I thought that I might cleanse myself with work, but that, too, was to no effect, for I was too distracted and anxious to complete any single task without rushing off to begin another, and all I accomplished was to create an even greater disarray and disorder on the place than had existed before. Trees half-cut or, if cut, left to lie and rot on the ground; chimneys pulled apart and not put back together again; fenceposts driven into the ground but left standing without rails to connect them; half-a-dozen rows plowed, but then the horse unhitched, taken off to haul stones from the river, with the plow abandoned in the middle of the field: it rained for most of those days, and I rushed about as if every day there were a bright sun overhead, a madman farmer, and my brothers and sisters and stepmother watched me with fear and bewilderment. My family kept the house running smoothly and the livestock fed and properly cared for, whilst I made a mess of the rest.
There was no way for me to tell them of the source of such turbulence; I was too ashamed. And besides, as the days went on, I myself had grown as fearful and bewildered as they, for I was no longer sure that my strong feelings for Susan were generated by love for her, so much as by a morbid, cruel desire to take away from Lyman his greatest treasure. I did not love her; I hated him. What perversity was this?
I needed Father to arrive home. Only he, I believed, could provide me with the order and structure of thought capable of leading me out of this wilderness of tangled desire and rage. Come home, Father! I began to say to myself, as I raced uphill and down. Come home and control me, Old Man. Bring me back to myself. Come and deliver me over to a thing larger than these strangely disordered longings. Tell me what it is I must do, and I will do it.
Then, suddenly one morning, there was the Old Man, appearing in our midst like the missing main character in a play, taking over the stage and putting everyone else at once into a supporting role. Which was how we wanted it, of course. Without Father, we had no hero for our play, and whenever he was absent, we undertook our parts without purpose or understanding. We forgot our lines, positioned ourselves wrongly on the stage, confused friend with foe, and lost all sight of our desired end and its opposition. Without the Old Man, tragedy quickly became farce.
Father seemed to know this and almost to welcome it, for when he returned home after a long while away, he always came with a fury, bearing down on us like a storm, crackling with noise and electrical energy, full of clear, irresistible purpose and making thunderous statement of it. He appraised the situation in a second, and before he was even off his horse, the man was barking out orders, schedules, and plans, was making announcements, establishing sequences, goals, standards, setting everyone at once diligently to work for the common good.
Accompanied this time by Mr. Clarke, the Yankee shipper from Westport, he brought supplies, seed, flour, salt, and nails. For the younger children, little gifts — a new Bible for Sarah, a box of paints for Annie, a penknife for Oliver — and for Mary, a silk handkerchief: all presented first thing, unceremoniously, off-handedly, as a greeting. For Salmon, Watson, and me, he had firm handshakes and quick commands to help unload the supplies from the wagon, so Mr. Clarke could move on and make his other deliveries in the settlement before nightfall. He would be returning here in the morning to pick up our furs and as many fleeces as we were able to release to him: that would be Oliver’s job, counting and tying for shipment and sale the spring fleeces and the winter’s catch of pelts — beaver, lynx, marten, and fisher. That’s what Mr. Clarke especially wanted. Father said to get going now, son, that’s a big job, and something was telling him that some of those pelts still needed scraping before they were ready for market, and the other boys were going to be too busy to help him. Mr. Clarke drove a hard bargain and would not accept a bloody hide, Father warned.
Up on his wagon, Mr. Clarke laughed and recalled for Father how he had lost to him his best pair of Morgans, thanks to Father’s nigger, which brought to Father’s attention the absence of Lyman and Susan. He scanned our little group out there in the yard before the house — Mary hugely pregnant and beaming with pleasure at the sight of her husband; Ruth tall and slender and fairly bursting with the secret of Henry Thompson’s promise to ask for her hand in marriage; Salmon, Watson, and I already lugging barrels from Mr. Clarke’s wagon to the barn; the little girls, Sarah and Annie, as if honored by the task, together holding the bridle of Father’s horse, a fine sorrel mare which I recognized as having once belonged to Mr. Gerrit Smith, and, indeed, it did later turn out to be a gift from him.
Father asked where were our friends, referring to them as Mr. and Mrs. Epps, a tacit correction to Mr. Clarke.
I paused at the rear of the wagon, a keg of nails on my shoulder, and Father caught my eye. “Owen?” he said, as if I were the sole reason for their absence.
Mary said, “I would have written about it to you, Mister Brown, but I thought you were coming sooner than this.”
My silence probably told him as much as any words could have then. He nodded and said that we would discuss this later, meaning after Mr. Clarke had left us. I quickly went back to my work, and Father resumed issuing orders, even as he dismounted and embraced Mary and walked arm in arm with her towards the house. Over his shoulder, he instructed Salmon to kindly water the horse when he had finished unloading, and brush her down and set her out to pasture without feeding her grain, as shed been fed this morning in Keene. Not at Mr. Partridge’s, you can be sure of that, he added. Her name was Reliance, he said, and she was reliable. And then to Watson he said that he could see fencing half up, half lying on the ground, and hed better set to work on that at once, boy, or we’ll be chasing cattle day and night. And me he instructed to check Mr. Clarke’s bill of lading against our goods received and sign it for him, then put myself to work on getting the south meadow turned under by nightfall, so we can harrow and plant tomorrow. He had observed coming down from the notch that the frost was well out of the ground there. “Come to the house at noon for dinner,” he said to me, “and we’ll lay out the rest of the planting then. We have lots of hard work to do, boys, so put yourselves to it! I’ll examine the place and view the livestock in a while this morning and will travel over to Timbuctoo this afternoon. By this evening,” he declared, “we will all know who we are and what we’re doing here!”
And then he was gone into the house.
Silence. Watson, Salmon, and I looked somberly, gingerly, at one another. Then Watson shook his head and grinned. “Well, I guess the Old Man’s back,” he finally said. “Hoo-rah, hoo-rah.”
“Yep,” said Salmon. “Cap’n Brown’s home for three minutes, and we already got our marching orders. He ain’t gonna be very happy when he finds out about Lyman, though.”
“I don’t know,” Watson said. “The Old Man’ll set it right. He has a way with Negroes.”
Mr. Clarke laughed. “Your old man has a way with white folks, too,” he said, his spectacles glinting like mica in the morning sun. “Talked me into giving him more credit than I ever give a poor man nowadays.”
“You’ll get your money,’ I said. “Don’t fret yourself”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see, Red. We’ll see how them pelts and fleeces add up,” he said, and handed me a stub of a pencil and the bill of lading, which I signed with a surly flourish, John Brown, by his son Owen Brown, and as I wrote the date, I realized that tomorrow was Father’s birthday.