Free The Harrows of Spring by James Howard Kunstler Page B

smell, and feel of a successful new enterprise. At eight o’clock the operation with its wood-fired furnace, copper wash kettles, and water-powered machinery was just getting under way for the day. The office was already so warm Brother Jobe took off his black frock coat. Sister Miriam had packed a basket for him with a thermos of “coffee”—brewed from roasted barley and chickory root, with plenty of cream and honey—and generous squares of breakfast pudding for three—cornmeal mush baked with cheese, onions, and flecks of New Faith ham. Robert and Loren arrived a little after eight. After pleasantries, the men settled into the comfortable seating with their mugs and rations.
    â€œHow come you didn’t tell me the squire done pinned some poor sumbitch to a tree down on the River Road like a ding-danged luna moth in the natural history museum?” Brother Jobe commenced the meeting.
    Loren looked up from his steaming beverage with his eyebrows hoisted. “Say, what?” he said.
    â€œSome poor, lone picker,” Robert explained to Loren, who hadn’t heard. “Bullock says they caught him trying to steal a horse. He nailed him to a tree clear through his forehead.”
    â€œOh, that’s lovely,” Loren said. “Why didn’t you tell the trustees?”
    â€œThings are complicated enough right now,” Robert said.
    â€œThat ole boy is off the reservation,” Brother Jobe said. “Of course, you can’t feel sorry for a fellow that’d steal a horse, but these public displays of barbarism and cruelty gonna demoralize folks for miles around.”
    â€œI can’t talk to him anymore,” Robert said. “I tried the other day when Terry and I went over there.”
    â€œWhy don’t you go see Mr. Bullock, Reverend Holder, in your clerical capacity?” Brother Jobe said. “Appeal to the better angels of his nature.”
    â€œHe’s an atheist,” Loren said.
    â€œHe don’t have to believe for you to read him the riot act. Someone’s got to get through to his moral sense, if he’s still got any left.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know what to say to the bastard.”
    â€œSeems to me you’re the man for that job,” Robert said to Brother Jobe.
    â€œI’m liable to hurt him if he sasses me like the last time we were alone together in a room,” Brother Jobe said and puffed out his cheeks in frustration. The others studied their breakfast, letting the subject pass. “Anyways, Mr. Einhorn proposes to send his boy to Albany along with your boy, and I can lend two of my rangers to accompany them there, with horses, and some small arms in case of any monkey business, and with some luck they’ll bring a boat back. They better leave soon, though. Mr. Einhorn says things are getting a little desperate amongst the town folk, so many being common laborers and of small means. Speaking for my own outfit, we put aside plenty of cornmeal, potatoes, smoked meats, and a few other things, but we’re nearly out of sugar, salt, cotton duck, and like that, and I hope to fetch me some ding-dang real coffee up from Albany, if there’s any to be got. My men can leave on Sunday with our fifty ounces of silver and whatever you-all can scare up.”
    â€œI’m up to thirty-two ounces soliciting my people,” Robert said. “If you lend me a mount, I’ll ride out to Holyrood’s cider mill and over to Temple Merton’s farm at Coot Hill tomorrow. They’re men of means.”
    â€œThey must be anxious to get some of their poteen to market, too, if that’ll inspire them,” Brother Jobe said. “By the way, I’m fixing to officially reopen my tavern on Saturday night. We’ll be putting on the dog. You tell folks that. Mebbe it’ll take their minds off their empty larders for a little while.”
    â€œI’ll hit up my congregation for last-minute