The Secret of the Spring

1: Ham-fisted 

May, 1889 

As the sun was slowly making its appearance in the east ern sky, four teams of tired horses stood heads hanging and unattended under a huge elm that shaded the black smith shop. It was a small grey-shingled box-like building with a second storey loft under a high-pitched roof. It sat almost on the road next to a large house with an attached woodshed. The weather-worn but neatly kept complex of buildings was located at an intersection where a narrow rutted road came down to meet the main thoroughfare at the base of the North Mountain.  

A man driving a fifth team was just arriving at the site. He had manoeuvred his way slowly down that muddy track and after quickly tying his horses to a hitching rail, he rushed inside.  

Edgar Leonard, a beefy, ham-fisted bully of a man who liked to be first in line for everything, was not happy as he joined the five men already there waiting for their horses to be shod. He could get away with shoving his way to the head of the line at other locations but he knew better than to try it here. The blacksmith wouldn’t put up with that sort of thing in his shop. Edgar had crossed the man only once before at a local fair and barely lived to re gret it. 

The smithy, Ben Johnson, was a quiet gentle giant of a man. Well over six feet tall, his hair graying, at age fifty three he was still trim and muscular. When not stooping over the forge or the anvil, he held himself erect with a bearing that spoke of years spent in the military. In fact, 

he had only taken over the shop eight years earlier after he had indeed retired and mustered out of his cavalry unit at Camp Aldershot further up the Valley. 

The inevitable gossip had already begun as the men stood in a circle around Ben watching him work, their faces illuminated by the glowing forge. The men carried the conversation, the smithy only adding occasional com ments whenever his exertions on the anvil allowed.  

Edgar Leonard, although normally pushy, rude and bellicose chose, this day, to stand well back from the rest, still brooding and seething about a situation back home that led to his late arrival and embarrassing wait at the end of the line.  

It was only when the bellows occasionally caused the fire to burn brighter that his face was visible at all.  The main topic of conversation, as it had been for over the last few years, was the hotel that had been built at the base of the mountain. There was always something new and exciting happening around the place—lots to talk about. The hotel was located on a road parallel to the main route through the Valley just a few miles northeast of the town of Middleton. It was a huge pretentious struc ture whose grandeur was quite out of place amidst the dull-shingled saltbox houses around it.  

“It sticks out like a sore thumb,” one of the farmers contributed, but he had to admit he sure appreciated the extra money he had earned using his oxen to haul rocks down off the mountain for its foundations.  

Another man who was hired to bring guests from the train station in a newly acquired coach financed by the hotel added that since the place had opened for business he had never had it so good. 

 Old Abe Mosher, holding up a pair of arthritic claws, piped up, “What the hell is so special about that goddamn 

water that people are coming from all over the world to slurp it up and slosh around in it? I’ve been watering my horse at that spring on the way to town for years, drunk lots it myself and just look at me and that spavined old bastard in the corner who calls himself a horse!” 

The smithy, who had just finished turning the heel on a red hot shoe and was cooling it in a pail of water, wiped his brow and spoke over the sizzle. “You’ve got to admit the place is creating a lot of jobs, and I hear now they’re desperate to find girls to work as maids in the place.” 

“Maybe they’ll take my old woman!” Abe chimed in again.  

“They ain’t that desperate,” someone said and they all laughed and shook their heads in agreement.  When the laughter died down, Murray Daniels, a lanky middle aged farmer who had made the long trek from his place on South Mountain, stepped forward, swept off his straw hat and inserted himself into the conversation. “I ain’t seen any of you boys since I was in here last and that was quite a while ago. I guess Ben here is doing too good a job of tacking my team’s shoes on. They seem to stay put a lot longer than the ones old Percy used to hammer away at.”  

“Easy now,” Ben said. “Percy Smith was a good black smith—he was just getting a little old for the job.”  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Murray said. “The old bug ger complained that his muscles were getting wormy for years before he got that kick that finally laid him up for good.” 

Then, fixing a glance at a man standing close to a soot smeared window, he inquired, “That was one of your horses, wasn’t it, Jeff?” 

“No damned way!” a voice shot back. “It was a logging company horse. Not my responsibility. He was a mean, dangerous son of a bitch but the best damned yard horse in Nova Scotia.” 

“Anyway,” Murray continued, “I’m glad to see you boys. The only time I get to have a jaw or a visit with anybody is over here or in that old church up on the mountain. And by the way, did you fellas hear about the kerfuffle that went on up our way a while ago?”  

When no one responded, he continued, “You fellas might have heard tell of the Bentley brothers. They farm together up by me and work in the woods when they get the chance. For years the boys have been taking turns, one staying at the logging camp a few miles south of them overnight while the other hikes home to do the chores. Bob, the older brother, has been married to his wife, Gloria, for about ten years now and they have about that number of children to show for it. Jim, the younger brother, who is part owner of the farm, has always stayed with them.  

“Well, it seemed like a good arrangement—been going on for years—but then, last month, things took a turn for the worst. Bob decided to make a visit back home on one of the nights that he was to stay at the camp. Bob’s new heifer was due to calve and he was worried about her. He was pleased when he found his new calf waiting in the barn, but not so pleased when he headed into the house and found his wife and his brother together in his bed. Turns out they’d been going at it for years! All the shout ing, bashing and bruising caused their neighbour, old Mrs. Adcock, to come a-running, and by morning the mountain was buzzing like a beehive. The following Sunday Deacon Jones had the pair of sinners in front of the congregation confessing while he tore a strip off them and called for the wrath of God to descend upon them and the whole congregation to shun them.  

“Bob wasn’t in attendance. He had tried to return Gloria to her family but when they arrived at her old home her father told his daughter to stay in Bob’s buggy, saying that he figured Bob must have known Gloria was damaged goods when he hooked up with her.  

“The shunning hasn’t taken hold because Jim slipped away and headed to the States and Gloria being the only one in the parish who can play the organ—well. what can you do? 

“So now Bob and Gloria are back in the house together and things seem to be settling down. All that’s left is a lot of speculating around the quilting circle concerning which of the brothers might have sired which of Gloria’s brood.” 

At that Abe leapt back into the conversation. “By God, I knowed that Gloria, and that might be quite a puzzle for those quilters to unwind. She used to come down and pick apples with us. She was a good worker and full of fun, but as some of you fellas might know, aside from what might have been going on at home, Gloria was in clined to stray further afield once in a while. There may be more variety in that little herd of hers than anybody will ever know.” 

Ben halted his hammer’s swing down to the anvil mid stroke, cocked his eyebrow and shot a look of mock ad monition in the old man’s direction. 

Unruffled, Abe slumped forward, retrieved the jug he had been holding protectively between his feet, balanced it on his shoulder and took a long swig. 

“I thought you was never going to haul that thing out, Abe,” one of the men said as he positioned himself for the second swig.  

The jug made its way around a few times to all present, including Edgar Leonard, who temporarily stopped sulking so that he could participate in his favour ite indulgence. Only the smithy, who never touched the stuff, declined.  

It was inevitable that several of the men would not be making the trip home completely sober, but usually, even if a man had so much to drink that he couldn’t hold onto the reins, the others would lift him into his wagon and his horses would find their own way home.  

When Edgar Leonard finally had his horses shod at the end of the day, he wasn’t really drunk – he’d had just enough of Abe’s smuggled rum to fuel the fire that had been burning in the back of his mind all day. He was mad as hell and he had good reason.  

When he was safely out of earshot Edgar began to mumble to himself. Those lazy goddamned boys of mine— not one of them was out of bed when I left this morning. If I’d had a little help getting the team harnessed, I might not have got here so late and wasted my whole day. I’ll bet the bastards are still in bed and the cows not milked—three boys and not a useful one in the batch. 

Edgar’s one calming thought was that his daughter, Lilly, would have his dinner waiting for him. Lilly, a pretty little fifteen-year-old with white-blonde hair, was unlike her brothers in all respects. She had taken on all the chores around the house after her mother died without a word of complaint. 

The trip back up the mountain took longer than usual. Edgar didn’t want to hurry the horses—they might injure themselves while they were getting used to the new sharp-caulked shoes Ben had shod them with. But the longer he took, the angrier he got.  

“By god, those boys better have the chores done!” he told the horses.  

When Edgar finally arrived in the dooryard, he reined in the horses and climbed off the wagon, whip in hand. One of those lazy buggers is gonna put these horses into the barn, he thought, testing the whip. And I hope he tries to get out of it. 

As his foot hit the first creaking board on the porch stairs he heard them: first a scream, then a whimper, fol lowed by the boys’ voices.  

“Hold her down!” one said. 

“Hold her down yourself, you was first last time!’  “Was not! Gordie was!” 

The voices ceased at the sound of Edgar’s boots thun dering up the stairs.  

By the time he reached the second floor bedroom, the youngest of the boys was already out the window and sliding off the porch roof. Edgar set about the remaining brothers with his whip, slashing mercilessly at them.  

When they attempted to get by him and escape, he used his fists and his hobnailed boots over and over again. The boys screamed and begged him to stop but he kept on until he finally exhausted himself and slumped down on the foot of the bed.  

Seeing that it was safe to escape their father’s wrath, the boys snuck out of the room, one crawling on all fours and the other staggering while covering an empty eye socket with the back of a bloody hand.  

Edgar, still breathing heavily. turned his head towards his daughter. She was curled up against the iron head board with her knees bent up and her arms hugging her legs tightly against her naked breast. When he had recovered enough to stand, he tossed the old quilt from the chair over the sobbing girl and, without a word, headed downstairs.