Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (19 page)

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Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
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At this, Sheriff Pauley decided it was time to put an oar in. And since the truth was being used so recklessly, he lost control of himself and spoke truthfully himself. It was a new experience, and it went to his head a little. “Begging your pardon, Old Peg, but there isn’t a drop of your blood in that boy, so he’s no-wise your son, and if Horace here has some part of him, it isn’t enough to turn him White.”
Horace slowly got to his feet, as if he was preparing to invite Sheriff Pauley outside to punch some caution into him. Pauley Wiseman must have known he was in trouble the second he accused Horace of maybe being the father of a half-Black bastard. And when Horace stood up so tall like that, Pauley remembered he wasn’t no match for Horace Guester. Horace wasn’t exactly a small man and Pauley wasn’t exactly a large one. So old Pauley did what he always did when things got out of hand. He turned kind of sideways so his badge was facing straight at Horace Guester. Take a lick at me, that badge said, and you’ll be facing a trial for assaulting an officer of the law.
Still, Old Peg knew that Horace wouldn’t hit a man over a word; he hadn’t even knocked down that river rat who accused Horace of unspeakable crimes with barnyard animals. Horace just wasn’t the kind to lose control of himself in anger. In fact, Old Peg could see that as Horace stood there, herd already forgotten about his anger at Pauley Wiseman and was thinking over an idea.
Sure enough, Horace turned to Old Peg as if Wiseman didn’t even exist. “Maybe we should give it up. Peg. It was fine when Arthur was a sweet little baby, but …”
Horace, who was looking right at Old Peg’s face, he knew better than to finish his sentence. Sheriff Pauley wasn’t half so bright. “He just gets blacker every day. Goody Guester.”
Well. what do You say to that kind of thing, anyway? At least now it was plain what was going on—that it was Arthur Stuart’s
color and nothing else that was keeping him out of the new Hatrack River School.
Whitley Physicker sighed into the silence. Nothing that happened with Sheriff Pauley there ever went according to plan. “Don’t you see?” said Physicker. He sounded mild and reasonable, which he was good at. “There’s some ignorant and backward folks”—and at this he took a cool look at Sheriff Pauley—“who can’t abide the thought of a Black child getting the same education as their own boys and girls. What’s the advantage of schooling, they figure, if a Black has it the same as a White? Why, the next thing you know, Blacks would be wanting to vote or hold office.”
Old Peg hadn’t thought of that. It just never entered her mind. She tried to imagine Mock Berry being governor, and trying to give orders to the militia. There wasn’t a soldier in Hio who’d take orders from a Black man. It’d be as unnatural as a fish jumping out of the river to kill him a bear.
But Old Peg wasn’t going to give up so easy, just because Whitley Physicker made one point like that. “Arthur Stuart’s a good boy,” she said. “He wouldn’t no more try to vote than I would.”
“I know that,” said Physicker. “The whole school board knows that. But it’s the backwoods people who won’t know it. They’re the ones who’ll hear there’s a Black child in the school and they’ll keep their children home. And here we’ll be paying for a school that won’t be doing its job of educating the citizenry of our republic. We’re asking Arthur to forgo an education that will do him no good anyway, in order to allow others to receive an education that will do them and our nation a great deal of good.”
It all sounded so logical. After all, Whitley Physicker was a doctor, wasn’t he? He’d even been to college back in Philadelphia, so he had a deeper understanding than Old Peg would ever have. Why did she think even for a moment that she could disagree with a man like Physicker and not be wrong?
Yet even though she couldn’t think of a single argument against him, she couldn’t get rid of a feeling deep in her guts that if she said yes to Whitley Physicker, she’d be stabbing a knife right into
little Arthur’s heart. She could imagine him asking her, “Mama, why can’t I go to school like all my friends?” And then all these fine words from Dr. Physicker would fly away like she’d never heard them, and she’d just sit there and say, “It’s because you’re Black, Arthur Stuart Guester.”
Whitley Physicker seemed to take her silence as surrender, which it nearly was. “You’ll see,” said Physicker. “Arthur won’t mind not going to school. Why, the White boys’ll all be jealous of
him
, when he can be outside in the sun while they’re cooped up in a classroom.”
Old Peg Guester knew there was something wrong with all this, that it wasn’t as sensible as it sounded, but she couldn’t think what it was.
“And someday things might be different,” said Physicker. “Someday maybe society will change. Maybe they’ll stop keeping Blacks as slaves in the Crown Colonies and Appalachee. Maybe there’ll be a time when …” His voice trailed off. Then he shook himself. “I get to wondering sometimes, that’s all,” he said. “Silly things. The world is the way the world is. It just isn’t natural for a Black man to grow up like a White.”
Old Peg felt a bitter hatred inside her when he said those words. But it wasn’t a hot rage, to make her shout at him. It was a cold, despairing hate, that said. Maybe I
am
unnatural, but Arthur Stuart is my true son, and I won’t betray him. No I won’t.
Again, though, her silence was taken to mean consent. The men all got up, looking relieved, Horace most of all. It was plain they never figured Old Peg would listen to reason so fast. The visitors’ relief was to be expected, but why was Horace looking so happy? Old Peg had a nasty suspicion and she knew at once that it had to be the truth—Horace Guester and Dr. Physicker and Sheriff Pauley had already worked things out between them before they ever come a-calling today. This whole conversation was pretend. Just a show put on to make Old Peg Guester happy.
Horace didn’t want Arthur Stuart in school any more than Whitley Physicker or anybody else in Hatrack River.
Old Peg’s anger turned hot, but now it was too late. Physicker
and Pauley was out the door, Horace following on out after them. No doubt they’d all pat each other on the back and share a smile out of Old Peg’s sight. But Old Peg wasn’t smiling. She remembered all too clear how Little Peggy had done a Seeing for her that last night before she run off, a Seeing about Arthur Stuart’s future. Old Peg had asked Little Peggy if Horace would ever love little Arthur, and the girl refused to answer. That
was
an answer, sure enough. Horace might go through the motions of treating Arthur like his own son, but in fact he thought of him as just a Black boy that his wife had taken a notion to care for. Horace was no papa to Arthur Stuart.
So Arthur’s an orphan all over again. Lost his father. Or, rightly speaking, never had a father. Well, so be it. He’s got two mothers: the one who died for him when he was born, and me. I can’t get him in the school. I knew I couldn’t, knew it from the start. But I can get him an education all the same. A plan for it sprung into her head all at once. It all depended on the schoolmistress they hired, this teacher lady from Philadelphia. With luck she’d be a Quaker, with no hate for Blacks and so the plan would work out just fine. But even if the schoolmistress hated Blacks as bad as a finder watching a slave stand free on the Canadian shore, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Old Peg would find a way. Arthur Stuart was the only family she had left in the world, the only person she loved who didn’t lie to her or fool her or do things behind her back. She wasn’t going to let him be cheated out of anything that might do him good.
Springhouse
ALVIN FIRST KNEW something was up when he heard Horace and Old Peg Guester yelling at each other up at the old springhouse. It was so loud for a minute there that he could hear them clear over the sound of the forgefire and his own hammering. Then they quietened themselves down a mite, but by then Alvin was so curious he kind of laid off the hammer. Laid it right down. in fact, and stepped outside to hear better.
No, no, he wasn’t
listening
. He was just going to the well to fetch more water, some to drink and some for the cooling barrel. If he happened to hear them somewhat, he couldn’t be blamed, now, could he?
“Folks’ll say I’m a bad innkeeper, making the teacher live in the springhouse instead of putting her up proper.”
“It’s just an empty building, Horace, and we’ll put it to use. And it’ll leave us the rooms in the inn for paying customers.”
“I won’t have that schoolmistress living off alone by herself. It ain’t decent!”
“Why, Horace? Are you planning to make advances?”
Alvin could hardly believe his ears. Married people just didn’t say such things to each other. Alvin half expected to hear the sound of a slap. But instead Horace must’ve just took it. Everybody said he was henpecked, and this was about all the proof a body’d need, to have his wife accuse him of hankering after adultery and him not hit her or even say boo.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” said Old Peg. “Maybe you’ll have your way and she’ll say no. But we’ll fix it up, anyway, and offer it to her.”
Horace mumbled something that Alvin couldn’t hear.
“I don’t care if Little Peggy
built
this springhouse. She’s gone of her own free will, left without so much as a word to me, and I’m not about to keep this springhouse like a monument just because she used to come here when she was little. Do you hear me?”
Again Alvin couldn’t hear what Horace said.
On the other hand, he could hear Old Peg right fine. Her voice just sailed right out like a crack of thunder. “You’re telling
me
who loved who? Well let me tell you, Horace Guester, all your love for Little Peggy didn’t keep her here,
did it
? But my love for Arthur Stuart is going to get him an education, do you understand me? And when it’s all said and done, Horace Guester, we’ll just see who does better at loving their children!”
There wasn’t exactly a slap or nothing, but there was a slammed door which like to took the door of the springhouse off its hinges. Alvin couldn’t help craning his neck a little to see who did the slamming. Sure enough, it was Old Peg stalking away.
A minute later, maybe even more, the door opened real slow. Alvin could barely make it out through the brush and leaves that had grown up between the well and the springhouse. Horace Guester came out even slower, his face downcast in a way Alvin had never seen him before. He stood there awhile, his hand on the door. Then he pushed it closed, as gentle as if he was tucking a baby into bed. Alvin always wondered why they hadn’t tore down that springhouse years ago, when Alvin dug the well that finally killed the stream that used to go through it. Or at least why they never put it to some use. But now Alvin knew it had something to do with Peggy, that
torch girl who left right before Alvin showed up in Hatrack River. The way Horace touched that door, the way he closed it, it made Alvin see for the first time how much a man might dote on a child of his, so that even when she was gone, the places that she loved were like holy ground to her old dad. For the first time Alvin wondered if he’d ever love a child of his own like that. And then he wondered who the mother of that child might be, and if she’d ever scream at him the way Old Peg screamed at Horace, and if he’d ever have at her the way Makepeace Smith had at his wife Gertie, him flailing with his belt and her throwing the crockery.
“Alvin,” said Horace.
Well, Alvin like to died with embarrassment, to be caught staring at Horace like that. “I beg pardon, sir,” said Alvin. “I shouldn’t ought to’ve been listening.”
Horace smiled wanly. “I reckon as you’d have to be a deaf mute not to hear that last bit.”
“It got a mite loud,” said Alvin, “but I didn’t exactly go out of my way not to hear, neither.”
“Well, I know you’re a good boy, and I never heard of no one carrying tales from you.”
The words “good boy” rankled a bit. Alvin was eighteen now, less than a year to being nineteen, long since ready to be a journeyman smith out on his own. Just because Makepeace Smith wouldn’t release him early from his prenticeship didn’t make it right for Horace Guester to call him a
boy
. I may be Prentice Alvin, and not a man yet afore the law, but no woman yells
me
to shame.
“Alvin,” said Horace, “you might tell your master we’ll be needing new hinges and fittings for the springhouse doors. I reckon we’re fixing it up for the new schoolteacher to live here, if she wants.”
So that was the way of it. Horace had lost the battle with Old Peg. He was giving in. Was that the way of marriage, then? A man either had to be willing to hit his wife, like Makepeace Smith, or he’d be bossed around like poor Horace Guester. Well, if that’s the choices, I’ll have none of it, thought Alvin. Oh, Alvin had an eye for girls in town. He’d see them flouncing along the street, their
breasts all pushed up high by their corsets and stays, their waists so small he could wrap his great strong hands right around and toss them every which way, only he never thought of tossing or grabbing, they just made him feel shy and hot at the same time, so he looked down when they happened to look at him, or got busy loading or unloading or whatever business brought him into town.
Alvin knew what they saw when they looked at him, those town girls. They saw a man with no coat on, just in his shirt-sleeves, stained and wet from his labor. They saw a poor man who’d never keep them in a fine white clapboard house like their papa, who was no doubt a lawyer or a judge or a merchant. They saw him low, a mere prentice still, and him already more than eighteen years old. If by some miracle he ever married one such girl, he knew how it would be, her always looking down at him, always expecting him to give way for her because she was a lady.
And if he married a girl who was as low as himself, it would be like Gertie Smith or Old Peg Guester, a good cook or a hard worker or whatever, but a hellion when she didn’t get her way. There was no woman in Alvin Smith’s life, that was sure. He’d never let himself be showed up like Horace Guester.
“Did you hear me, Alvin?”
“I did, Mr. Horace, and I’ll tell Makepeace Smith first off when I see him. All the fittings for the springhouse.”
“And nice work, too,” said Horace. “It’s for the schoolmistress to live there.” But Horace wasn’t so whipped that he couldn’t get a curl to his lip and a nasty tone to his voice as he said, “So she can give
private
lessons.”
The way he said “private lessons” made it sound like it’d be a whorehouse or something, but Alvin knew right off, by putting things together, exactly who would be getting private lessons. Didn’t everybody know how Old Peg had asked to have Arthur Stuart accepted at the school?
“Well, so long,” said Horace.
Alvin waved him good-bye, and Horace ambled away along the path to the inn.
Makepeace Smith didn’t come in that afternoon. Alvin wasn’t
surprised. Now that Alvin had his full mansize on him, he could do the whole work of the smithy, and faster and better than Makepeace. Nobody said aught about it, but Alvin noticed back last year that folks took to dropping in during the times when Makepeace
wasn’t
at the forge. They’d ask Alvin to do their ironwork quick-like, while they was there waiting. “Just a little job,” they’d say, only sometimes the job wasn’t all that little. And pretty soon Alvin realized that it wasn’t just chance brought them by. They wanted
Alvin
to do the work they needed.
It wasn’t because Alvin did anything peculiar to the iron, either, except a hex or two where it was called for, and every smith did that. Alvin knew it wouldn’t be right to best his master using some secret knack—it’d be like slipping a knife into a rassling match. It’d just bring him trouble anyway, if he used his knack to give his iron any peculiar strength. So he did his work natural, with his own strong arm and good eye. He’d earned every inch of muscle in his back and shoulders and arms. And if people liked his work better than Makepeace Smith’s, why, it was because Alvin was a better blacksmith, not because his knack gave him the advantage.
Anyhow, Makepeace must’ve caught on to what was happening, and he took to staying away from the forge more and more. Maybe it was because he knew it was better for business, and Makepeace was humble enough to give way before his prentice’s skill—but Alvin never quite believed that. More likely Makepeace stayed away so folks wouldn’t see how he snuck a look over Alvin’s shoulder now and then, trying to figure out what A1 did better than his master. Or maybe Makepeace was plain jealous, and couldn’t bear to watch his prentice at work. Could be, though, that Makepeace was just lazy, and since his prentice boy was doing the work just fine, why
shouldn’t
Makepeace go out to drink himself silly with the river rats down at Hatrack Mouth?
Or perhaps, by some strange twist of chance, Makepeace was actually ashamed of how he kept Alvin to his prentice contract even though Alvin was plainly ready to take to the road as a journeyman. It was a low thing for a master to hold a prentice after he knew his trade, just to get the benefit of his labor without having to pay him
a fair wage. Alvin brought good money into Makepeace Smith’s household, everybody knew that, and all the while Alvin stayed dirt poor. sleeping in a loft and never two coins in his pocket to make a jingle when he walked to town. Sure, Gertie fed him proper-best food in town, Al knew well. having eaten a bite now and then with one of the town boys. But good food wasn’t the same thing as a good wage. Food you ate and it was gone. Money you could use to buy things, or to do things—to have
freedom
. That contract Makepeace Smith kept in the cupboard up to the house, the one signed by Alvin’s father, it made Alvin a slave as sure any Black in the Crown Colonies.
Except for one difference. Alvin could count the days till freedom. It was August. Not even a year left. Next spring he’d be free. No slave in the South ever knew such a thing; nary such a hope would ever enter their heads. Alvin had thought on that often enough over the years, when he was feeling most put upon; he’d think, if they can keep on living and working, having no hope of freedom, then I can hold out for another five years, three years, one year, knowing that it’ll come to an end someday.
Anyway, Makepeace Smith didn’t show up that afternoon, and when Alvin finished his assigned work, instead of doing chores and cleaning up, instead of getting ahead, he went on up to the springhouse and took the measure of the doors and windows. It was a place built to keep in the cool of the stream, so the windows didn’t open, but the schoolmistress wouldn’t cotton to
that,
never having a breath of air, so Alvin took the measure there, too. Not that he exactly decided to make the new window frames himself, seeing how he wasn’t no carpenter particularly, except what woodworking skill any man learns. He was just taking the measure of the place, and when he got to the windows he kept going.
He took the measure of a lot of things. Where a little pot-bellied stove would have to go, if the place was going to be warm in the winter; and figuring that, he also figured how to lay in the right foundation under the heavy stove, and how to put the flaring around the chimney, all the things it’d take to make the springhouse into a tight little cabin, fit for a lady to live in.
Alvin didn’t write down the measures. He never did. He just knew them, now that he’d put his fingers and hands and arms into all the places: and if he forgot, and took the measure wrong somehow, he knew that in a pinch he could make it fit even so. It was a kind of laziness, he knew, but he got precious little advantage from his knack these days, and there was no shame in such small fudging.
Arthur Stuart wandered along when Al was just about done at the springhouse. Alvin didn’t say nothing, nor did Arthur: you don’t greet somebody who belongs where you are, you hardly notice them. But when Alvin needed to get the measure of the roof, he just said so and then tossed Arthur up onto the roof as easy as Peg Guester tossed the feather mattresses from the inn beds.
Arthur walked like a cat on top of the roof, paying no heed to being up so high. He paced off the roof and kept his own count, and when he was done he didn’t even wait to make sure Alvin was ready to catch him, he just took a leap into the air. It was like Arthur believed he could fly. And with Alvin there to catch him below. why, it might as well be true, since Alvin had such arms on him that he could catch Arthur easy and let him down as gentle as a mallard settling onto a pond.
When Al and Arthur was done with measuring, they went back to the smithy. Alvin took a few bars of iron from the pile, het up the forge, and set to work. Arthur set in to pumping the bellows and fetching toots—they’d been doing this so long that it was like Arthur was Alvin’s own prentice, and it never occurred to either of them that there was arything wrong with it. They just did this together, so smooth that to other folks it looked like a kind of dance.

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