Striking Balance

By Jeanne G'Fellers

Benjamin Schnell is the possessor of secrets he wishes he could bury beneath the rich Nolichucky river flat dirt he farms alongside his dear friend, Conall. But secrets lead to lies, lead to more secrets, and all eventually come home to roost in a bed of distrust, even on the 1779 Appalachian frontier.
After Ben is injured, he realizes there are odd things happening around him that others cannot see. Corner shadows take human shapes, lightning bugs dance in broad daylight, and the farm’s strange owner, Master Gow, returns with an offer Conall cannot refuse if Ben is to live. But making a deal with Master Gow will take them deep into the mountains to where a haunted king reigns and Fire balances Water in a delicate natural friendship.
Ben must learn self-acceptance and trust if he and Conall are going to survive because there can be no secrets in the mountains, only truth.
Another rich tale from the Appalachian Elementals world focusing on complex families containing rich LGBTQIA+ characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mountain Gap Books
• Release date: Jul 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463283424

Jeanne G'Fellers

We're a small Appalachian Publisher specializing in Appalachian authors and Appalachian books.

Book preview

Preface

Gentle Reader,

I have come to the realization that my recall of the last two centuries, of the mundane and fantastic alike, is becoming dulled by new occurrences and their related technologies, so I must record the earlier happenings while they remain vibrant in my mind. Such recollections, especially the saddest among them, have necessarily gentled to my mind’s requirements, but this is only natural. I shall record them nonetheless and as if they are happening anew, though my quill and parchment have been replaced by a ballpoint pen and a five-and-dime composition book. Someone will eventually request I record them in another format, I am quite certain of this, but the format matters little. What matters is that I finally record them, that I complete the task since I abandoned my last attempt in 1938.

May the metal monstrosity branded a Royal Arrow typewriter rust to nothingness in the hole where I buried its worthless, ribbon-eating, key-locking carcass. And if it requires assistance, I shall happily aid its demise by shoving energy at its grave until it liquefies into a satisfactory puddle of subsoil goo.

But I digress. Yes, there is an official record. There is almost always an official record of a community. Ours is a record of who was made by our sower sovereign, who passed, who faced punishment, and who married who, though the last is a rare occurrence. But our record does not detail how I came to be here, only that I did, and it certainly does not speak from my point of view.

Alas, here I sit in the early a.m., pen in hand, notebook open, wondering where I should begin. At the beginning, I suppose, but this is far from a common, once upon a time, or child’s fairy tale (such stories were not originally intended for children after all). No, this is my tale alone, the story of one become two become one again.

I would not change what has transpired aside from a few memories. If able, I would ask that a precious handful of those be returned to me so I might embrace them and say I will always love them for the unconditional love they have shown me when I needed it most.

This is my story, the only story I shall ever have, and ‘tis already lengthy enough in years to fill a room with notebooks.

May you read it with an open mind and a good heart.

Bea Gow

4 July, 1976

Chapter One

A Fine Upstanding Young Man

Nolichucky River Flats, Southern Appalachian Mountains

7 May 1779

Nub? Where’d you go? Conall pushes back his cocked hat to scratch his head, puzzled until he spies me standing above him on a bough. I could dot his eye with one of last year’s common apples if I wish, but I drop a handful of new leaves onto his upturned face instead, and he swats at them like they are bees, tossing me into a fit of laughter. What’re you doin’ up that tree?

Taking a rest in the shade. I finished the lower field, put up Peg and Winkle, brushed and baited them, wiped the tack, and accomplished all else you listed this morning. I draw my knees to stand. ‘Tisn’t oft I am taller than Conall, so this feels grand.

We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t hurry. Conall lifts his hat to smooth his hair, which has been drawn with a blue ribbon tied into a voluminous bow. He looks foppish, but I dare not tell him.

Must we go to Widow Alcott’s again? Her farm is a short distance along the road, but I loathe going there. ‘Tisn’t the food, mind you. Widow Alcott, or rather, Mary, is a wonderful cook, but Mary does not peel, bake, and roast out of kindness. She and her sixteen-year-old son, Davy, are Widow Alcott’s slaves, and I do not cotton one bit to one person owning another no matter what their skin color, belief, social status, or other standings might be. I’d rather eat boiled eggs and beans.

Good heavens, you’d stink worse than a wallerin’ hog, and I gotta share a cabin with you. Conall slaps his cocked hat back onto his head and smooths his waistcoat. Go warsh. She’s fried a pullet for us.

You mean Mary has. I know Conall disapproves of slavery as much as I do, but they reside on both sides of the double smallholder we toil. This makes us odd, I suppose, but I am content in the knowledge. Master Gow, the Scottish gentleman who owns the farm, does not have slaves — we asked before he took us into his employ — but neither is he a Quaker. More of a naysayer, I suppose. I truly have no idea of his religious leanings, and I should not ask as ‘tis solely between him and God. Might I eat in the kitchen?

No! You’ll eat like a proper adult. Conall has become angry with me, his frequent state when I prove resistant to dining at the Alcott home, so I spring from the tree to stand before him. I hardly reach his chest, a significant difference, which is why he oft calls me Nub.

I’ll go wash then.

Wet your hair and pull it back nice. He follows me toward the cabin. Wipe your shoes and brush your coat too.

If I must. I climb to my loft. I know how fortunate I am to have my own space in the cabin we share, but Conall is a private man, as distrustful as myself in many ways, so he has his own apartment, with a snug door, just off the hearth. I saw the scar on his shoulder when a wildcat gained entrance to the hen house one night. ‘Tis an ugly mark and the very reason he cannot use his left arm well, but he will not speak on it, so I refrain from asking. Keeping quiet has benefits; I have long learnt this. Why are we going to the Alcotts’ on a Wednesday? I ask as I don my cleaner shirt. ’Twill be dark when we return.

She sent word with Davy, so we’re obliged, he replies, and I peer down to see him applying that ridiculous blue silk cravat he overspent for. A fine gentleman, Conall is not, but he tries very hard where Widow Alcott’s elder daughter, Charity, is concerned. Those two… I detest Charity as much as I appreciate Conall. There, I said it. ‘Tisn’t one-bit kind, but she is no Daughter of Liberty, what with her delicate laces, fancy bonnets, soft hands, and clean nails. Charity is afraid of physical labor, and I firmly believe she would not pluck a chicken to save herself from starvation, a thought I should be ashamed of, but rest assured, I am not.

Come on, Conall calls to me, and I scurry down my ladder to stand beside him. We are the long and the short of Master Gow’s Nolichucky river flat farm, an affection Conall bestows on us whenever he has liberally imbibed in our supply of corn liquor. Sadly, there shan’t be such merriment until we return home, if at all this night. It shall depend on how badly Conall’s shoulder aches.

Reckon you’ll do. He retrieves his long rifle, and I follow him out of the cabin. I proudly own a firearm, the result of two years’ saved wages, but we are treading along the edge of our fields to Widow Alcott’s, so I choose to leave it behind. No one molests or draws arms on us at the farm or when we travel short distances, which is strange when one considers Dragging Canoe and his men are worrisome for everyone at present. But they have thus far left us and the Alcott farm unscathed.

This perhaps bears an explanation. Widow Alcott’s son, Mister Josiah Alcott, purchased his farm based on surveys alone five years back but only moved his sisters, mother, and his mother’s slaves here two years ago before he was called by Mister John Sevier to join the Revolution. Conall served in a Virginia Militia and faced Redcoats in a skirmish before we met; that is where he incurred his injury, but he, fortunately, survived when others did not.

I attempted to join militias in North Carolina but was thrice sent away for being too small for my age, a point that continues to infuriate me, and I become angrier still when I witness Conall smoothing his shirt for the fifth time in as many minutes. Widow Alcott looks for him to marry Charity and manage the Alcott farm, but I pray he does not fall into her snare, Mary’s chicken or not.

I glance at him as we walk, content with my current lot despite its complications. Conall Baldwin is a quality manager, and Master Gow, while strange, leaves us predominantly to ourselves aside from the spring plantings, summer trimmings, and harvest, which has allowed me to end my travels though I know I must always remain alert and ready to flee if need be. This is the ninth year Conall and I have toiled this land, our ninth year of tobacco and corn, so I know I can trust Conall about most matters, but others I whisper only to Peg and Winkle as we plow so we might turn them into the dirt, burying the knowledge for another year.

We possess a sufficient garden, so Conall knows I lied about beans and eggs. Greens and eggs are more to my liking, perhaps with new potatoes and enough salt pork for taste. Or better yet with a goodly pot of stewed deer on the side. Now, this would indeed be divine. He would appreciate these fixings as well; I am quite certain of this. We’ve roosters aplenty, so I can cook a roaster this Sunday if you want. I trot to keep up with Conall’s strides. Unless…

Johnnycakes, too? he asks. We still got meal, don’t we?

Ah, I’ve got you now, Mister Baldwin. I know exactly how to draw Conall back to me should the need arise, but tender thoughts can prove troublesome, so I mustn’t entertain them. Enough for a good half-dozen cakes. I return his smile despite myself. "Herr Baldwin mag meine Kochen."

Conall slows so I might keep pace. What’d you say about me?

I said you appreciate my cooking. I center my cocked hat on my head. ‘Tis larger than I need, but ‘twas the best price when I obtained it – free. It matters little who lost it, ‘tis a fine hat indeed, better than Conall’s truth be known.

‘Tis as if you stayed by your mother’s side long enough to learn proper cookin’.

I’ve heard the great cooks in Europe, the ones who cook for King George, are men. And my father journeyed as a baker.

Baker, blacksmith. Seems he had more than his share of work teachins’. And we’re not in Europe sufferin’ under the monarchs. We’re here and free. He slows even more. We’re Patriots, not Tories, so we don’t live in a palace or have all their belongins’, but you’re good at cookin’, however you learnt it.

Thank you. I hold myself taller as the Alcott cabin comes into view. Are you certain I can’t eat in the kitchen?

You’re nineteen, high time you act a man. He turns to face me. Was your father this short?

Almost. Conall has asked this very question at least a dozen times over the years. I have not grown a speck since we met, so he feels the need to keep watch over me. Mutti was even more so. Mutti. I place my hand over the locket I wear on a leather cord around my neck. ‘Tis old habit, but the locket keeps her close to my heart, which has brought me peace more times than I can count.

You’ve proved yourself to me, big or small, but I worry whether you’ll ever find yourself a wife. He leans in to pat my stomach. We should put some meat on you. Maybe that’ll help. Conall straightens my hat as he stands then reaches behind my head to feel the leather tie tethering my hair. You need a ribbon, but you’ll do, I reckon. He nods approval of my status. Let’s go.

I’ll find someone when the time’s right, not before. I push back my hat as soon as he turns about. And I will be a happy bachelor ‘til then.

Me too.

Then why are we dining with Widow Alcott and her daughters again? I bite my cheek to refrain from speaking this aloud. Becoming a man. Conall always says this when he thinks I am incapable of doing something because of my size, but I shall show him. I am the best hand ever and being yoked to anyone has never been my priority.

Even so, I wish I was an inch, maybe two, taller.

Chapter Two

Secrets and Tories

Evening

Good evening to you, Madam Alcott. Miss Charity. Miss Emeline. I remove my hat, nod politely, and turn in the kitchen’s direction, but Conall catches my shoulder, nudging me toward the table.

‘Tis an unexpected pleasure to join ye this evenin’. He tells me to sit on the bench beside Emeline. This is by no means elegant dining, but Widow Alcott tries hard to make it look thusly, so I must sit properly in my place. ‘Tis uncomfortable, and the bench’s rough boards readily dig into my backside, but Conall frowns at me when I squirm. Charity, however, giggles.

Why, Mister Baldwin, your hired boy seems an ill fit for the table. She covers her mouth and giggles again. Perhaps he’s better suited for the kitchen.

Hateful creature, I’ll have you know… I bite my tongue until it aches, but Charity is somewhat correct. I am indeed ill fit but only because I lack the patience to deal with flippant fickle beings such as her. I peer at Conall with begging eyes, but he shakes his head. So much for an out. I am mired here whether I like it or not.

Ben’s young, Miss Charity, and still learnin’ so he should stay. Conall sips from his mug, ignoring me when I narrow my eyes at him. Widow Alcott makes fine brew, I shall grant her this, but mine is just as good. Conall has told me more than once and believes my ginger beer, when we have the means to make it, is far superior. He needs learnin’ in proper manners for when he goes sparkin’. He clears his throat, Charity giggles again, and I wish to crawl beneath the table.

Sparking? No, not me.

Emeline sighs beside me, in clear agreement. She is sixteen years age, and Widow Alcott strives to marry her off soon but certainly not to me. I am nothing of importance and appreciative of the fact. Moreover, Emeline would rather have her nose in a book, so she uses her pock scars to her advantage whenever she can.

She says ‘tis simpler, but I believe she possesses a beauteous face, marks or no, and deserves a husband who values her love of books. Emeline, however, dismissed my thoughts when I spoke them because she lives trapped beneath her sister’s shadow, and Widow Alcott allows this disservice to continue.

Still, someone content to read beside me at night is a lovely thought indeed. Someday, perhaps, but I shan’t entertain the idea at this stage of my existence.

Agreed, Mister Baldwin, says Widow Alcott. He should indeed be here. One never knows what a well-mannered hired boy might be managing later in life. She calls for Mary to serve and Davy to refill our mugs while I silently curse her for calling me a hired boy when I am the manager’s assistant on a profitable farm. The main floor of their cabin is insufferably hot, even with the door and shutters wide to the evening, and I long to be home sitting on the porch, drinking a mug of my own brew as I listen to the peepers and frogs.

I should go gigging after this before it grows too dark, but I am ill-dressed for it.

Infernal dinner.

Mary sets a plate of poke sallet, a fried chicken leg, and two thick slices of buttered common loaf before me. I am the last served and the least of them aside from Mary and Davy, who I hold as my equals, so I eat hastily and ignore the table conversation, hoping to catch Mary alone in the kitchen before we depart. I asked her to make something for me. In actuality, I offered to pay. She pshawed my offer, but I believe ‘twas because she believed it was expected of her.

Mary is oft the only one I can turn to so her being forced to… I wish I could help, but she tells me her situation is fair, considering that she and Davy are better treated than most in their position.

But this by no means justifies or eases their enslavement, so I will insist on paying her for her efforts.

I excuse myself between the main meal and the dessert course and exit through the kitchen, making my way outside and to the privy. Widow Alcott has a well-appointed one, but I am not there to make use of it.

Master Schnell? Mary inquires soon after I close the door.

Mary. Thank goodness. I have quit asking that she call me by my first name because careful habits prevent careless mistakes, which someone in her position must prevent at all costs.

Davy’s tending the meringues. She speaks low and fast. I’ve what you asked for. She opens the door a crack to shove something into my waiting hands.

Two? How ever did you—

Miss Charity gave me her torn shift, and I took a bit from the bottom.

T-thank you, I stammer. Show me your palm.

Whyever—

Please. I press coins into it when she obliges. How else can I repay your kindness?

Master Schnell, I—

Take it. And I’ll pay you as much again when I’ve the coin.

I’ll hide it carefully. She folds her fingers and pulls back, quickly returning to the kitchen. Her work is a comfort, a means for me to continue because I only had one until now and ‘tis almost worn beyond usage.

I tuck the items inside my breeches along with three of the newspapers Widow Alcott has designated for privy usage. Imagine being so comfortable in your station that you consider perfectly readable material disposable. These shall return home with me so I might savor their every word.

Confident if not prideful of my rescue and new resources, I return to the Alcott cabin, sitting as the meringues are served. Sweet and chewy, ‘tis a treat I hope Mary and Davy are allowed as well.

After dinner, Charity and Conall take a sundown walk through the Alcotts’ young orchard while I stand along the edge with Emeline and Widow Alcott. They’ll marry, Widow Alcott tells us. By next year, I am quite certain.

But they quarrel so, says Emeline. And about everything. She bites her lip to withhold her remaining words because she knows as well as I that Conall is not who instigates the arguments.

Go inside, daughter. Widow Alcott motions her away. Assure all is tidy, then accomplish your Bible study.

But… Emeline casts me a flickering smile as she gathers her skirts and turns toward the Alcott cabin. Goodnight, Mother. Night, Mister Schnell.

Ben, I mouth to her. Goodnight, Miss Alcott. I remove my hat for a proper bow as she goes, then turn back, suddenly awkward with myself. The peaches and cherries are coming along nicely. There are sixty-one trees in this orchard, a minor reduction from the seventy-two they planted two years back. Such recollections are yet another oddity of my being. I maintain a mental drawing of everything I see, a detailed picture I can retrieve whenever I wish from then on. And it looks as though you’ll be able to put your cider press to use this year.

So, Mister Schnell, Widow Alcott ignores what I have said. What are thy plans? Dost thou see thyself continuing employment under Mister Baldwin? She is speaking to me as a family member, with an elder’s intimacy toward the next generation, and this makes me uncomfortable. More so when I realize how very manipulative and presumptive ‘tis of her to do so.

Dammit. I have never thought past it and am quite content in my current station, Madam Alcott.

I see. She folds her fingers together and stares at them to demonstrate her displeasure. When Mister Baldwin and Charity wed, dost thou intend on taking charge of Master Gow’s farm thyself or will thou follow Mister Baldwin and assist here? ‘Tis more work than Davy can manage well alone. She pauses and looks up, her face hopeful. Emeline prefers thee.

I have no interest in marriage, madam. Dear God, save me from this line of questioning, and—I sigh when I see Conall walking slightly behind Charity, his cocked hat twisted between his palms.

They have been arguing just as Emeline predicted.

Charity, child? Whatever has happened? Widow Alcott gasps when her daughter storms past and into the cabin, slamming the door so hard the latch cannot catch, and it bounces open. Mister Baldwin, I apologize. I—

Thank ye for the meal, but we should be headin’ home.

What happened? She worries her hands in her linen apron. My daughter is surely spirited, but I have been working with—

"Your daughter is a Tory who has no interest in this new country I almost died fightin’ for! Conall slaps his cocked hat, so misshapen ‘twill need reblocking, upon his head. Come on, Nub. ‘Tis gettin’ late." He slips on his powder horn and bag, shoulders his gun, and turns toward our cabin, his strides so long I am forced into a trot to keep pace.

What the— I feel Mary’s works slip from my waistband and into my breeches leg, catching at my knee band. I pray they remain there while the papers stay at my waist. Conall?

I think I am done with her. He stops to stare at the night sky. She called my injury, my very scar, a waste, said I fought for nothin’, that all the fuss is pointless when we’re loyal subjects at our cores.

Certainly, she—

She did! He rolls his left shoulder. My head hurts.

We still have one of Master Gow’s jugs.

My thoughts, too. Conall sighs and begins to walk again. I am through sparkin’, for now, I think. It should be just you and me, at least for a while.

And that jug.

And your johnnycakes. Conall manages a small laugh. Let’s head home.

Chapter Three

Of Good Kraut and Sour Men

Morning, 8 May

I wake to find myself in quite the predicament. We emptied Master Gow’s jug last night and settled onto the floor before the hearth in our drunkenness, talking and singing badly until sleep found us. My head’s ache pales to my bladder’s, but I dare not move. I fell asleep while leaning against the hearthstones, and Conall fell asleep beside me, but sometime during the night, he slid down, and his head now resides in my lap. I long to stroke his hair, to share truths, but that simply shan’t maintain, so I watch him sleep instead.

He is quite fetching with his face against my leg, his shirt ties undone, and his collar off his bad shoulder so I can see some of the scar. It looks as though he took cannon shot to that entire corner of his being, the scarring so deep the blow appears to have nearly removed his shoulder. Conall says he does not know how he survived, and now that I have seen it this closely, I do not understand how either. The scar is jagged and dark runners reach every direction as venous lightning bolts atop his skin.

How does he use his arm at all? This, I will perhaps never understand, so I shall admire him more for his perseverance and strength.

I pull the papers from my waist before they come to harm then brush Conall’s cheek with my fingers to feel his beard’s growth as I ponder the nightmare I had, in my cups or not. I saw a winged man drop to the ground, his severed head falling beside him before both turned to dust. ‘Tis a senseless dream because I could not see any of him aside from his two dark braids, so I refocus on Conall. He might grow his beard for a while; he does every time he and Charity fight, his private form of rebellion, I suppose, so I help it along, undoing the ribbon tethering his reddish-blonde locks. They spill across his shoulders and onto his back.

Mornings such as this, I prefer them, headache or not, and I close my eyes, placing my hand on his back to revel in the feel of his breaths while my other hand clutches my mother’s locket through my shirt, seeking her reassurance. If Conall knew, if anyone besides Mary knew, it would be the end of my world. But not even she knows the entire truth. ‘Twould ruin everything if anyone did and be the demise of what I have built. No, I cannot—

Too much merriment last night?

I open my eyes to see someone standing in the open doorway. Oh, no. Oh, Conall. I shove him off my leg, and he rolls onto his back, hitting his head on the floor.

Nub? What—

’Twas merriment, despair, or ire th’ inspiration fer what transpired here last night? Master Gow shoos out the chicken pecking beneath the table then turns a chair to sit facing us. He pulls his tobacco pouch from his coat and packs his pipe, smirking over our confusion. He is a tall man though not nearly so as Conall. His black beard is always neatly trimmed, and his clothing never looks rumpled from his journey. Master Gow is a fine Scottish gentleman but not a delicate one since he is unafraid of doing the labor he pays others for. Sit up, gents. Mah farm requires yer attention.

Master Gow! Conall holds his head as he sits, glancing from the empty jug to me, smiling sheepishly. Sir, I, we’re ever at your service. He scrambles to his feet when Master Gow chuckles. I stand too but slower, guarding my head when my vision wobbles.

Calm yerself, Conall Baldwin. We all have our bad mornin’s. An’, Benjamin, every time Ah return Ah expect tae find ye have grown, but ‘tis always fer naught. Master Gow is so quick I never see him fire his pipe, but ‘tis smoking, filling the cabin with the smell of fine cherry-cured tobacco. Stand tall, lad. Let me see if… Nae, yer still small but a fine hand nonetheless, th’ best by Conall’s insistence.

Yes, sir. Thank ye, sir, and good day to ye. I hope your journey was peaceful. Why does Ceveryone find my size problematic besides… Yes, I find it problematic as well. I allow that, so I stand straight for Master Gow, and he tells me to turn.

Good day, Ben. Aye, ‘twas a quiet trip. Ye look fit, but Ah swear, nary a new pound or inch on ye still. He nods and looks outside to where others wait. How many, I cannot yet tell, but they have Conall’s attention too. There are oxen. I hear them snorting and rattling their yokes. Peg neighs in the barn, and a horse returns the call from just outside the cabin, confirming they have brought multiple carts.

You’re two days early, sir. Conall works at making himself presentable while I cross my legs and look out the door toward our privy.

Nae, Conall. Ye miscalculated. Master Gow eyes me, clearly amused. Go, lad, afore ye drown us all. He is in good humor today so I slip out the door and dash toward the privy with a smile on my face, catching glances of those who have come with him. Four men and a woman, and they have arrived laden with dry goods. ‘Tis time for our spring restock, a joyous happening that aligns with planting time.

I shut the door and lower my breeches. I have never been happier that I placed a full door on this privy so no one can see which way my feet turn when I drop water. Mary’s works remain wedged in my breeches. One has been Conall’s pillow. I snicker at this, at the irony, and set them against my waist to secure them. When I next reach my loft, I shall hide them alongside my worn one.

The woman is staring at me when I exit the privy, scrutinizing. She is in plain wear, an obvious Daughter of Liberty at heart, but she is clearly no servant. Her mob cap is fine Holland, and her apron front is held up by silver pins. Ye built th’ cook hearth in there? She points toward the cabin.

Yes, Miss Alexandria, and good day to ye. She wears no ring though she looks marrying age, and her eyes are wide and deep-set, soulful, Mutti would say. She manages Master Gow’s household since he has not married, but such relationships can be nebulous around these parts, and ‘tis impolite to ask, but Conall and I have pondered them on many a winter’s evening. Master Gow and Alexandria maintain a friendship, we believe, and she has his respect but not affections while Master Gow’s lead man, Ceardach, has her favor. I encountered them kissing in the root cellar two summers back, on their knees in a strong embrace. Neither seemed embarrassed by it, but I was for some reason. Regardless, I know enough to quit the topic aside from speculation.

Good morn tae ye, Benjamin. She tucks a loose hair into her cap then smooths her apron, smiling at me. Ah, yes, Alexandria. Though I seldom see her, she addresses me like a friend, which I appreciate. Master Gow goes on ‘bout th’ hearth sae. Will ye show it tae me? She follows me back to the cabin where Conall and Master Gow sit at the table, deep in conversation. Master Gow’s men are doing the morning chores for us, a welcomed relief to my pounding head.

Lexy, dear. Master Gow stands as he waves her in. This is th’ hearth Ah was speakin’ of. German, Ah believe. He looks at me. Correct, lad? ‘Tis a German design?

Yes, sir. I was raised using this sort. It warms the home and makes cooking less of a chore. My stomach rumbles. I long for tea and a slab of the cornbread I made two days back, perhaps with a bit of butter since we still have some, but I resist since we do not have enough to share. And I so hope they have brought more tea. Our last ration was slim, so we were forced to become inventive with our drinks this past winter.

Th’ oven. Alexandria bends to examine the iron plate set over the opening. Th’ door needs hinges.

Yes, miss, it does. I have accomplished all I can, given what we haven’t. We built this hearth late last fall to replace the open one that was beginning to crumble. This cabin, while Master Gow said ‘twas only five years old when we came under his employ, looked and felt much older, twenty or more years, Conall says, and the hearth was in dire need of replacing by the time we did so.

We have an outdoor oven too for when the weather is too warm to cook indoors, but I seldom have the opportunity to make use of it aside from the once in a while bake when time allows, and those days I add a bean pot afterward, so we have a delicious meal the next day.

Though the Sabbath is an important part of our lives, work must still be done, so we do what we can to honor the day, and Conall has me read from his Bible whenever the weather prevents us from laboring outside. He can read, but not well, so I read for us both. The same goes for his handwriting. ‘Tis childlike, but he can decently sign his name. The rest I do for him whenever I am able.

I ain’t found the time to build a proper door. Conall comes to my aid. He and I watch Master Gow’s men carry large sacks of cornflour and two small sacks of expensive wheat flour into the cabin. I spy beer as well, four casks so we might have enough for ourselves and Master Gow’s visits, along with a dozen jugs of spirits. A sack of dried beans. Salt. A smile rises on my face when I see vinegar, spices, herbs we do not grow, sugar, salted pork, and molasses among the goods.

I point to an unfamiliar block wrapped in cloth. What is that, please?

Chocolate, says Alexandria. ’Tisn’t tea, but it works decently in its stead. And Ah added a sack of coffee too. Do ye know how tae make that, Benjamin? She well knows who manages the cooking on the farm, so she always addresses me on such topics.

Yes, miss. We’ve a grinder. Thank ye for being so kind.

Do ye know to roast the beans first?

Yes, miss. I do.

Very good. She nods approval. Ah will show ye how tae make th’ chocolate later today.

Yes, miss. Thank ye.

Ah take ye are findin’ meat enough? Master Gow pulls the cork on one of the liquor jugs and takes a hard draw.

Yessir, says Conall. But we’re near outta shot, so we’re bein’ careful.

There’s plenty of ball, powder, an’ paper among yer supplies. Master Gow holds the jug out to Conall, who takes a sip. He has never been one to drink the day after heavy imbibement and confesses it fails to agree with him. He is correct from what I have witnessed.

Did th’ first kraut make? Alexandria is staring at me again. Master Gow has said his kitchen women appreciate my sauerkraut-making skills. ‘Tis early for pickles, but we have a half-gallon crock left from last year, and the earliest cabbages have done well, so I have made a half-dozen gallon crocks of kraut aside from the one I made for us.

Yes, miss. The crocks are ready, but the kraut should sit for another two weeks before ‘tis eaten. I also made the pot scrubbers and whisks ye requested. I managed several dozen of each overwinter from white birch I gathered last fall. Their making occupied me during the winter evenings. Conall carved bowls and spoons while I worked the birch, and our scraps filled the kindling box.

I’ll get the crocks for ye to inspect, miss. I find fresh crocks and pig bladder covers already setting beside the root cellar door.

Any problem with Draggin’ Canoe and his lot? One of Master Gow’s men pulls back a crock cover, smiling when he catches the smell of my work. You’re a decent kraut maker, boy. I’d know since I’ve been all over. Indenturin’ to a ship’s captain will get you that.

Him as well? Hearing my parents’ stories concerning their indentured servitude is what brought me to loathe the institution of slavery. They came here by choice and eventually worked themselves free, but those like Mary and Davy made no such choice and have no hope of freedom, so 'tis in no manner fair and equal.

Thank ye, sir. I should tip my cocked hat, but I am in my work cap at present. This man is donning his as well so we simply nod to each other. He also wears loose-legged breeches that billow when he moves. Slops, I have heard them called, but why would he require them outside a ship? No troubles or complaints since Fort Lee’s building was abandoned. While many settlers along the river have suffered attacks from the Chickamauga, we have been spared. Good prayers, Conall says. God is looking after us, but I know as well as he that many of those who died were stronger in faith than we have been.

Chucky Jack failed when it came to that fort. He was bet’er off at Fort Watauga, and now that’s gone too. The man covers the crock then passes me the clean ones to store until we have more cabbages to ferment. You’ve shoes? The man stares at my bare feet with his dark eyes. All of Master Gow’s men have the same dark eyes, as does Master Gow. I do not know if they are kin, but Alexandria has dark eyes as well. This man, however, wears his hair in two braids as some natives do, and those braids run down his back, black as night and almost reaching his beltline. I stare at them as I remember my dream, but ‘tis nothing but my trying to make sense of the nonsensical, so I focus elsewhere. The man also speaks in a strong west country seaman’s British accent. I have encountered this before, and the strong r sounds are quite memorable.

Yes, sir. They’re inside. I prefer going barefoot during the warmer months to spare my shoes wear, but the root cellar proves frigid on my bare toes, so I climb out and close the door.

I cobbled before I set sail in the Caribbean, says the man. Get your shoes so I might inspect them.

He is trying to impress me with his travels, but I am not so easily swayed. Yes, sir. ‘Tis an odd request, but we receive many from Master Gow and his men. They are seldom hurtful, and Master Gow sternly censors those who are. Mostly, they look out for us, which in turn ensures their interests. Our corn feeds the entire Gow family, the stalks their livestock, and our tobacco sells for a good price, enough that Master Gow enjoys indulgences such as a fine cocked hat adorned with an ostrich feather and the embroidered Holland summer coat he wears. But he does not always look this way. No, I have seen him in well-worn buckskin too, prepared for a hunt, a common and, I believe, preferable look on his build.

I scurry back to the cabin, pausing in the doorway when I see Ceardach applying salve to Conall’s scarred shoulder. The salve consists of rendered bear grease mixed with herbs by the scent, but I stare at Conall’s back, at the sinew that makes him, startling when I hear Master Gow clear his throat.

Aye, lad?

Your British seafarer wishes to see my shoes.

Ewin? Then get them. He waves me toward my loft. I scurry up the ladder, tuck Mary’s gifts among my belongings, then grab my footwear, turning back to see Master Gow standing over Conall, his hand on his back, one finger drawing a strange