thing I said to her was ‘Mistress Merritt, I’ve just got to get the rules for making that apple butter.’ That was after I got just one whiff of it. ‘If my cook Louella could produce applet butter the likes of that,’ I said, ‘she’d be the toast of Durham. I swear it.’ Pull up a chair, Obadiah. There is a little matter I would like to discuss with you.” He didn’t wait for Obie to sit down but continued smoothly. “The fact is, I took the liberty of talking with your mother first, because a woman’s opinion is a great thing, and true to my expectations she thinks you are a good hand for work. I don’t have to tell you, Obadiah that when duty has called so many of our men to war, it’s up to old men like myself” – he coughed gently – “and – er – boys, like yourself, ah, men of the future, shall we say, to get things done.” He paused. Patience Merritt raised her eyes from her work, blew at the tumbling curl. “Obie does very well,” she said flatly, “With the help of Pluvius we manage to keep the place going. “Of course, of course,” said Major Twombly. “I could tell as I came down the road that someone was doing a mighty fine job around here, and I naturally knew it must be Obadiah. That’s why I felt free to stop and ask if he might put in a week’s work for me.” He halted without committing himself further. So that was why the major had given a friendly wave from the road. He wanted work done. Obie turned to his mother, thinking that she might speak again, but she didn’t look up. Evidently, she expected him to carry on the conversation. He had never worked for anyone except his father, here on the farm, but that was no reason why he couldn’t work for someone else. The fall plowing had been finished; the kindling was practically in. All that seemed to be left were the small tasks that pile up during the busy seasons and could be done anytime during the winter: a section of stone fence to be rebuilt before a too heavy frost tumbled it further; a board on the barn floor replaced; a hinge on the feed bin mended. The only regular work was the chores, and Pluvius had always done most of them. No, there was no reason that he could see why he couldn’t work for the major, especially if he were to get paid for it. When he turned back from his mother, Major Twombly was softly drumming his fingers on the table, waiting. Obie pulled up a stool. If this was going to a man-to-man talk, he might as well sir down. Somehow he thought that his mother did not approve of the action. “What kind of work?” he asked. The major rubbed his chubby hands together. He had lots of work he could offer. He freighted goods down the Oyster and Piscataqua Rivers in long, flat gundalows that were built in a shipyard that he partly owed. He was a partner in a screeching sawmill on the Bellamy, and he owed a pounding gristmill near Dover. No one knew in exactly how many ponds the major dipped an oar, some of them, it was rumored, not of the clearest water. The major almost chuckled and, looking carefully at Obie’s mother, said, “I’ve got a tree that needs cutting down and hauling to my wharf in Durham.” “A tree?” asked Obie. “A tree!” Patience Merritt stopped work for the first time since her son had come in. “A mast tree!” she said. Her voice held a belligerent note. “Ha, Mistress Merritt,” quickly cut in the major. “You make it sound a lot worse than it is.” “I’m sure I don’t,” answered Obie’s mother testily. “As I told you before I called Obadiah, when I was small they were always bringing masts down this road and my mother always bundled me away in a safe place so that I could neither see nor hear the godless men who drove them. See them because of their scarred bodies, or hear them because of their vile oaths.” She looked defiantly at the major. “I’m certain that I don’t make it seem worse than it is.” “Now, my dear Mistress Merritt.” The major’s voice was as smooth and sweet as first-run maple syrup. “You know those old mastmen have left these parts long ago. The men I’m hiring, ma’am, live right in this community. Practically your own neighbors. If they weren’t careful, God-fearing men, do you think I’d ask an upstanding boy like Obadiah to work with them? I certainly would not. Why, I’m sending my own nephew Enoch along, and he’s barely a year or so older than Obadiah right now. He waited for that statement to sink in. Then looking slyly at Obie, he rubbed his hands together again and said, “I’m paying two shillings and found a day, plus two shillings for each man’s yoke of oxen.” He paused again, watching. “Two shillings a day, mind you, plus two shillings for a man’s yoke.” It took some effort on his part to keep looking cheerful as he repeated the amount. A year ago he could have had the best men in New Hampshire at a shilling a day. The thought hurt him. Patience Merritt’s eyes widened, but she remained silent. It was a preposterous sum. The major hadn’t mentioned it before. “Two shillings a day. Do I get two shillings a day? asked Obie. “And two for your oxen. Say, come to think of it, that is twice as much as my nephew gets. He has no oxen.” The major seemed to think that he had made quite a joke. He chuckled. “Yes, sir, twice as much as my own flesh and blood.” He pushed himself back from the table. “Ma,” said Obie, trying to keep his voice level, “that would help a lot with Dr. Graves.” It was precisely what Patience Merritt was thinking. If Obie was to study with Dr. Graves in Exeter, money would be a help. Why wasn’t Silas, her husband, here at a time like this instead of being in Newport with the navy? – a navy, it seems, that didn’t pay very well or very often. She met her son’s questioning look. Imagine, she thought, he was being asked to do a man’s work. She blew up on her forehead curl, not from habit this time, but almost to reassure herself that she was still young enough for a curl that tumbled. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Oh, Ma,” said Obie, almost before the words were out of her mouth. “It’s just helping to cut down a tree and hauling it to Durham. I can do that.” The major rose and reached for his greatcoat, hung across the back of a chair. “Just as the boy says,” he agreed, following Obie’s lead. “Nothing much to it.” Inwardly, he shuttered. Not much of a job! This overconfident little brat thought the same as half of the old codgers that he hired. He picked up his hat and brushed it absently with his coat sleeve. Obie suddenly didn’t want the major to leave. “Ma,” he repeated, “I can do it. Can’t I do everything around here?” Patience Merritt knew that masting was rough work, dangerous work, even if Major Twombly did try to gloss over it. But four shillings a day, two for Obie and two for the oxen, and then there was Dr. Graves. She wished Silas, her husband, were here. She was never good at making decisions. She hesitated a minute. The hesitation was all Major Twombly needed. “Splendid, splendid. I don’t know where I could have gotten a better man.” He held out his fat hand. Obie took it and it felt like an alewife fresh out of water. “Ma’am, a son to be proud of. Knows exactly what wants to do.” Patience Merritt started to protest. She...