OBITUARY  

Mackay Mercury 21st January1913.

    A resident of nearly fifty years, Mr. Frank Williams, passed peacefully away at his late residence, Romeo street, yesterday morning, at the advanced age of 78 years. The old gentleman had been ailing for the last three years from heart trouble, and of late had been more seriously affected. Yesterday morning the members of the family found their father had expired peacefully in his bed, death having taken place probably an hour before the discovery. The late Mr. Williams was born on 28th August 1834, in Oneida County, New York State, U.S.A., not far from Rome. As a lad he learnt his father's trade, of cooper, and later on for a time worked on a boat on the Erie Canal and Hudson River to New York. At the age of 19 the spirit of adventure seized him and he enlisted in the army and spent two terms of enlistment – ten years in all – in New Mexico, Arizona and Texas scouting after Indians. During the latter part of this period he was a prisoner of war, but managed to escape from the Confederates and passing through Texas he and two companions finally reached Matamoros, Mexico, from whence he reached New York. Here he served during the conscription riots and afterwards at Governor's Island till his term expired in 1863. He then went to Liverpool, and finally reached Melbourne early in 1864. He worked for a time in Melbourne and Sydney, but soon came on to Queensland, eventually reaching Rockhampton. Here he was married on 18th August 1865 and before the end of the year had engaged with the contractor of the telegraph line to Bowen as an axeman. He left this employment at Tierawoomba and came on to the Range road, beyond Eton, before Christmas 1865. He worked on that road till its completion, and later on, under the late Mr. Holmes (Road Board overseer) constructed the Swan Bridge, this side of Eton. After completion of this work the late Mr. Williams opened the Pleystowe Plantation for Mr. Holmes, planting cotton and maize, and continued there for some time. Later on he was employed by Mr. Ramsay at the boiling down works at Walkerston, as cooper and subsequently followed his trade in town. He built the first vats for Pleystowe and other distillleries in the district. Many old hands will remember that his shop stood on the present site of Flemings Limited main store. In 1872, owing to the loss of a son, and illness overtaking the members of the family, he was ordered a sea trip. He therefore sold up and left for America, finally settling down in Santa Cruz Co., California, about 100 miles south of San Francisco, and not far from Monteray, the old capital. He there engaged in farming and fruit growing residing there with his family till early in 1884, when he sold out and returned to Mackay. On his return he carried on his trade for many years in Carlyle street; but for some eight or ten years past he had been living in retirement at his residence in Romeo street. His wife predeceased him seven months ago, and he leaves to mourn their loss two sons and two daughters, Mrs. Guinane, Newton, Ipswich, and Miss K. Williams (Mackay), and our well known townsmen, Mr. A F. Williams (one of the principals in the firm of Flemings Limited), and Mr. Chas. Williams, Deputy Superintendent of the Ambulance Brigade. Deceased was an affiliated Mason of the local E.C. Lodge, No. 1554, from U.S.A., though not an active member for years. Members of the Masonic fraternity are requested to meet at the Masonic Hall at 9.30 o'clock this morning to attend the funeral, which moves from Romeo street at 10 a.m.

 

This was the obituary of my Great-Grandfather, whose father's name was Sylvanus. This was as much as we ever knew about him. We now know more. His real story follows.

 

IRA COAN-1852

Ira stood with rage in his heart and an axe in his hand, a broadaxe newly hafted, with a well-worn hickory grip. He held the blade to the sharpening wheel, sending a volley of orange and blue sparks flying at the heavy oak ceiling.

The massive baulks of oak throbbed to their own life rhythm, as the cotton bales from the South were ingested, processed and transformed into manchester and clothing by the mighty machinery of the Syracuse Cotton Mill. Feathery clouds of cotton fluff suffused the chill air in the vast spaces of the mill, while higher still the plume of black coal smoke struggled to rise into the pearl-gray December sky. Black above-the smoke. And black below – the mood of 16 year-old Ira.

 In the steely, still and frigid air outside, something stirred. A horse approached, its walk rhythm jostling in time with the gentle clatter of wood and iron in the cart.  There was nothing gentle, however, in the voice of command as the cart was backed up -the harsh voice of a godly man directed at a gentle and lowly beast. Ira’s mood blackened further.

 The great doors swung open letting in a blast of heavy, chill air, the smell of horse, rain and wood.

 Ira refused to look up, but felt, rather than saw, the tall energetic figure of his father bustling round the cart. The bolts in the tailgate shot back and the load of oaken planks, shakes and strips began its ominous slide into the cellar workshop. On and on went the avalanche of wood, destined to emerge in barrels and boxes, ready to enclose their treasures of whisky and wine, corn and wheat, butter and cream. And the hand which would effect this transformation was the one which held the cooper’s broadaxe, the hand of Ira Coan.

 Finally the cascade subsided, and the final iron hoop chose to prolong its landing with a virtuosic journey across the floor, ending with a rolling dance on its rim, accelerating to a final plop. Despite the muted thunder of the mill machinery,  the silence was painful. Ira could no longer avoid it. The black-suite figure loomed over him, expectant and threatening. Ira gritted his teeth, looked up directly at Sylvanus and said

 

 “Good morning father.”

              

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SYLVANUS COAN

Sylvanus was not a young man. Nor was he what you would call an old man even at 72. He was dark and lean, well-dressed in an ecclesiastical-style frock coat which did nothing to hamper his movement as he strode across the cellar to a window ledge. With an imperious swipe he grasped something from it, and Ira gasped. Sylvanus drew back his arm, clutching the newly carved figure produced by Ira only that morning. And as he did, he glanced at it briefly, and his arm faltered. Ira had expected his work to be splintered against the wall, but he saw that it was tossed, not quite carelessly, onto a pile of sacking. A grim satisfaction softened his rage. Yes, he thought, it is good, isn’t it? The tirade would be easier to manage now.

 The tirade came, the rewards of industry, the perils of sloth, the grace of God, the company of virtuous folk, the dedication of one’s life to goodness, and Ira bore it with a new, fascinated stoicism. His gaze rested on his latest creation, which lay on the rough sacks. He didn’t even know what it was. A female figure certainly, but was it his mother, Frances, or the girl he hoped one day to win though he hadn’t met her yet, or even the Virgin Mary whom all those Irish girls seemed to revere?

 As he gazed, he imagined the words she would speak if only she could. He seemed to hear the words spoken aloud, and imagined they were being relayed through his own mouth. He imagined himself talking of Sylvanus, of the hasty marriage in his teens, the young wife dead before age twenty, the second wife who divorced him and the tribe of children scattered across the state; his father ranted on.

 He thought of his stolid Uncle Gaylord, Sylvanus’ brother, a beacon of homely comfort on his farm; still Sylvanus lectured.

 He thought of his own cousin Titus, fully thirty-five years older than Ira, a champion of Christianity among the heathen of Hawaii. He thought of the last Titus story he had heard, (the Spanish priest who addressed an Hawaiian girl as 'daughter of Satan' and was answered with a polite “Yes, Father”) and still the words formed in his head.

 

Ira began to feel a strange detachment growing inside him. He felt he had made a decision, though just what, he couldn’t say. He just knew that life would not be the same again; still Sylvanus droned on.

 

 Sylvanus was angry. His color was up, his cheeks were aflame, with a white spot at the center. Things were going to get nasty. The detachment grew in Ira, and he began to separate in mind and spirit, from his father.

 Sylvanus stood over him, in the pose that had always frightened him. Ira stood, and realised that he was now almost as tall as his father. Suddenly, he saw that the glare which was intended to transfix him had wavered and at the same moment, Sylvanus turned abruptly, and made for a seat at the workbench. There he sat for a moment, looking utterly bewildered and, thought Ira, old.

 

“…..this girl….” he muttered.

 “Which girl?” was the even response.

 

Sylvanus tensed, but then relented, forcing himself not to react. Ira saw it and understood. The habits of sixteen years were prison enough. What would it be like for his father? He felt himself softening, and yearning again for the warmth and kindness which seemed to be his mother’s province.

 

“…this..one…up there.”

 

Ira dropped the pretense.

 “I like her. She talks to me and I like the sound of her voice. Her family look after each other and I don’t care where she goes on Sundays.”

 

“They are ignorant and superstitious – they drink and brawl and would be traitors to our country. Their very names are foreign and comical”

 

“I know they don’t like the English. But is it not true father, that we ourselves were not English?”

 

“The name is Coan, and always has been. It is English, and of great antiquity.”

 

“Is it father? My brother Milo told me that our name was otherwise, but the English changed it for us.”

 

Through gritted teeth “Your name is Coan. Got that? C-O-A-N, Coan.”

 

Sylvanus walked to the door with great dignity. Ira began to realise how much this dignity might have cost. He picked up his carving, and followed his father to the door.

 

 “I’ll see what I can do, father. Some of this looks very good. I’ll have some fine barrels for you by tomorrow evening I’m sure.”

 Sylvanus did not reply, but looked at his youngest with new eyes. Not quite as briskly as usual, he turned the horse, which began to pull toward the gate.  His face was unusually thoughtful. He, too, knew that life would never be the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE GIRL

Kate stood with a bobbin in her hand and tenderness in her heart for the fine-looking boy she could see in the yard below.

A fine-looking boy to be sure. She liked his calm self-assurance, his relaxed stance and straight back. She liked talking to him too, though she knew he was a couple of years younger than her. He looked at her directly, he listened to her and he liked her. This she knew.

She knew more besides. She knew that she was not the most comely girl in the mill or the most able. A childhood in famine-ravaged Ireland does that to a girl she thought. But a pleasant, open countenance, a ready smile and a ready wit seemed to open many doors in this country. And they were needed, she thought. Look at old man Coan down there in his black frock coat, looking like a dandy undertaker. He was Mr. Everywhere, turning up at meetings, Churches, rallies, running his businesses and poking his nose into others', leaving him hardly enough time to look after his many children, some of them older than her mother.

She had left her machine to find a chink at the window, which let in a stream of clear cold air, heady stuff after the linty fug of the mill. Prising the window open with a small wooden offcut, she then sent it arcing out into the air of the mill yard.

'Oh dear' she thought. Her aim was imperfect. The piece fell almost exactly between them. The horse stopped as Sylvanus hauled it in. An innocent act she thought, and now I have the undivided attention of two men. I really think one is quite beautiful, like an angel. And the other one looks like the devil. How could they be related? Is this one of the mysteries of life they talk about?

The actress in Kate demanded a response. She leaned forward, well aware that the window was framing her, with her flaming red hair, to the greatest advantage.

The boy brought his hand out from behind his back, and even from that distance Kate could see the beautiful shape of the carving, though not the detail. She smiled the small smile of trust, and turning her gaze to Sylvanus, lifted her right hand theatrically, and administered the Sign of the Cross, the way she had seen the priests do it.

And sure, she thought, it is true. She could tell by the way he reacted that he must be the devil. He couldn't leave quickly enough and was plainly furious.

Well, she thought, we're not a very religious family like so many of the others, but that was worth all the hours of boredom in the old school.

The smile she wore almost disappeared as she felt the sharp prod in her back. But Kate had time to hold her composure as she turned to enquire pleasantly

"Ah, is it the mill fallin' apart without meself to be runnin' it?"

Miss Stone (ah there's a name to be making fun of) did her best to intimidate Kate, but without much heart, for the truth was that she was a good worker and entertained the others. There was just something worrying though in a free spirit, particularly when it came from that troublesome race from Ireland. Already they were undermining the wages at the mill, they had soaked up the canal labor, and everyone knew they were backward, superstitious and possibly seditious. For all their religion, there was a great deal of drinking and fighting in much of their unruly community.

Aware of the eyes of her colleagues averted from their tasks to slyly observe, Kate called in stage-Irish "Alroight ladies. Twas not the forst toime, 'twill not be last; machines are there" pointing vigorously away from herself. Amused and obedient, the girls turned back to their tasks, Miss Stone nodded and actually smiled.

"Please Kate. You could be such a good example to the others.    

"Yes, Miss. I could." And they both smiled.

And Kate thought "But I won't.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOME

The sun was low, the sky darkening already. The mill hummed and throbbed, clattered and puffed. Small armies of drays and carts filed into the main yard, to disgorge enormous bales of new cotton, up from the far-off South. Endlessly they came, day after day, week after week and month after month. Horses, oxen and mules of all shapes, sizes and colour, all reduced to the same dogged, straining, plodding gait. Drearily they made their way out again, carting mountains of merchandise, thread, yarn and great bolts of woven cotton, to the greater world beyond.

 If the first part of the journey was by dray, the path to prosperity was by water, the Erie Canal, all the way to New York City.

And if the In-Lane seemed to symbolise the Sunny South and a land of adventure, the Out-Lane symbolised the bright city life and modern times. Either seemed more than attractive as a few sharp points of sleet stung Ira's cheeks.

He made his way to the canal banks, his mind pleasantly empty, perhaps absorbed in something he wouldn't recall, or perhaps dreaming. Therefore he didn't see the shapes lolling in the gloom by the boatshed. There were two of them, and were just part of the general grayness until they were upon him, in his path, blocking him, pushing him gently, but insistently, in the chest. Gently, but insistently, one of them talked, or murmured, in language not easily understood.

 Words tumbled forth, in a growl now, occasionally intelligible…. "English…….orangeman…..will ye foight…damn yez all….". In the back of his mind he wondered if they realised that America had established her independence some time ago. In the front of his mind he was calculating the risks of fight or flight. Neither was appealing. If he ran, he would have to face them again. If he fought, he might take a beating, but make them think twice about picking on him…especially if he was not alone.

A third shape rapidly materialised behind them, and Ira rapidly re-considered the flight option. Before he had time to act upon it, the mysterious new arrival strode up to the larger of the thugs, delivering a ringing open-handed whack to the back of its head.

"Swate mither o' Jasus Mhoikel" it appeared to say, in a fierce treble. "Don't be messin' with this bhoy, he'll take y'aparrt with 'is hands that c'n split trees. Get off t'y'r mither, and let's not be catchin' ye here agin".

The transformation was incredible to Ira. Hulking thugs became chastised children, and with the simplicity of small children, they dutifully, and without apparent rancour, obeyed.

Slipping her arm through his, Kate (for it was she) gave him a deferential smile that rendered him weak at the knees. Confused and delighted, he felt his cheeks blaze in the snowing air and could not feel his feet touch the ground.

"Well me bhoy" she said. "What have ye t'say t'me?"

"I'd have taken them apart with my bare hands".

Kate stopped and turned to him, holding him with a long and thoughtful gaze. She slipped her arm back out of his, and reached for his hands, which she turned palm upwards, one on top of the other. She gently caressed the top palm and he was suddenly aware, as he had never been before, of his own hands. As she stroked, he felt his own hand, here leathery and calloused, there hard and tight. But he also became gradually aware of the soft places, the sensitive and shapely parts of his hands.

"They won't bother you any more. They mean no harm, but've had a hard life. Oi've troubles 'v me own."

So saying, she slipped away as smoothly as she had arrived, and Ira heard her hail her working cohort who were passing by. How fortunate she was to find them, how frightened she had been to find herself all alone, and could she join them for the walk home? The small company vanished in the gloom, considerably more animated than it had been a minute earlier.

Ira sat on a bollard, his feet up on the thick ropes coiled round its base. He was unaware of the dew that seeped through his trousers. He was in a state of pleasant confusion and wondered where admiration stopped and love began.

The potato blight might have sent many from Europe to these shores, thought Ira the following evening back in their home village of Parishville. They will find no lack of that humble vegetable here, he thought further. It is baked, roasted, boiled and fried, and rivals the humble loaf of bread as the staple of life. A pungent cloud of essence of fish pie assailed his nostrils as he vaulted the sturdy timber fence. He'd made the  fence himself, from mill leftovers, and it was a source of pride and joy to his mother, its neat lines and clean finish setting it apart from its rustic and homely neighbours.

The goats, chickens, dogs and other representatives of the animal kingdom either clamoured for his attention or avoided him according to their natures as he strode across the yard – a large yard. Whether his father was townsman or farmer, no-one could decide. Inside, the house was packed with the trappings of gentility –  the piano, drapery and china in from New York City, while the furniture, all of it from the hand of Sylvanus, positively glowed with richness and color. The large kitchen operated like that on a large farm. Sylvanus himself was as likely to shoe a horse as he was to present an impromptu sermon. As likely to spend the morning in the Court House witnessing affidavits as to spend it cleaning and oiling his precious guns. But always, there were wood-logs, planks, boards  and straps ready for the axe, the knife and the adze, providing they were of special quality. The regular timber went directly to the cooperage. In came the dead trees, and out went the barrels and firkins, hogsheads and butts.

Ira slung his boots into the outer boot box, having scraped them down quickly and efficiently. The heavy door swung back easily and the room breathed a vast warm cloud around him. Clean straw, potato, baking fish, paraffin oil and beeswax mingled in a homely cloud, at once reassuring and irritating. It was the smell of home, but also of dependence.

 

 

THE VISITOR

Something, though, in the familiar atmosphere, was not quite right. It was too quiet!

As he blinked in the bright light, he became aware that he was the focus of attention. His mother, William, the twins, all seemed eager to greet him. Suspicious, for while he felt loved, he was not used to demonstration, he glanced instinctively round the room, and saw the problem. His problem!

His father was not present, but the atmosphere was like the aftermath of one of his occasional mood storms, like a tempest-battered countryside picking itself up once more to face the gentle sun. No, on second thought he was wrong, for he saw now that it was a calm without a storm.

Sitting in easy ownership of the polished oak table was a young man his own age. He was earnestly involved in reading a large book. Let it not be the Bible" thought Ira. The visitor did not look up, and appeared unaware of the new arrival in the room. Not a little nettled, Ira dealt with his distraction in a show of affection, genuine nevertheless, toward his mother. "Y'r father called" she murmured, as they brushed cheeks. "He's not pleased with you".

"I know, ma". He was past caring. He turned back to look at his cousin, Titus, exactly the same age as Ira. Apart from his studious attention to his great book, he looked normal, well-dressed and quite good-looking. For the son of a missionary he also looked surprisingly athletic. His skin, too, was a pleasant olive, no doubt due to his sojourn in the Hawaiian Islands, where his father practised his ministry. As Ira approached, Titus stood to greet him. Ira could not even tell if he had been feigning reading or simply possessed a skill of concentration.

"I'm pleased to meet you, cousin Ira" rolled off his tongue as he bowed slightly, straightening to offer his hand. The grip was strong and dry, and Ira dropped the thought of testing him. Ira knew that he was not his cousin, but the son of his cousin. How strange then, that they should be exactly the same age, he thought, not without a twinge of annoyance. And while I live in a town, he thought, he lives on an island in the Ocean. While my father has many wives and children, his nephew has only one wife and only four children. How this boy must be loved! Ira looked blandly and directly into Titus' eyes, and found that it disconcerted his 'cousin' not at all.  Ira was suddenly relieved that Titus had not come to visit in the year of the Census, during which the collecting Clerk had mistaken him for a girl…"Ira Coan…age about 13…female". His siblings' mirth and his mother's tender reassurance that this often happened to good-looking boys did not allay his mortification and shame.

He was pleased that he had left school, had grown considerably, was work-hardened and, in his own humble opinion, was worldly-wise.

"It's alright, cousin" smiled Titus. Reaching down, he gripped, and hefted, the sturdy tome, showing the cover plainly to Ira. "Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan (New York), illustrated by Frederick Catherwood" it said (Ira recalled that Titus Coan, senior, had ventured bravely to Patagonia at the behest of his Church before undertaking his Hawaian mission). He replaced the book on the table, and looked directly at Ira again. Again they shook hands, and this time, warmly.

Over dinner, Ira observed his relative closely. This was not difficult as young Titus Coan (named after his saintly father presumably, and presumably only after many saintly protestations of unworthiness were over-ridden) was not loth to hold the floor. He rambled at length on any subject which took his fancy – and many did! But his centre of reference was his childhood and life in Hawaii, the son of America's star missionary –  not only a great missionary but a great humanitarian – not only a great humanitarian but a great healer – not only a great healer but a great adventurer – in short, a Paragon! The whole family, thought Ira, was charmed by this boy only his own age. With one exception of course!   

The stories, observations and opinions rolled on and on. Just like a powerful preacher, thought Ira, he casts a spell. Is this how his father does it? Well, leave me out.

The religious platitudes Ira had the worldliness to pardon, for these must be expected of a fellow in Titus' position. What fascinated Ira was the picture taking  root in his mind of far-off lands and people. A balmy tropical paradise peopled by worthy savages with strange songs and stranger rituals. Tales of barbarism and savagery sat cheek by jowl with stories of great human dignity and courage. As he sat there, the room began to shrink in front of him, and the tableau of a family gathering became merely  a fine silk screen across a vast panorama of the mighty Pacific ocean, rolling endlessly out of a vast horizon to hurl itself in spectacular doom on the blinding white sands of the Hawaiian shore.

He blinked. The meal was finished, the fire was dying down and goodbyes were being said. Gentle smiles were cast in his direction. Perhaps, thought Ira, they wondered whether he was moved. Whether he had picked up the flame of religion from this junior spokesman for God. Whether he would go as so many of his countrymen did – to the service of The Lord, in one of his many manifestations.

I am sixteen, thought Ira, and it's time I left home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOLDEN SANDS

An uncle of Titus' having collected him, Ira was free for the moment. He let the dog in to bask in the fireglow, and occupied himself by gently oiling some of the leather pouches he used for specialised tool-bags.

His mother perched with considerable dignity on the old wooden rocker and surveyed her youngest with curiosity. He had been unusually quiet this evening, and she had been concerned that the competition might be upsetting. But she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't upset, nor did he resent Titus. She could tell that his mind was racing, but she was not sure that she was familiar with the track. She did know one thing – the child she had nurtured for sixteen years was being subsumed by a young man, and who could predict the nature of that beast?

Was it only a couple of years ago that she had filled in the Census...'Ira...13 years...female'? Why she had done it she couldn't quite say, but felt that it was a way of hiding her baby from a warring, whoring world. She had done her best, and always would, but the glow in his face was difficult to read. Was it from the fire? No, she knew that look. Could it be a girl? Well, girls were to be expected, but things would be so much more peaceable were they not Irish.

Ira looked up suddenly and found his mother's gaze fixed upon him, and the child in him smiled, secure in his mother's love. Frances saw the innocent, unguarded smile, and joyfully returned it.

Why, what am I thinking, she said to herself. He is still just a child.     

"Your father called, Ira".

"Why shouldn't he – he lives here doesn't he?"

A sigh, but inward only. For her youngest, only an enigmatic smile with no rancour. Like untold millions of mothers before her, Frances stood against the avalanche of a world ready to crash down on his frail childhood. She had no delusions about that world.

"You know why he is away boy – the work of a Magistrate calls him to many places. Barrels don't sell themselves, and…" hesitating, "there is the work of the Lord…." This without conviction.

Ira pounced. "How did the Lord manage without father?"

A long and painful pause while Ira wondered if he had been rash, and Frances pondered her next move.                                                   

"Ira" – the tone was tender yet reproachful – "your father loves you deeply. It is natural for him to be concerned about your future, and your friends. We are judged by the company we keep."

Ira was armed and ready.

"And wasn't Christ also judged in this way. Wasn't it said of him that he kept bad company?"

Frances knew this was true, so she cut her losses and cut to the chase. "He did not keep company with Irishmen."

"He didn't have the chance. And if he practised what he preached, he would have."

Frances winced. This was painful stuff, and dangerous too, in their circle.

"You were seen – talking to Irishmen."

"They are my friends" Ira lied, and why he lied he couldn't have said. No sooner had the words escaped him than he blushed crimson, infuriated and embarrassed, reacting, to his mind, like a child or a girl.

"What are their names?" asked Frances, who read the flushed countenance like an open book.

A painful pause, then "Patrick and Michael."

"Of course – Patrick and Michael, the Irishmen. Brothers, are they?”

"Yes."

"And their mother's name?"

Desperation!…"K..K..Kate.”

"The Irish seem very fond of that name" remarked Frances, musingly.

Ira was now most upset to be in conflict with his mother, and annoyed with himself for being out-foxed by her. His father had made it clear that a sharp mind was not a desirable trait in a woman – that she was the homemaker  and helpmate.

"And these young men?”

"Have been my friends for weeks." Another lie. How quickly it became necessary!

"I'm sorry to hear it. Your friends have been causing a good deal of trouble in the neighbourhood. They have even been known to threaten people – and their religion. Are these people really your friends Ira?"

A chance for redemption, but in an instant Ira saw his father's heavy hand descending over him, the interminable round of church and chapel, the eking out of stubborn crops from the frigid northern soil and the incestuous network of the same old New England families –  marrying, intermarrying, moving village, starting up new enterprises, then doing it all again. Enemies everywhere – the French, the English, the Indians. The Germans, the Dutch, the Jews...and the Irish.

In the same instant he saw another picture – of a mighty sweeping blue ocean crashing upon a golden shore. The sun glowed over a gold and green paradise with honey-coloured natives doing whatever it is that honey-coloured natives do.

 And he answered "Yes."

"Your father will be disappointed."

A pause, and "He will be very angry."

"As if I didn't know that". Sullen defiance was now the mood of the moment, and Ira saw that the die was cast.

For better or worse, he had some new friends.

His father was out late that night. Church business, no doubt, but just what did that entail for so long?

 

 

 

 

 

FRANCES

In the morning, all was normal, including the farmhouse breakfast  which set everyone up for the day's work. Frances' people were Welsh originally, and had brought their farming style to the County, producing the best butter and cheese in the State. Industrious and frugal, they nevertheless lived well, keeping up their old traditions. Ira liked them as they minded their own business, and lived in their own world of poetry, song and chapel.

As Frances worked, she talked gently, to no-one in particular, and breaking occasionally into poetry, or was it song? No-one was sure. No-one spoke or understood Welsh, but there was a spell of a kind in her voice. How strange the contrast between his parents, thought young Ira. His mother, so much younger than his father, with her strange songs, her six children and many animals, all reared on the same lines. Her life seemed almost pagan in its simple, primitive pleasures totally unrelated to their religion. Perhaps she didn't wish to compete with Sylvanus in that arena. Religion was men's work and Sylvanus worshipped a stern God. The music too, was stern and formal. Sylvanus worshipped order and progress, railroads, canals and factories. Frances worshipped the air, the trees and animals large and small.

After breakfast Ira spent some time with his mother in the garden. He collected eggs, tended to the fences and cages, making sure all were secure from raiders on four or two legs. The cow  he milked and turned out to graze. Frances garnered carefully from the garden, greens and herbs to lay by for the rest of the day. It was a companionable time for the pair, sixteen and fifty. The youngest child of both parents, the sixth of Frances and the fifteenth of Sylvanus, he had been babied all his life but not indulged. He worked hard but happily with his odd mother. He liked the way she readily laughed and sang but didn't bother speaking too much, her dry humour and her kindness. Most of what she had to say remained unuttered. This morning though, Ira sensed her unease.

"What do you make of your cousin?"

"I like him, even if he talks a lot".

"Do you think he talk sense?"

"How do I know? I have never been to Hawaii".

Frances gently laid aside her small cutter, straightened and stretched. She looked, at first, thoughtful, then wistful. Ira recognised, with a shock, the very look which he had been feeling. He suddenly did not want to hear the next words she would speak. He didn't know what words would issue, but he knew what she would say.

Her fey blue eyes were focused far away-on the mid-Pacific, thought Ira. "Ah, boy, what must it be like? What must it be like? The world is a big place, so big, so big. And we are so small, so small. Here we are, and the mill throws up its smoke day after day. The air is full of it, then rain, then snow. We haul the cotton in, we spin it out, we send it away. We make babies and they make grandchildren."

Her voice had taken on a detached sing-song quality and Ira was apprehensive. He didn't like this at all. He was not in the mood to meet another stranger.

"Would you like to go to Hawaii?"

"Yes, I would."

"I think your father would too."

This was  not only a novel idea, but one that shook the boy. His father's religious zeal, his bustling energy and drive, his New England blood connections, all seemed to chain him to the very soil. It had never occurred to Ira that his father could live anywhere else, or that he might even want to. Why would Sylvanus go to Hawaii? Would he make barrels from coconut palms, would he preach the gospel from a volcano, would he populate the islands with light brown Christian coopers?

"What are you laughing at boy?"

Roused from his reverie, he could only manage "A thought not worthy, mother".

"Let's not have unworthy thoughts Ira."

"My father dancing at an Hawaian feast, then."

A feeble joke indeed, but one which was enjoyed by mother and son.

"My son," motioning Ira to sit at the garden bench, "your father is not a bad man. He has always done his best for us. He believes what he believes, and can do no other. He speaks for many people in the town and you know how hard he works. You know he is concerned for you."

At this gentle chiding, Ira felt alarm. In the gentlest possible manner, his protector was dividing her loyalties, and the possibilities were chilling. He felt, suddenly, a hard grey world waiting to envelope him and wondered whether he could possibly manage.

Frances paused, aware of his discomfort. "It's a fine piece of work you've done."

She knew that Ira had the carving in his pocket. He'd been quite hypnotised by his own work, but still couldn't say exactly what it was. He just thought of it as ... "madonna".

He drew it out, hoping he would not be disappointed at it in the daylight. He wasn't. He was freshly impressed by his own work. Frances gazed at it for some time before saying "Who is it for?" Ira had not thought about this and quelled a childish reaction to proffer it to his mother. He couldn't have said why. He thought suddenly of his red-haired friend, but put her out of mind from filial loyalty.

Frances saw his indecision and suddenly craved the strange new object in their lives – craved it earnestly and deeply. Ira flushed and fumbled with the carving. "I must go", awkwardly.

He kissed her and left, feeling confused and torn and clutching the wooden figure. Security and peace by his mother's side would now on come only at a price – the price of living in his father's world, and he knew he couldn't do that any more.

 

 

THINKING IT OVER

His home-town of Parish supplied much in the way of cooperage, but when the Mill at Syracuse needed specialised goods, Sylvanus always got the contract, and he and Ira settled in for the job.

Back in Syracuse, his steps retraced the earlier evening's route, and sure enough, when he walked, preoccupied, past the scene of last night's encounter, he was hailed by the same rough voice. Before he had time to register concern, he was surprised to find his former antagonist greeting him as a long lost friend, and he wondered at Kate's powers of persuasion.

"Well now, that would be the world's smallest, shillelagh y'have in y'r hand there, Ira me bhoy. Oim Joseph, an' oi onderstan' y'r a foin fella fr an orangeman." This show of friendship was sudden and a bit hard to believe, and Ira had no idea what an Orangeman was, but was prepared to go half way. He shook hands, and was surprised at the feeling of genuine warmth he received from the grip. He liked neither the genteel clammy clasp or the vise-like testing pump. Joe was curious about his creation, wanted to see it, hold it. Ira was suspicious still, but acquiesced.

Joe was impressed, and in no doubt as to the identity of the model.

"Well now, will ye look at that. It's herself to be sure…the holy mither."

He handed it back to Ira, with a great show of respect, and again Ira inwardly thanked Kate for smoothing his path. Joe walked with him down past the canal-the magnificent Erie canal of which they were all so proud. "Well, Oira I came to this land on a boat, and the divil of a toime we had of it. Oi swore oi'd niver embrace that element agin, but oi was wrong lad – on that very canal y'r lookin at, oi shall sail this very week. Yz c'n all call me Cap'n Joe."

Joe suddenly looked a glamorous character, for did not these very boats and barges travel all the way to the Hudson River and New York, that mighty hive of industry, seat of culture and home of learning- for sure, in some ways, a homeland Hawaii?    

Life seemed a little easier, and a little harder. It would not go on forever like this, Ira had decided. That made it easier. But exactly what would be the next step? He just didn't know, and that made it harder. At work in the cooperage, he sat, holding a beautifully grained stave of fine white oak, pleasant to touch, and sweet to smell. It had aged somewhat, but was still moist and pliable. He held the broadaxe to it, tapped, and the stave fell apart, neatly cloven. He worked with several staves in like manner, enjoying the texture of the silky wood, and his own skill in finding the minute planes of cleavage. Sometimes, he cut slightly oversize, for a more natural split, in order to maintain the integrity of the piece. He knew it would involve more trimming later, but this he did not mind; if the trimming was tedious, it was also not unpleasant, as he worked towards another work of art. He would think about the story of Michelangelo, seeing his David in the depths of a shapeless lump of Carrara marble. If people thought his work was slow, they bit their lip when they saw the finished product. His wet cooperage was the finest work known, and long before his kegs drank their first whisky, their owners were fascinated by their beautiful proportions and superb finish. Already many were being used as furniture pieces.         

The morning passed, and around him assembled the loose skeleton of a keg. His father would collect the staves, and groove and mortise them for an initial fit. They worked together efficiently in this way, but both knew their strengths, and Ira was comfortable with his role as chief artisan. His father travelled, bought the lumber, rough-shaped the staves and mortised them in due course. Ira's hand and eye split, chamfered and grooved the staves, bound and hammered the iron hoops, trimmed and smoothed the heads. Sylvanus sold their work, as casks, kegs, barrels, buckets, tubs, butter churns, hogsheads and breakers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE FRIENDSHIP

It was a productive and rewarding business, and it would have been a shame to see it come to an end.

So Ira mused, as he shaved and smoothed, trimmed and split, grooved and tapped.

Weeks and months passed, and the barrels, kegs and puncheons rolled out. Sylvanus' mood was grim, and Ira kept his whittling and carving a secret – until  he gave them away. He kept his meetings with Kate a secret too –  as well as one could in a small town. He also kept his dreams of travel a secret, except from  Kate. And one more thing he kept a secret –  he had begun to sign his casks. On the first occasion he had incurred the wrath of his father, who scorned frippery and dreaded the expression of an artistic temperament. After that, he had taken to notching a small figure, an outline of his "madonna”, on the inner rim of the barrel bottom. After some time, he suspected that his father must have known, as he inspected the finished product before sale, but had decided not to object, for the sake of business.

Kate he would meet at odd times – after work  or on Sunday afternoons. She had more freedom and less supervision than his own older sisters would ever have enjoyed, he was sure. But he knew that she also enjoyed considerable protection of an informal kind, her rough relatives being numerous and ubiquitous. Ira had gradually begun to feel comfortable with them and decided that they were good-hearted. In turn, he felt that they respected him for the same quality. He had learned to be wary, though, on pay nights, for when the money flowed, so did the drink. And after the drink came the fighting, which they seemed to view as an honourable pastime. Ira didn't shirk fighting, but would fight only if necessary. His intentions toward Kate were quite honourable too, for he really didn't know what he wanted. He was excited to be with her, and valued her company, indeed, would have been jealous of a rival, but knew that he did not want to bed her. Certainly, he wasn't sure how to do so, but felt he would manage when the time came, which was not yet.

She was a born story-teller, perhaps like his own mother. Everything she did emerged as a narrative, from her childhood in Ireland, to the journey first to England, and the subsequent epic voyage to New York. "Ah, the rain, Ira, the rain-it niver stops. In the night it patters on the roof, in the morning it's tumblin from the sky, in the afternoon it's a movin mist –  and then it's night agin. Well, the grass grows long and green, and the trees are green and leafy-green everywhere ye look. When you look at the old grey walls, there it is…green, green moss all along. And guess what Ira, me bhoy?…"

"What?"

"Look at me eyes."

Ira looked, and very much liked what he saw. He always did. He laughed, for she had the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

Kate painted more and more pictures. The hills of her childhood were ones which had seen generations of hardship, war, suppression, persecution, hunger and ignorance. But the cold, the damp and the dirt fell away in Kate's stories and the twin threads of ancient heroic legend and a child's-eye view of nature interwove in a charming narrative.

Brian Boru and his mighty men marched once more over a carpet of flowers, fertilised with the blood of enemies long forgotten. The green land shone like an emerald under the guardianship of the little people, protecting the land and the animals, but just as likely to play baleful tricks on the folk of the land. Ira could hardly tell whether this sensible young woman believed her own stories or not.

"Tell me, Kate. Do you really believe in the little folk?"

"No", she drawled. But Oi've seen 'em."     

Ira watched her face carefully as she told her stories, and saw the hypnotic face of the story-teller reflect her own stories. He could see that there were moments when she was taken over by memories, and her face was beyond her control. The ship journey to America, for instance, when several of their company died, including children her own age. The burial at sea, the body sunk, never to surface again till the Last Judgement. The nature of London, its magnificent palaces, cathedrals and monuments, its army of thieves and criminals, the clattering of horses and carriages day and night. The dizzying freedom of America, where you might speak your mind, where your countrymen could hope for space, wealth and freedom.

 

 

AN INITIATIVE

Then Ira took a risk.

He had much time to reflect while working, and he knew that he was important to the family. The long and short of it was that he found a young friend to work with him. At first, Nathaniel picked up, stacked and tidied, but soon began to do the roughing work, patiently paring away with the drawing knife till the staves assumed a smooth sweep. Hammering the hoops neatly into place so that they bound rather than bit, trimming the rough ends to look good to the eye and be pleasing to handle, Nat relieved Ira of the routine work.

He didn't ask Sylvanus, who didn't know of it for a couple of weeks.

Sylvanus had been pleased with the quality of the goods he was picking up from Ira, and said so, if grudgingly. Ira chose this moment to disclaim credit, acknowledging that he had had some help. Ira marvelled at the colour that rose in the cheek of a septagenarian, but did not enjoy it. He weathered the storm however. After all, he was the youngest, and there was no-one after him to carry on the trade. His older half-brothers had gone their separate ways and were passing on the knowledge to their various sons, some of whom were older than he himself.

How old was this boy? Who were his parents? What was his faith? Where did his ancestors hail from? Ira answered dutifully, knowing all the while that the old man knew perfectly well that he was from a respectable and hard-working family well known in the district. What choice did his father have? Ira had decided to replace himself with a worthy successor. In this way he could avoid the emotional blackmail of being seen to desert his family.

Nat was likeable and easy-going, if not overly imaginative. This was not a bad fault in a craft requiring such patience and routine. His work gradually began to assume a more finished appearance, and Ira found himself having to do less in the way of tutoring and correcting. Proportions were now acceptable to the eye, and the finish was also workmanlike. Ira was privately relieved that Nat did not seem to have his artistic inclination. In fact, Nat was hardly aware of Ira's modest artistic endeavours, and to Ira's chagrin, showed no curiosity at all about the small production line of wooden statuettes, gadgets and puzzles. He fashioned interlocking links from the one block, locking-shape puzzles which he had seen in wire form, and bird and animal shapes of great beauty and tactile delight. Nat didn't seem to notice.  

 

A DOOR OPENS

Given the success of this modest enterprise, Ira managed to create some free time, and as the weather improved, found himself wandering – and sitting – and thinking. He could see his native northern woods bursting into leaf, and could see the vast migrating flocks overhead but never once associated them with the tingle and ache that ran through his body.

He found himself, after a while, drawn to the canal, and would spend hours watching the passing parade of canal traffic, from the great square barges with their abundant family life swarming from stem to stern, newly-washed clothes hung out to dry, like a domestic version of a merchant seaman's flags and a smoking fire maintained in the cabin amidship, to the sleek packets with their more exotic cargo of tourists from the East and far beyond.

It was at the locks that things got interesting, as a queue of barges jostled for position. The faster-moving packets were given priority, as their paying customers were not likely to tolerate long delays while their craft was raised or lowered preparatory to moving into the next stretch of canal. The grimy barges then fought for precedence, with much waving of staves and colourful language which Ira had heard before, but not used with such freedom and habituation.

It was at the lock that Ira came on a scene which struck him as comical – a boat-jam caused by the intransigence of a small mule which stoutly resisted the efforts of several very large men to move it.

Ira met no resistance from the exasperated men when he unhitched the fretful animal and walked it into pasture, singing softly one of his mother's strange songs. The other two mules managed the barge into the lock, earning themselves some respite while the level dropped, lowering the craft into the next canal section.

Disgruntled but relieved, the barge owner sullenly thanked Ira as he hitched the now-placid animal back in harness. Did Ira want a job? No, he didn't. What was wrong with this mule? Nothing. The mules had been fine, pulling away for mile after mile without even needing to be led. Why the problem now? Because they had assumed, after running the show by themselves for such a long stretch, that they were in charge. Someone has to lead them.

Was Ira sure he didn't want a job? Ira hesitated, looked over the workaday tub with its dull ochre-coloured sides, its unappealing domestic paraphernalia strewn from end to end and the even less appealing urchin-like children infesting the cabin, and said again that he didn't.

But he was thinking very hard.  

He was thinking about freedom, liberty, travel and the warm white sands of Hawaii.

Frances too, thought about the warm white sands of Hawaii even if she was not aware of it. At any rate, her mind was not much in the here and now of Oneida County. The town was thriving, she was told. She was pleased, not for herself, but for the town, whatever that meant. If that meant people would be happy, so be it. If it meant folks would get along, she was delighted. But for the moment it seemed that it just meant more work. Work was good, she had been told. Her husband, her only husband, had told her so. He told her so often as he left to work. Work was selecting lumber for the cooperage. Work was building new stores to service the canal trade. Work was scouring the countryside for new colleagues with the right attitudes. Work was training the next generation to look after itself. Yes, her husband had told her so. Had he told his other three wives, she wondered? Had he told poor Ruanna, dead at twenty, her only son now the head of his own family? Had he told Lucy Ann, who bore him four children in quick succession, the first a month before Ruanna's death? And why did she divorce him? Had he told Polly, who added another four worthy offspring before expiring at the age of thirty-five? Well, if he hadn't, he'd certainly made up for it with herself, six more children on. William would be fine, and Lorenzo too. She didn't worry about them. They were steady, as young men go, and fond and loving of their women. The girls, always a delight, always a worry, too attractive to be able to leave to their own choices, too independent to accept the advice of others, particularly a jealous and possessive father. But this was hardly new, and time would soon tell.

Again and again her mind strayed to the youngest. What was it about Ira that worried her? Less and less was she able to tell what he was thinking. Where did he disappear to for hours at a time? Why did the combination of mystic and man of action frighten her. She'd seen too many "get religion" for it to appeal to her. Joseph Smith had written his Book of Mormon not far from her very home. The great preachers of the day seemed to divide families in the name of Christ, and the heavy hand of God oppressed her week in and week out, even if administered by his self-appointed agent, Sylvanus Coan.

Pointless to think about the past. Of the imperious and energetic man she had married as a girl of eighteen. Of the four children she inherited and her own brood of six. She thought she knew what work was, and wasn't afraid of it. But of Religion she was terrified. What did they use for religion in Hawaii she wondered, before Sylvanus' nephew rescued them from whatever it was they probably enjoyed previously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PUZZLEMENT

Weeks passed, barrels rolled out, lambs gamboled and young birds took flight. Ira worked hard, and thought hard also. The woods were splendid in new leaf and vast flocks of wild geese streamed on their ancient migration route overhead. He met Kate often and he realised that she too had declared herself a free spirit. He didn't understand how she could do this, but there she was, at all hours, wandering the fields and riverbanks as she pleased, turning up in odd places as if by magic. She was always pleased to see him, and he was greatly flattered. She would take his arm, in the most warm and natural way, so that he felt himself to be her big brother, her protector and guardian. Like his own mother, she was at home with animals, poetry and song.

"Where is that water going, Kate?" he would ask, idly watching the gentle flow of the Canal and its leisurely flotilla of barges.

"Water goes where it wants to go, bhoy. It's here now, tomorrow it falls from Heaven-next week it will be the dew on the grass itself".

This was not what Ira meant.

"I mean-this flows into the Hudson River-then into the Atlantic Ocean-around the world, into other oceans…"

Kate interrupted "And into the Pacific, there to dance in beautiful little waves on the far off sands of Hawaii".

She laughed without malice, and Ira didn't mind, though he still reddened to think that his mind was still read so easily.

"But, why not Kate? Everything is connected."

"It is, to be sure. But surely it's not about golden sand, blue water and gorgeous fruit. Everything is  connected – your father will be there too. You can't just walk away from life. You know the mill Ira. There will be more mills – cotton, gold, whatever makes people rich. The preachers will be there too, just to make sure the people won't enjoy themselves too much."

Ira felt nettled, at having to think his way clearly through an urge.

"But, Kate, I just want to see for myself."

Kate sighed, and Ira remembered  suddenly that he was two years younger than she was. He felt a pang, of he knew not what. She reached for him, and embraced him slowly, deliberately and powerfully. Utterly confused, he gently reciprocated till she relaxed her clasp, upon which he tenderly enfolded her for quite a long time. He understood nothing, least of all the tears that trickled from her emerald green eyes.

 

 

INITIATIVE BORDERING ON GUILE

When they parted, Ira felt restless and annoyed. Again he wandered to the Canal, moodily watching the late afternoon barges arriving at the lock. One fine craft caught his eye. It was well-maintained, freshly painted, and was crewed by a decent-looking family. Everything was in apple-pie order, except for one thing. A cluster of barrels fore and aft should have capped off the business-like effect, but for the fact that, to Ira's eye, they were an eyesore. Not quite symmetrical, discoloured in patches, and with tell-tale leakage lines, these were an inferior product indeed.

He returned within the hour with a basic bag of tools. He soon found the hoggee, a boy of around his own age, in better health than most of his hoggee workmates, a good sign.

"Hello friend" said Ira, by way of an opening.

The boy's eyes narrowed, and he muttered "Hello whoever y' might be, but "friend" I'll decide".

Ira decided to cut to the chase. "Nice boat, bad barrels. I can help".

Taken aback, the boy seemed affronted.

"Nuthin wrong with my Pa's barrels".

Much became clear, but rather than argue the point, Ira merely turned to stare pointedly at the sorry collection on the deck, unaware that he was being scrutinised by the Master, who had heard every word.            

"Hey, boy!" rang out from the deck. The owner of the voice was a large man, and the voice was clear and strong. "Come up and see what ye c'n do".

Ira leapt the short gap to the flat deck, wondering if he should shake hands. None was offered.

"What's y'r name son".

"Ira".

"Well Ira – what y'say's right. I don't cooper great. What d'ye think?"

Ira cast an eye over the barrels, and mentally selected four. The timber was warped and uneven, but looked workable. He felt confident he could improve the storage situation.

"I can give you two hours. Begging your pardon, what can you give me?".

"Depends on y'r work son" but, with a small smile, not unkindly.

Ira decided to take the chance.

He decanted the liquids into pails, and the flour and fish into packets on deck. Some showed signs of spoilage because of the poor state of the barrels.

He knocked the hoops off easily, and prised apart the staves which had managed to keep company. He then arranged the motley collection into a reasonable semblance of order, lining them up according to height, thickness and condition. They had been made, he could see, with minimal method, and great reliance on an untrained and inexpert eye.

"Well, he thought, I am going to have to be cruel to be kind, and two good barrels are better than four bad ones".

He spent much time planing and shaping the staves, cleaning down the rot to find firm wood and scraping the inner surface fine and smooth. The outer surface he also treated in the same way, not because it made any difference, but because this was what sold barrels.

Mister Kennedy (for that was the Captain's name) wandered up from time to time, and scrutinised with interest.   

He worked on into the dusk, while Kennedy provided him with lamps, attracting a rich harvest of canal insect life. Kennedy had become fidgety, and Ira knew that he was wondering what he had done, allowing a juvenile to dismantle his containers which now lay as rows of lumber across his deck. Ira also knew that he would have to waste two containers but reasoned that the inferior items were costing the master dearly already.

In the lamplight, a small gleam in the gloom which prevailed along the canal's length, Ira worked steadily, in a manner almost medieval. A small mountain of punk and wood shavings grew around his feet. By habit he would sweep these up periodically into sacking, laying it aside for fire fuel. With surprise he noted that these work habits, which he took for granted, seemed to calm Kennedy.

At length, Kennedy approached with coffee, and the strong brew was welcome.

Taking the best-shaped barrel from the remainder, Ira fitted the renovated staves around it, taking great care with the joins. The assembly was the least difficult part, as he had cut and notched and scraped so carefully. The heads tapped into place with satisfying clicks, and Ira suddenly realised how tense and sore he was. He stretched and bent again to relieve his back as Kennedy reappeared.

"I used to have four barrels" he growled.                                         

Ira was surprised. He merely looked back at the re-invented items. He was proud of them. The two barrels were a different species from their sorry predecessors. Trim and workmanlike, they spoke of reliability, craftsmanship and even of art.

"But if they're as good as they look, I'm up by two good barrels. Will you eat with us?"

Ira wondered if this was his payment. Ravenous, he politely accepted.After washing, in a spartan, but well-maintained washroom, he joined the family at table. In the place set for him was a paper folded into an envelope and wax-sealed. It had his name on it, and it clinked from within in a most satisfying manner. Ira did not open it, but deduced from the weight and the clink that there were two desirable coins inside. Flushed with pleasure, he placed it inside his tool bag, and prepared to dine.

"Will y'say Grace, Ira?" asked Kennedy.

Ira did, face reddening further, but secretly relieved that he had passed this test as well. The Kennedys were an easy group to eat with. They all, parents and two children, enjoyed and appreciated their food, which was not so different from his mother's. They laughed and chaffed easily, and Kennedy himself seemed pleasantly relaxed with his family, a novelty for Ira. The formality of Grace dropped away as the meal progressed and Mrs. Kennedy and the children were voluble and free in their talk and conversation. Ira was not sure that the children liked him. His companion from the towpath was William, and as the name appeared to have no religious connotation, Ira was much relieved. Mary Jane was considerably younger, and was a free spirit, eager to talk, and much encouraged by her parents. Life on the canal was a natural topic, and Ira was all ears.

"Have y'thought about it y'rself Ira?" asked Kennedy.

Ira tried to say "No" and look mildly interested at the same time, but committed himself no further. He judged that he should not tarry too long, and took his leave as soon as it seemed proper, wandering homeward in a slight daze, his emotions a mixture of pleasure at the memory of a task well done and uncertainly about his immediate future.

 

 

VALE PARISH

There was no sneaking in quietly on such a balmy night. His parents sat on the porch in wait, and every beast in the yard wished to greet him, each after its own fashion.

The conversation was cordial –  and predictable. However, it was his father who seemed fatalistic, resigned, and it was his mother who seemed resentful and reproachful. Even as they talked, voices rising and falling on the heavy warm air, Ira was aware of a feeling of constraint, and longed to be away, off, out in the world, for better or for worse, even if Sylvanus assured him it would be the latter.  

Sylvanus, of late, had seemed, if not actually relaxed, more thoughtful and accepting while Frances had become quite querulous and clinging.

Sylvanus' gods of worship and work seemed to suddenly take a back seat to a wider world….a world of adventure and study. Earnestly he entreated Ira to apply his mind to further learning, to acquire qualifications, to better himself and his prospects. Frances, about to lose her last child, was bewildered and bereft. Her man was over seventy years old, and her baby was sixteen. Her world, she felt, was coming to an end and she was afraid that she could feel the strength draining out of her. The new Sylvanus retired, leaving mother and son alone.

"Are you going, son?".

Embarrassed, he merely grunted assent, whereupon Frances took his hand, in a gesture he knew well. A firm, brown hand, strong and tender. It had reassured and calmed him for years, but now, ever so slightly, it trembled. Ira felt both young and old all at once and for a moment didn't know which was his real self. Then, he decided. The future was his, no-one else's. He embraced his mother, just as he always had as a child, until just a couple of years ago. He felt her tears, and buried his face on her breast, breathing in again the warm comforting smell he knew from infancy.

"Ira" she murmured, "What will you say to Kate?"

He was astonished that Kate's name would be brought up in this context, and he was nonplussed. "I'll say I'm travelling for a bit. I must work, and I have to go away".

"She thinks highly of you".

Ira hadn't thought of it this way and wondered why this should mean anything at all to his mother anyway. He looked at her intently, noting the sadness in her eyes. “It is true what they say”, he thought to himself, “there is no understanding the ways of women”.

 

 

 

LIFE ON THE ERIE

In the morning, he arrived at the lock early, before the jostling for position amongst the crews had begun in earnest. He decided to put politeness to one side, and boarding the barge, found Kennedy, who did not seem surprised to see him. Bluntly Ira asked "Would there be work for me here Sir?"

"There would that, Ira".

Within the hour the barge coasted gently out of the Syracuse lock gate bound for New York. Mr. Kennedy directed from the tiller, Ira stacked firewood on deck and William rode one of the mules along the towpath, singing as he went. In the trees birds kept up a Spring chorus, farmyard animals nodded, lowed and neighed as they passed, the sun rose higher and higher, and the water lapped gently at the banks as they passed. How refreshing and delightful to see hills loom into view, present themselves for inspection and fade away into the nether distance, to be replaced by another new, sweeping vista of gentle delights.

Rude cabins with work-worn women at the entrance, surrounded by broods of young, slid past, mile after mile. Soon it was time to eat, and the stove was fired up, with griddle cakes, bread and vegetables baking up a simple feast. Ira relieved young William on the towpath but was secretly determined not to be co-opted into more of this task than was required by simple good nature. He did not mind a stint here and there, but was too mindful of the dreary future that lay ahead of these hoggees.

His tasks rotated between domestic work, barge maintenance and cargo supervision. There was mail to drop off at various points along the canal, and produce of various types. Cheeses, vegetables and meat from up-country farms were dropped off as well as items of lumber. Many of the barrels were sold off as well, and he recognised some of his own, and other relatives' handiwork amongst them.

He was busy, but didn't know if he was happy, but then, he didn't expect that, nor did he even worry about the concept.

Days passed, and a routine developed. As he became more accustomed to the work, it became easier, and he had time to take in more. Sunday was worrisome, but turned out to be much like any other day on the canal. Ira was not sure whether he liked this after all, for, though free of constraint, he missed the formality of Sunday socialising and the rush of freedom once church services were completed. Strangely. he missed the hymns, and not so strangely, his mother's crooning.

But if these homely musical delights were now lacking, his new life was not altogether without music. Various guitar and banjo styles could be heard up and down stream, and it was common to hear unaccompanied singing and whistling too. Some of the tourist packets gliding past held entertainers of considerable ability, and he found himself captivated by fine tenor singing, beautifully harmonised, issuing from some of these affairs.

He enjoyed variety, and often volunteered in the mornings to slip into the town for breakfast items. He liked seeing new faces, seeing new Schools and Churches, greeting all and sundry, even if they were not exactly honey-coloured natives. The red variety was not often to be found, and when encountered, seemed a remnant of a lost race. His enthusiasm and child-like interest seemed to open doors for him, and people were generally kind and welcoming. Occasionally, for dramatic effect, he would wait till the barge was under way, and standing on the low bridge just outside the lock, would drop onto the deck as the craft drifted under.

Meanwhile, he turned his attention to the remainder of the barrels, discarding some, repairing others, and buying in a couple at a good price when he saw the possibility of a smart buy. The days passed, and then weeks. Ira ate well, slept well, worked hard and slipped into a smooth routine. After a while, he wondered why the barge travelled no further than Albany.

"What we deliver, Ira, c'n best be taken to the City by the large boats. We'll be satisfied with canal work, won't we?"

Ira nodded, but said nothing, for the Hudson River and the City of New York had pushed their way to the forefront of his mind. For the moment, he pushed them back again, promising not to forget them.

It was high Summer as they moored at the Syracuse locks. Ira naturally thought of home, and with a pang of guilt realised that he had hardly thought of his mother. And as he thought this, he was immediately assailed by a powerful longing to see her soon.

Kennedy understood. "Juss come back when y'r ready-y'know where t'find us".

 

A SHOCK

The canal was a modest element in which to work, but the streets of Parish now looked even more modest and the place had rather a dull and work-worn air.

Old friends greeted him warmly. Neighbours nodded and smiled. Some looked strangely sombre, but he couldn't stop to talk, for he felt he needed to be home.

Excited now, he leapt the fence to the usual animal acclaim, bringing his mother promptly to the door. Overjoyed, he embraced her fervently, and was thrilled to feel her eager response. His father too, was home, and to Ira's great relief, seemed pleased to see him. Sylvanus grasped his son's hand and held it for a considerable time.

"Y'r looking well, son".

"Thank you father."

Ira felt it was not his place to pass judgement on the health or appearance of his parents, nor did he wish to do so. His father, he thought, looked his age, and Frances looked strained and drawn, although she was still beaming with the pleasure of seeing her youngest.

The conversation, however, soon became awkward and desultory. Ira felt that something was being hidden, and finally, after Sylvanus had absented himself, Ira forced himself to ask "Is there something that has happened,  Mother?"

"Yes, Ira, there is, and I did not want to be the one to tell you. Ira, while you were away, your friend Kate died."

The world dimmed, and Ira's mouth was full of ashes. He felt a great empty pit in his stomach s he struggled to take in the meaning of this. He tried to speak, but nothing would come out. He felt the urge to weep, but again, nothing would come out.

"Did you not know, Ira, that she was ailing?"

Ira tried to speak, but could only grunt and shake his head.

Frances gentle voice intoned, as Ira strove to make sense of this strange world. On went Frances' voice, as Ira heard what others had known for ages. The family was not healthy. The damp and the cold, the poor food back home, the strong surviving, the weak being culled.

Ira could not reconcile his Kate, so strong and confident, with weakness of any sort. Still stunned, he sat, frozen, as Frances moved next to him, holding his hand as she chatted, sang and prayed, after her own fashion. He knew that he was grateful to have her, and was only mildly surprised when Sylvanus re-joined them, resting his hands, in companionable support, on Ira's shoulders.

Ira gradually withdrew from his parents, and spent some hours sitting outside. He tried to think as the crickets chirped and night-birds burbled, a surrealistic backdrop to his jumbled thoughts. A pain grew inside him gradually, turning to dull misery as he began to think of whathe might have done, of what might have been and whether he hinself had been remiss in so dear a friendship. On the porch, he fell asleep, to wake at dawn with his father's coat protecting him from the dew.                                                                     Confused, he felt too stunned to return to the canal. He soon found himself standing in the pretty little cemetery, surrounded by the departed. Tiny infants and ancient citizens jostled for possession of this tract of eternity, and among them an army of young women, many of them victims of childbirth. It seemed that everyone but Ira had known that Kate was frail, and she had worsened and died rapidly after catching a chill on her walks. Ira could not imagine Kate catching anything she did not wish to. For himself, he wished only that he could hold her hand once more, and listen to her wise prattle. He even surprised himself by chuckling at the memory of her cheerful banter, as her voice seemed to say “Thanks f'r the tears Oira, but all this will not be makin' the baby a new dress,” What a strange thought to have, thought Ira to himself. The thought seemed to calm him, and he tried to pray. He tried the psalms and the usual tracts, but in the end, he decided to try a conversation with God. This too, seemed contrived, and certainly very one-sided. Ultimately, kneeling down, he closed his eyes and called on the spirits of all his ancestors. At first he felt rather foolish, but he soon forgot that, and his meditation ran on these lines.

 

 

 

 

 

A MEDITATION

"Is there anyone there? Is there anyone  looking out for me? Grandfather Mulford Coan, where are you now? Grandmother Mary? Great Grandfather George, is it true what they said about you? That you weren't born here, but came from far away in a big ship, losing your parents on the way? You must know what it's like to lose someone. How did you manage? Did your mother love you very much? Did it hurt a lot, did it ache, without any relief? You must have laughed again one day. How long did that take?"

When the words ran out, Ira gazed into the distance, not seeing the trees tossing in the light breeze, or the hawks wheeling overhead, or the thin white ribbons of cloud sliding past. He didn't think at all, and time stood still. Perhaps, somewhere in his mind, a misty Irish rain fell endlessly on  golden Hawaiian sands.

A hand suddenly lay heavy on his shoulder, and his heart almost stopped, such was the shock to his delicately balanced sensibility. Even before his heart could start its thumping, he wondered whether it might fail, consigning him to a premature reunion with Kate. Turning, he beheld his step-brother, Asahel.

"You're a cool one, boy,” with a kindly  smile.

"That would have scared many a man to death" he added, guiltily aware of possible reaction only at the very moment of contact, but relieved when he detected no sign of fright in Ira.

Ira waited for his kinsman to continue. Asahel carried a fine-looking leather bag, containing just a few cooper's tools – those ones which might be handy in an emergency or a fight. Sitting down on a neighbouring gravestone,  Asahel reached into his bag, drawing out a small meal of apples, cheese and bread, water too, and began to offer it to Ira.

The simple food was welcome, and so was the homely presence of his step-brother. Ira studied his lean, spare relative, so much older than he. As he munched, he worked out the numbers. Asahel was twenty-three years older than Ira, and was born in 1813, so must now be thirty-nine. His mother had died at the age of thirty-five, when Asahel must have been 15, much the same age as Ira now.

Ira knew that his brother didn't need food at this time, so the visit was purely social. He nevertheless watched with a new fascination as Asahel sliced deftly through bread, cheese and apple, his delicate control of the cooper's knife a pleasure to behold.

He had always been too young to engage Asahel in any more than childish banter, but now he had questions. He meant to ask about grief, losing his mother, pain and suffering, but instead he heard himself asking, "Asa.." (he had never been so familiar before) “...have you ever made anything?"

Asa looked patiently puzzled and merely looked at Ira and waited.

"I mean, have you ever carved anything, just for the pleasure of it?"

"I have, boy" he replied, musingly, as he continued munching.

"Asa. Why is father like he is?"

Not surprised by the question, Asahel again looked mildly amused. Ira saw it and thought, "Yes, you are an independent grown man with a family of your own and you can afford to be amused, but I'm not there yet."

"Which father are you talking about boy? Sylvanus, the magistrate…" He paused, and Ira saw the self-important frock-coated  figure with his handsome black satchel, forms and documents, and the best pens and inks and waxes from New York to sign and seal them with.

"Or are you meaning the Preacher?"

They both smiled, for they had both heard far too many sermons, both in Church and at home, to treat the subject with any equanimity.

"He is a gifted man, Ira, and there are many who love his preaching."

Ira winced, for his friends and schoolmates recognised all too readily the alacrity with which Sylvanus leaped into the breach whenever a visiting preacher defaulted, and, truth to tell, he was a fine orator. He was also a fine orator in the service of his country, presiding over much civic protest of a patriotic bent. Already after a few months on the canal, Ira had encountered a much wider palette of humanity than at home, with spruikers, salesman, glory hunters and treasure seekers jostling for attention day and night in the towns along the canal. At any hour of the day or night a raffish breed of entrepeneurs was ready to relieve you of your heavy burden of cash, in the cause of low entertainment, titillation, distraction and pleasure.

He recognised in his father the entertainer, and he wondered whether this was his driving motivation.

Just then Asahel added "And he likes the sound of his own voice, so everyone is happy."

This seemed about right to Ira, but he added "But compared to cousin Titus?"

"Our cousin Titus is a great man" gave Asa thoughtfully and slowly.

"Could our father be a great man?"

Asa paused, and finally replied obliquely.

"Titus believes in what he does."

Ira was shocked, for even though Asa had not said so, the implication was that Sylvanus did not necessarily believe. But he had asked the question, and the answer should not have come as a surprise.

And still more slowly Asa continued.

"I think he is a good man, as well as a clever one. He is sincere, and he does what he feels called to do."

"Asa, are we English, or is it true that we are German?"

"We are American Ira. But what you want to know is about father's grandfather. He and his brothers came from somewehere, and just where we don't know. They lost their parents by the time they got here, that's all I know. I heard father's grandfather was only six and had to be apprenticed. That's when he learned to be a cooper, just like us Ira. He was apprenticed to a man called Mulford, and that's why he called our Grandfather Mulford – he's the one that fought in the War of Independence, so I don't think we're English. And father was born in the middle of that war, so he thinks that's kind of important."

As he spoke, Ira was dimly aware of Asa's hands moving constantly, small parings of wood and bark accumulating. He could see what appeared to be a large key, with some sort of ring attached. With an awl Asa scratched something on the blade of the key, and held it up for inspection. It was a beautiful piece of work, a wooden key, with a seamless wooden ring attached, all carved from the same piece. On the blade, in a fine hand, was "Ira".

Admiring, Ira took the piece offered, while Asa said "You know where we are…you can come anytime. Yes, I thought my world was ending when my mother died Ira. But life goes on…life goes on."

Ira began diffidently “But where did you…” and faltered.

“We can all do it Asa. Father too, even if he doesn't put store by it", smiling.

"It doesn't  make money, but I do it 'cos I like it and I'm good at it".

Asahel stood, and neatly and efficiently, folded his tools and food.

Standing against the setting sun, he might have been carved from chestnut, and his lean brown face took on an heroic aspect.

"Work, boy, and do what y'r good at."

So saying, he took Ira's hand, and solemnly held it. Ira glowed with pride in his step-brother's warmth, and returned much comforted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

AN ARRANGEMENT

In the morning, having said his goodbyes, he rejoined the barge in his preferred manner, dropping from a low bridge onto the deck.

All appeared pleased to see him again, professing to see him as one of the family, but as the days passed, he felt shadowed by his loss, and the freedom of canal life no longer had the same carefree aspect.

The very scenery seemed stale and he was all too aware of the flotsam and jetsam of the canal, dead cats and waterbirds bumping up against the canal walls.

The routine which had appealed to him now irritated, and he found himself yearning for a larger world. Even as he took his leisure in the ale-houses of the larger towns he was aware of the faint tinge of scorn from men who had sailed the oceans, and who hailed from far-off lands. Heavily ironic stories of a shipwreck on the canal amused these men greatly, to Ira's embarrassment. Most of it was not unkind, but hurt nevertheless.

It didn't hurt so much, however, as Ira's discovery that some of his beautiful barrels were missing, and finding that it was necessary to replace them. He heeded Asahel's injunction to work, but felt all the old bitter resentment against his father stirred up once more, this time against Kennedy, for he realised that his barrels had been sold, and that, effectively, he was working as a trade cooper, not part of his plan at all.

Mrs. Kennedy was a kind soul who found time to talk to Ira. She soon found out the cause of his sadness, and also the cause of his discontent.   

Ira was soon to overhear the sort of dialogue he had overheard all too often-the woman pleading his case, and the man insisting on his authority.

"The poor boy's had a dreadful shock, and he needs to be treated with kindness."

"I'm running a business here, and we're here to make money. He came here as a cooper..."

"You took him on as a barge hand, not a cooper. You had no right selling those barrels."

"I'll thank you not to interfere. What I do on this vessel is my business."

"What you do on this vessel is our business."

The conversation devolved into fierce mutterings, and some sort of minor scuffle, than silence.

The next day, Kennedy was moody and short, and Ira discomfited.

Ira relieved William for quite some time, and quite enjoyed the mule ride along the tow-path. In fact, he found himself singing the simple hoggee songs that the hoggees themselves never seemed to tire of.

In the evening, Kennedy sat with Ira up by the corral where the mules were fed. The animals were relieved to roam free of bit and bridle, and to roll and frisk as they wished.

“Ira…” awkwardly, from Kennedy.

“What is it y'r wantin' to do with y'r life?”

Ira was not particularly aware of having any choices, but did not say so.

Kennedy ruminated further; in fact, he chewed his tobacco rather like a small bovine, steadily and deliberately, sending an occasional stream of spittle groundwards.

Ira wondered if he were precious, to find this distasteful, and concluded that he probably was. Again, he found that it was sometimes wise not to answer, but to leave the direction of the conversation to the gods of discourse.

Sure enough, Kennedy continued. “Y'r a useful kinda fella, c'd do a lotta things. Cooper, now that's a handy kinda trade. Y'r handy with animals…it's just a way y'have…c'd do lots…"

Ira guessed this was so, but wondered where it was heading.

"Canal's not an easy life Ira, but it's a tame one. Y'r not going t'do it forever. Y'r still young though, and I reckon y'could do worse 'n stick with us for a while yet."

From within the cabin behind them Ira was aware of, could not help but hear, Mary Jane's nagging cough and it frightened him, with his new awareness of mortality. Kennedy gave no sign of  noticing his daughter's problem and continued to ruminate –  in both senses.

Prompted by his wife, Kennedy was more direct and honest. As a result, they struck a deal whereby Ira would receive a commission for barrels made, and make as he saw fit.

This entrepeneurial arrangement not only suited Ira, it brought him confidence, leisure time and disposable income. Truth to tell, it was an extremely handy sideline for Kennedy, who, traveling the length of the canal, had access to many towns and craft. A burst of sustained work would find Kennedy happy to “hold the fort” while Ira explored his world more fully.

A visitor arrived at the barge as they passed Rochester. Ira hadn't seem anyone quite like him before. He was a well-dressed young man of distinctive bearing and he carried with him pouches of potions marvellous to look at and highly aromatic. His black velvet suit and cascading hair gave him the air of a poetic cavalier. He talked to Kennedy for some time before handing over bundles of weeds and coloured powders. The ailing daughter was brought up to the cabin where the man performed incantations which had a hypnotic fascination. She seemed to respond well. He departed with a substantial wad of money and that was the last he ever saw of him. It wasn't the last he heard of him though, for it was not long before Mrs. Kennedy's voice was raised in anger and exasperation. Her words, and her feelings, were clear. “...that creature...our boat...dragged up...quack...peddling filth...”. Ira was fascinated, and it wasn't long before Mrs. Kennedy herself spoke to Ira. “I'm sorry you had to meet that fellow. My husband is a trusting man, but sometimes his trust is misplaced Ira. Give that so-called Doctor Tumblety fellow a wide berth, he's no good, he's a quack and worse...Doctor indeed! A few years ago he was pedding filth to the low types out here, now he's up to even worse,” but to Ira's regret she wouldn't elaborate.

Amongst the workaday boats and barges moved the mail packets and tourist boats. These last were promoted through the locks facilitating a faster passage. They were a glimpse of another world, a world of gentility and leisure, with stylish folk taking their ease in deck chairs while companions perched earnestly at their easels, attempting to render the spectacular scenery. Although this traffic had diminished in recent years due to the competition of the railways, there were still considerable numbers of these craft on the canal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE CLARION CALL

It was one of these craft which galvanised Ira's attention on a mild early Fall day. Mid-afternoon, and a stillness had fallen on man and beast, when, from the drowsy chirrup of birds, lapping of water and soughing of wind in the treetops another sound interposed. It was thrilling and true and held Ira's ear and imagination fast. It was a man's voice, rising and falling in a golden stream fed from far-off lands with golden sands. As it came closer, he saw the tourist boat, its cargo a group of indolent , drowsy folk chatting amongst themselves or dozing, hardly aware of the musical miracle in their midst.

A small piano provided a rich and supple accompaniment as the singer swooped from land to land in a wonderful recital. Thrilling martial songs were succeeded by tender love songs only to make way for exotic melodies which took possession of his soul. Never had he heard the like and he knew then that a new element had entered his life for as long as he would live. He was aware of a bleak inward smile. He knew that his parents had been watching him for signs of the religious mania which had possessed so many in their region (and possibly Sylvanus, thought Ira). Or they might have been watching for the signs of sexual pre-occupation which pre-occupied so many others (and possibly Sylvanus, thought Ira again with a smile).    

He wished to be on that boat, to hear again and again those bewitching sounds, to ride those cascades of harmony across the great oceans to distant shores, possibly with golden sand. As he stared, he mused. How well-dressed were the gentlemen, how pretty were the women. How nonchalant they were in the company of this great artist. How splendid it would be to share this life.

As they approached the next lock, Ira planned busily. “The Pride of the Erie”, for such was her name, would take precedence as was the right of a tourist packet, and would enter the locks first. While the passengers stretched their legs and the crew took on supplies of milk, eggs and the like, he would investigate.

Within the hour, his craft hove into sight of the lock, where it joined a  small line of assorted boats, scows and barges. The day was too warm for anything but muttered oaths and half-hearted imprecations from his counterparts protecting their positions. Once tied up, he wandered to the lock where “The Pride” was already entering. The crew was easy to find, as they were noticeably smarter than other canal denizens, being outfitted in neat uniforms, somewhere between sailor and hotel clerk. He eyed the boat hungrily and even spied out a small, flat-topped piano bolted forward. Even as he watched, a crew member drew a wooden panel across it and another over, so that it looked just like a nautical sideboard.

Ira became aware that another pair of eyes had also been glued to this  operation, for as he lifted his gaze away, he felt a parallel movement next to him. A small man, no taller than himself, seemed to become aware of Ira at the same moment and they exchanged looks, both of curiosity.

 

 

ALPHONSE

Ira saw a slim man with smooth, light-brown skin. His hair was blue-black and wavy, and his graceful fingers were adorned with golden rings. He didn't smile but looked away in manner Ira felt to be disdainful.

“Are you traveling on this boat sir?” asked Ira.

The man's turned his head slowly back and he regarded his young companion with some interest. But then he looked away away again, as if this new acquaintance were of no account. He replied “Indeed, I am” in a beautiful and cultured baritone.

“And who might I have the honor of addressing?”            

Ira stilled an urge to look over his shoulder to see who the man might be talking to. As the color rose in his face he simply said “I'm Ira”.

“And whither do you travel, Ira?”

Intrigued with this theatrical turn of speech, Ira wished that his own language were not so penny plain.

“I'm with that barge” he replied, pointing to Kennedy's barge. He suddenly became aware that it was called “Lorelei”, and in the same instant, that he had no idea what it meant.

The man smiled warmly, and began to hum in his pleasant reedy voice.  Again Ira felt that musical thrill, and suddenly felt that this must be the voice from the river.

“Lorelei-The Rhine Maidens” he said as if by way of explanation. Ira was mystified.

“From the land of your ancestors, junger.”

And now Ira must have looked mystified, for he added “You are German, are you not?”  

Struggling to stay with the exchange Ira merely mumbled “Mnno”.

The gentleman (for Ira thought he must be one) turned to look full on and regarded him him for a few seconds. He turned away again and muttered, very softly, almost inaudibly “....st not Irish”.

Confused, Ira was about to ask for clarification when the man broke into conventional speech.

“What's your interest in the “Erie”, obviously referring to the craft being gated into the lock.

“I would like to work on that boat”.

Again, another look, this time an appraising one, from top to bottom. Suddenly, Ira was acutely aware that he had a better pair of working trousers in his trunk, and that his boots were of a rugged design. His wish began to feel foolish.

It must have shown, for his companion softened, and said “What is it you do?”

“I work. Steer, lead, crew –  whatever needs to be done.”

This seemed answer enough to Ira, but the man seemed to expect more.

“See those people...” he replied, pointing to a group at an Inn-side table. They were crew, but not the rag-tag, motley crowd he was used to from his time on the canal. Their language, even from a distance, was poised and confident, their bearing comfortable and their dress stylish.

“That one – what's your name , boy?”

“Ira, Sir”.

With a sigh “Don't worry about the “Sir” son, I am Alphonse”.

“Are you the singer?” blurted Ira.

“No, you're thinking of Kelly, of the golden voice”.

The word “sardonic” flitted on the outskirts of Ira's consciousness, and was gone.

“I play the piano, when I'm not looking after Mr. Kelly, Ira.”

Too excited to notice any hint of irony in Alphonse's tone, Ira followed Alphonse's pointing arm to the figure at a separate table. A thick-set man with a florid face and wavy golden hair sat in animated discussion with two attentive ladies. Even from a distance, his distinctive voice rose and fell in the most charming and seductive lilt and Ira began to fall under his spell.

Alphonse seemed somewhat nettled at Ira's obvious interest.

“Do you paint, Ira? Do you act? Do you juggle or tell stories? How well do you cook? That's what we do. We are here to entertain, to distract, to amuse these worthy folk – with so much money – and so much time.”

Still oblivious to Alphonse's mood, Ira was only aware of a feeling of inadequacy.

“I'm a good worker, sir. A boat needs workers. It has to be pulled and steered, and the maintenance is important.”

Another sigh and “I think you may already be on a good boat, boy. There are other good boats too, some fine new ones going up to New York. You might be well advised to ply your trade there while the going is good.”

“Why, what is happening”

“The railroad, son”, gloomily. “The future is the railroad. These folk...” waving a flashing golden hand airily in the direction of the genteel cargo, “will be gone in a couple of seasons. What is it you want, boy?”

“I just want to hear that music. I have money too. I can pay my own way – as a passenger if I need to.”

A long, grave look, almost a sigh now, and a dropping of the shoulders, as if in resignation.

A long pause, in which Alphonse seemed to be waiting for Ira to go away, and then “ Look, son, I can take you to see someone if you don't expect too much”.

“The Captain?” asked Ira.

Alphonse colored noticeably, and said abruptly “No! Some-one else. But don't be disappointed if it doesn't work out. Here is some money. Sit you at the end table and order a quart of ale-say it is for your master, and I shall join you soon.”

Just as abruptly, he left, and Ira hastened to comply.

He had no trouble ordering, as trade was the only god honored on the Canal, and he was presently joined by his new companion and an impressive looking man with a fine set of whiskers, beautifully groomed apart from some fascinating stray crumbs from his recent meal. He was very tall, so that Ira felt he was talking to the crumby beard, and had to force himself to look upwards. It was better when they sat, and once again Ira found himself fascinated as the ale passed through the strainer mustache. This man seemed to be in charge of personnel on the craft, rather like a head butler in a mansion. He was quite without personality or charm, but seemed long on efficiency. Ira realised, as they spoke, that the only reason he was being interviewed was that this man respected Alphonse's judgement. Unfortunately, he also began to realise that he didn't have much to offer that wasn't already available.

“Could I look at your boat please sir?”

Ira felt even as he spoke, that he was being somewhat importunate.

Mr. Stevens seemed relieved at the break in the conversation, and possibly the opportunity to terminate the discussion without having to be too blunt.

By now “The Pride of the Erie” had entered the canal again, ready to resume her voyage shortly. Ira admired the trim lines of the vessel and the care and attention which obviously went into her maintenance. Brass gleamed and glass sparkled. Woodwork, too, glowed with deep color and warmth. He saw how the bedding was arranged, ready to slide out in a jiffy, converting into separate dormitories for the sexes. All bespoke Yankee industry and ingenuity and he felt a patriotic glow of pride. He really did want to be part of this and wondered if there really could be a place for him here. After all, his only special skill was that of cooper, and he really didn't think he could bring that one off again. Besides, it would be disloyal to Kennedy as he had struck a bargain.

 

 

 

 

COOPER TO THE MUSE

Nevertheless, it was in passing a store room that he gave himself away. Nestling in a corner, neat as paint and in apple-pie order were two of his barrels. He recognised them immediately, as they were recent creations, no doubt sold by Kennedy. Stevens immediately noticed his reaction.

“Those are fine barrels Mr. Coan. We aim for quality on this craft. Do you know anything of the craft of the cooper?”

“They are mine.”

“I assure you, they are ours. Made by one of the finest craftsmen in the State of New York.”

“What is his name?”

“It is a secret, known to the man who supplied us. I understand that he is an old and solitary man who wishes to remain that way.”

This did not seem to Ira to be part of any deal he had agreed to. Confusion and indignation battled for his attention. Indignation won!

“What's in this one?” in a tone peremptory enough to snap Stevens' and Alphonse's heads up in unison.

And in a warning, even tone Stevens replied “That barrel is empty. I don't need it yet. Barrels of that quality are an investment.”

Settling, Ira seized the upper rim, pausing only long enough to say “I believe this has my signature in it.”

The rim lifted off with a satisfying suck of air, attesting to a fine fit, and Ira rolled the barrel to the doorway for better light and adjusted the resting rim of the barrel to line up his “angel signature”. Stevens peered.

“Look at that. I've never seen the like. How did you know he does that? Are you his assistant?”

Momentarily defeated, Ira righted the barrel, and in exasperation slumped his shoulders, so that his arms flopped and his hands slapped his side, hurting his right hand. He had forgotten that he was carrying something in his pocket – it was the madonna.

Like a poker player who suddenly realises he has a trump hand, he slowly reached in, slowly drew out, and, trying not to appear triumphant, proffered the icon. Alphonse responded immediately, Stevens taking a little longer for the penny to drop. Stevens went back to the barrel and peered long and hard at the signature, then at Madonna, then at Ira, as if trying to solve a great puzzle.

“Let's have a think about you Ira” he said. “Let's have a think.”    

While Stevens thought, Ira was savvy enough to wander off, inspecting the craft from the shore. It was a pretty boat indeed, and everything about it bespoke efficiency and polish. Ira noticed that Stevens had drawn Alphonse immediately into his cogitation, the which did not displease him. Stevens eventually nodded gravely, and Ira thought this might be a good time to wander shipwards. Stevens beckoned.

“You can join us Ira, and make yourself useful, any way that promotes the success of our trip and the enjoyment of our passengers.”

Ira saw himself turning out barrels.

“I can't sell barrels. I made a promise.”

Stevens thought, and once again turned aside to consult with Alphonse.

“The barrels are yours, but you won't get much by way of payment.”

Ira wished he had someone to consult with, but heard himself saying “I'll do it.”

Stevens shook hands with him, firmly, man to man, and Ira felt fully a foot taller.

The news seemed to come as no surprise to Kennedy, who wished only to know what was to become of any cooperage done, and he seemed relieved and satisfied at Ira's commitment.

Once on board, Ira tried to busy himself with mundane tasks, but found it difficult to find a place. The captain of the craft enjoyed his work at the tiller, mainly because it relieved him of social chit-chat, and also lent him an air of authority and seamanship. Ira found him somewhat quaint, in his braided naval jacket and officer's cap. He also realised that this was part of the showmanship of the outfit. He was not encouraged to relieve the hoggees, nor did he really wish to do so. The galley was an area he wished to avoid, as he also had no desire to prepare victuals. Small talk with passengers was not his forte, though he noticed that Alphonse had an easy manner with several of the passengers who seemed to like him. On the other hand, there were passengers who seemed just as eager to avoid him, and who didn't seem to mind showing it, either.    

Ira felt very young and was uncomfortable being idle. When he approached Alphonse, Alphonse was ready with an answer.

“Ira, we entertain.”

“No Alphonse – you entertain. I work.”

Again, Ira received one of those long, detached looks that folk were wont to give him, and he knew that he had committed a solipsism of some sort – but what?

Alphonse began, and from his look of annoyance, Ira was suddenly back with his father, ready to endure a tirade of some length.

“Young man, it is true that I was born with a gift, a gift for music. But a gift does not of itself develop.” Theatrical Alphonse was back, Ira noted.

“I eschewed the company of my young friends in lonely hours of practice. I forsook the pursuit of lucrative careers in other fields where I was thought to show similar promise. Innumerable are the hours of work I have endured in order to entertain. And while certain of my colleagues enjoy the glory of the concert hall and the patronage of princes, it is my lot in life to minister to the idle rich and to support their preferred form of entertainment”-the last delivered with a distinctly superior air.

“Certain doors, young man, are closed to members of my race.”

“Whatever that might be “ thought Ira.

“Whatever that might be” added Alphonse, as if to read his mind.

Like a cloud parting to reveal the sun, a new Alphonse appeared. Leaning forward, he reflectively took hold of Ira's shirt to hold his attention.

Ira – do what you do well. You will always appear at your best. Your talent will choose you.”

He released Ira and leaned up against the railing. The only sounds were the gentle slap of the water against the smooth hull, the muffled clip-clop of the mules' hooves on the towpath, the sporadic singing of the mule-driver, currently a well-dressed young fellow of twelve years or so, quite presentable for a hoggee, and the desultory buzz of passenger conversation like bees on a summer afternoon.

He turned again, and said “If I were you Ira, I'd make a barrel.”

By way of diversion, it seemed, he continued “Would you like to meet Mr. Kelly.”

The question needed no answer, for Ira saw the gentleman in question emerging from the upper, promenade deck, where he had been engaged in conversation with two of the ladies. Kelly bustled forward, something obviously on his mind, but made no concession to the pair as he strode past. His square build conveyed power and tension, altogether unlike the sounds which had so charmed Ira such a short time earlier.

“...at a time of his choosing, perhaps” added Alphonse with a practised smile.

The next lock was at Syracuse. It was not too far from Parish, his home town and a saw-milling town , and which provided very good timber. Ira decided to lay in some staves and hoops there in preparation for the work he had resolved to begin. He paid a hoggee a small consideration to forward his request, in a note, to an acquaintance at the Syracuse weighlock and thought no more about it.

While Ira busied himself with small tasks around the vessel, he could see that many of the passengers were bored. Some took turns walking on the towpath for exercise, while others read, wrote journals or painted in watercolour.

 At about four in the afternoon, the torpor lifted, and the passengers began to assemble as if by a secret signal. Composing themselves in comfortable attitudes, they chatted amicably as Alphonse transformed his nautical sideboard into a musical instrument. The small piano was bolted in position, for although canal motion was negligible, one could never be sure of lock and weighbridge mechanics. A light piano stool also folded out from beneath the keyboard, like everything else in this world, a small miracle of mechanical ingenuity, or as people thought, Yankee know-how.

Alphonse seated himself, back to the audience, as there was no alternative, but Ira noticed that his music stand was bordered by a generous but unobtrusive mirror. Without music, Alphonse began to play, music of no particular time or place. Ira could not begin to say where it came from, only that, at first, it made no claim at all upon one's attention, but little by little, began to exercise its own spell. There was nothing forceful or histrionic about the music, just the sound of quiet discourse, the feeling of listening to the gentle voice of learning and culture. Here was a place of refuge and shelter, and he suddenly found himself thinking of his Mother and her own music. He suddenly felt ashamed that he hadn't tried harder to see her, and resolved to do so as soon as was possible. Unaware of time passing, he was rather sorry when, with a delicate flourish, Alphonse wound up his recital, and, in his most ringing and theatrical voice, recited an introduction polished by hundreds of  repetitions,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the honour to introduce to you...”

 On went the voice which Ira could not square with the musician who had just transported him. It spoke in glowing, even bombastic terms, of the artistic giant who was to follow, namely Kelly, of course.

Travelling with the group day and night, it was hard for Kelly to make a surprise appearance, but he made a fair fist of it, swinging perilously round one of the door columns in a waltz step, and coming to a dramatic rest by the piano, the vessel itself not unmoved by the performance.

This, at least, was lively and entertaining, and taste was not an essential element at this juncture. This was fortunate, for then Kelly began to move, it seemed to Ira, in stranger and more mysterious ways his wonders to perform than any deity. It transpired that this was Kelly's mime of a Venetian Gondolier plying his trade.

This was not clear until Kelly finished his song, a glorious melody in a gently rocking six-eight time. The moment he opened his mouth all was forgiven, for with the harp-like thrumming of the piano supporting the golden song, all were immediately transported.

Ira had never heard of Jaques Offenbach,  still less of a song called a Barcarolle.

“Look at yez, now me darlints” intoned Kelly, “all alone on the woild, woild sea. Holy mither, will yez ever be safe agin. Trust Captin Kelly t'bring yez safe t'porrt.” And off he went again, this time in a lower and more lugubrious register, and Ira recognised the Volga Boatman's song, more usually reserved for a baritone voice, but once again, Kelly brought it off with panache. The man was riveting and his flow of blarney and music was irresistible, so that an hour later, all were thoroughly delighted and entertained. Kelly had also organised the end of the recital to coincide with their arrival at Syracuse, and with a moving rendition of “My Country 'tis of thee”– a brilliant stroke thought Ira, to defuse any suspicion of Irish sedition – he rounded off his song just before they encountered the distractions of the town..  

Ira suddenly realised that he had hardly noticed Alphonse, who had resumed his thoughtful playing, which seemed to come, as before, from another time, another place.

He helped tie up while the group moved off for dinner, and soon found time to make his way to the Weighlock. Here craft were fed into a cradle which was actually a great set of scales, taking the measurement of ship weight as the water drained. “The Pride of the Erie” did not need weighing and its passage through the locks was expedited to mollify the tourist trade.

Ira found his friend working at the cradle. He was helping to re-float a small family barge moving apples. These were in large barrels, trade staples which did not need to be of the first quality. He took Ira to a nearby ale-house where he had secreted away a small cache of staves in the stables. At the ale-house they shared a meal, for which Ira paid, and no-one objected when he took the ale bought by Peter. He thought it tasted sour, and he would have preferred coffee, but supposed he was becoming a man--perhaps.   

He wasn't the only one to take ale that evening. Having taken a lengthy stroll around the handsome and booming town, they became aware of an unpleasant altercation nearby. A distressed woman and a truculent man were locked in a petty argument carried on in an alleyway nest to a fine building. As they neared, ready to intervene if necessary, they realised that the couple were equals in obscenity, both habituated to profanity in healthy, if basic, native Northern speech. Native Northern speech, Ira suddenly realised, from a man without a hint of brogue, lilt or blarney, but, unmistakeably, Mr. Kelly. Utterly charmless was the scene before him, and from which he averted his eyes immediately, passing on quickly with new focus, wanting just to avoid the embarrassment of recognition.

“He's real regular round here” commented Peter. 'Used to be a preacher. Wonder what he'll be next.”

On the following day, Ira watched with wonder as the golden-haired canary oiled his way through the ranks of the passengers. He was unrecognizable from the street-life of the previous evening, and seemed to utterly charm his clients with patter, nonsense and his Irish persona, worn like a well-fitting cloak.

In the early afternoon Ira found himself a space amongst the luggage cases and boxes, a place where he might work without creating too much noise or distraction. The staves were fine ones, of well-seasoned oak with  excellent color and grain. Even sharpening his axe was enough to draw him a couple of spectators, and he was surprised to see how fascinated  they were in each little task.

It was all routine to him, and the habits of care instilled by the severe hand of Sylvanus always served him well. “Measure thrice, cut once” was as natural to Ira as breathing. His eye took in the finest variations of grain and the smallest natural line of cleavage. The keen probing edge of the axe was poised ready to question the structure of the timber. A sharp rap, and with a satisfying “chonk” two neat miniatures hit the deck. A small cry of admiration surprised him, for to his audience the operation appeared quite magical, as if a toymaker had turned the key to take apart his latest creation.

Soon, in his usual manner, he had assembled a handsome pile of staves, and his audience had grown to three. He was aware of a desire to entertain, and knew that they would like to see a barrel knocked up in no time flat, but he was not prepared to accommodate them. Anyone could  knock up a trade “rough” which would be the wonder of the afternoon, but what did you do next?

The staves were smaller and finer than was his usual wont, as he intended to start off with a medium sized keg. Wedging the first stave between his chest and a packing crate, he began the shaping process. His audience, now four in number, moved around to the sides to observe. His movements were smooth and regular, delicate curls of fine oak floating to the deck like a wooden snowfall. Machines were getting better now at  profiling the staves, but for the best product Ira had to hand work the pieces.

His audience was still attentive, but somewhat restive. Ira had expected this, and was also tired. Two gentlemen, of a competitive nature, seemed to wish to try their hands and were encouraged, no doubt, by the apparent ease of the operation and also Ira's youth. Ira selected two sticks as yet unsplit, a little on the large side, and not his first choice. These could take some maltreatment and still be salvaged.

As the gentleman in question rolled up his sleeves and seated himself for work, Ira relished fresh coffee, and also respite from a task which, however mundane and routine to him, had now the added pressure of expectation. “Steady, smooth, slick” Ira had intoned as he had demonstrated his adze technique. Ira tried not to wince as the adze bit deeply. How long could the blade take this type of treatment? Did he recall saying “Ready, heave, quick?” He suppressed the thought and to save the man's embarrassment, re-adjusted the blade after a perfunctory sharpening. “I think I have blunted it, but now it should be better”.

Eager to amend, the gentleman this time heeded the advice to begin lightly, acquainting himself with a feel for the tool and beginning, in fact, to produce decent efforts. The gouge mark had not reached Ira's proposed split line, so thus far nothing was lost. The unusual technique was soon found tiring, and amateur number one retired in favor of his companion who, astutely observing the process, began with great caution. Ira had lined up the stave so that any work done now would help balance the previous incumbent's misdemeanors, and after some time, the stave was somewhat more evenly balanced, though Ira had resolved to discreetly remove the butchered section later.

Ira, without any small cask to use as a template, used two small hoops around which to shape the staves. As the tops tapered in, like an unfinished in-curving wigwam, there was universal approval, and a certain amount of self-congratulation upon perceiving the thrust of the process.

Unsure how to inform his small audience about the next step, Ira merely spoke to himself.

“Next, fire and bend, can't be done till tonight--measure and prepare heads – tomorrow's job”. He looked up, and said with what he hoped was an engaging smile “Tomorrow afternoon, same time, same place”.

With courteous nods and pleasant salutations, his crowd dispersed, refreshed and ready for other diversions.

The next morning he took his unfinished keg and set out for the next lock by road. He paid for the use of a mule from another craft, and enjoyed the leisurely ride which saw him arrive long before the “Pride of the Erie”. Once there, he found the local forge, and again, for a small fee, was allowed to heat the keg, rendering the staves more pliable, and gradually shaping it to the desired contour. The process also toasted the wood, which would imbue its contents with taste and flavor. It took some time, but the result was a fine one, and he emerged, blackened, sweaty and armed with a handsome  keg, already pleasing to the eye.

The afternoon session, back on board, attracted several people who again watched with sporadic interest as he trimmed the staves, notching them to receive the heads, or tops and bottoms of the keg. These were simply round shapes made from doweled flat staves, and when ready, they were  pushed and mallet-tapped into the receiving notches. Again, this work had to be precise, and Ira murmured his “Measure thrice, cut once” until  a good-humored echo arose from the passengers, who seemed to approve.

Ira, for the first time, wondered if among this affluent group, were characters with taskmaster fathers like his own. Perhaps, thought Ira, this was democracy.

He also saw, that if this process were to continue, he would have to be well organized, with, in effect, a cooperage spread along the Canal, with separate arrangements for collecting material, firing and storing.

As the keg reached its final appearance, there was considerable interest among the passengers, and the crowd swelled, There was a certain amount of impatience as he reamed the interior of the keg and then sealed it. There was also great curiosity as he reached in to carve his signature madonna. He sealed it well because he wanted it to be watertight upon its first test.

Late in the afternoon he lowered several pails into the canal, decanting them into the keg standing on a packing case. The level rose until it brimmed at the top, yet not a drop spilled.

Universal applause, and Ira thought he had managed very well. He enjoyed the music that afternoon, basking in his satisfaction, but also trying hard to reconcile the charming, golden-voiced artiste with the unpleasant denizen of the night he had encountered less than twenty four hours ago. He also began to wonder about the character of Alphonse, whose playing began to impinge more on his consciousness. Like many of his fellow audience, he began to find that the musical experience did not have to be one of constant absorption, but was one which transformed his state of mind, so that even as he listened, he was half aware of his mind traveling through the characters on board, his family relationships, girls in general, arrangements for further cooperage, the far-off golden sands of the world and many other things which he could not even name.

The time passed in an instant, and once again, they were tying up, ready to negotiate the next lock.

Here, he was once again aware of Alphonse.

“I'm told, lad, that you have produced offspring”.

Startled, Ira was about to vehemently deny something of which he had extremely scant knowledge, when he suddenly recognized the metaphor. Feeling, as he so often did, extremely young and foolish, he merely nodded, though flushed with pleasure.

“Mr. Stevens is very pleased Ira. Your work is yours to dispose of, naturally, and as long as there is an interest in your work, and you continue to be useful around the place, as you have been, then there is employment to be had.”

Ira wanted to discuss the piano and the music and Mr. Kelly. Alphonse already realized that Ira might be disenchanted with Kelly, and started to explain, obliquely.

“Not everything is what it seems Ira.”

But Ira was not overly perturbed. He still enjoyed the beautiful voice, no matter where its owner hailed from.

“That beautiful voice, Ira, once filled Churches, and it wrought the same spell you see today.”

This was fascinating news, and the link between the sacred and the profane grew tighter and tighter. Sylvanus' theatrical preaching began to make a little more sense to Ira, and he wondered where his gifts might have taken him in a more secular age.

How did Kelly leave the service of the Church, Ira was about to ask, but desisted, as the truth seemed only too obvious.

“The Church can be a profitable business Ira, for some, but the rules of propriety are severe indeed. They do not always accord with the rules of nature.”

This seemed a highly adult conversation to the young man, and he felt immensely flattered by the confidences of the older man.

“Still, he is truly a great musician, isn't that so?” he asked.

Alphonse looked distinctly annoyed and snapped “No, he isn't.”

Ira was surprised to say the least.

Relenting, Alphonse explained “The man is gifted. He has a voice, the like of which few of us are endowed with. He is also a fine salesman, but only a short term one. In Church or concert hall he doesn't follow through. Already, on this tour, the folks are bored. They don't know why, but they are. His songs and patter are light and shallow – they while away a few hours and evaporate like the morning dew. Like his preaching, they do not come from the heart, and before too long they will suffer the same fate.”

“But what will you do?”

“Oh, Ira. I, too, have a gift.”

“Yes, you play wonderfully well.”

“That is not my gift, merely my training, and I have fine training indeed. You are a cooper, Ira. Is that a great gift? No, of course not. There are thousands of coopers, mostly doing good work, but not anything I would recommend for entertainment on a packet vessel. So I ask you – what is your gift?”

Not wanting to embarrass the boy, he merely continued.

“What you do, you do very, very well. You see the shape in the wood, and you recognize the wood as part of a living tree. I know you keep the proof in your pocket.”

He was referring of course, to the Madonna. Ira felt guilty, because the Madonna was not traveling well. He had taken to carrying her on his person, in a long thigh pocket, and, in an active life, she had born her share of buffeting, and showed it. The same contour, the same shape, still spoke to the eye, but there were small dimples and a couple of minor splinters which robbed her of her original beauty. Nevertheless, she had already served Ira well.

“It is your gift Ira – and cooperage is your job. Music is my gift – accompanying Mr. Kelly is my job.”

“....for the moment” he added.

They both smiled and this time they dined together.

MOVING ON – MINSTRELS

Weeks passed, and Ira became accustomed to his new routine. He had contacts up and down the Canal where he laid in supplies, and dropped off barrels to supply Kennedy. Starting from his keg, he had worked his way up to barrels and back again. Barrels he off-loaded as soon as possible, whereas kegs and the even smaller kilderkins, better known as “kils”, and pins were popular tourist purchases.

It was both pleasant and profitable. He was an especially welcome visitor at home with extra money and preserved delicacies from the towns on the  Canal. Already his parents had shrunk, and had grown quaint, like museum exhibits of a distant land and distant time. How simply they dressed, and how unfashionably. How absorbing were their lives, and how insignificant. How rigid seemed Sylvanus and how detached was Frances.

In the town, Sylvanus seemed to be tolerated more than respected, while Frances was loved by some  and shunned by others, wary of any unconventionality.

The evenings back at home in Parish were mixed blessings, but Ira began to see his own parents as real people. Once again, he began to feel curiosity about the past, and wanted to hear stories about the early days.

Sylvanus would talk about his father, Mulford, and his work in the War of Independence. It was clear that he esteemed him as a virtuous and hard-working farmer. Of his older sister, Lucy, who had brought up Sylvanus' first child as her own, and his brother Gaylord, father of the famous Titus, he said little. And of his Grandfather, George, he affected not only to know next to nothing, but to be quite incurious, only to surmise that as he had grown up amongst New England folk, his family must have been English. And beyond this he was not prepared to talk. His mother did not need to affect any lack of interest. Babies, animals and plants grew in the present. Her links with the past were through songs and stories. She didn't say much, but Ira knew that she listened a lot, and wondered if there was more information locked away in her jackdaw imagination than anyone knew.

In general, Ira found it a relief to be away, where he was responsible only for himself and was free of questioning when he took up invitations, like the one from Alphonse to attend a show in Buffalo. He had heard of, but had never seen, a Minstrel Show.

The Theatre was large and sumptuous, and extremely well attended. Several folk from the packet were there, and Ira felt a cosy, and grown-up, companionship with them.

There were several small entertainments of the sort he had already seen and heard along the canal, in fact, not unlike Mr. Kelly, but the Minstrel show was unlike anything he had ever seen.

Four black men were extremely droll, as they sang, joked and bantered in fine character. The singing was beautifully harmonised as they sang moving songs about their life on the plantation. They even appeared to show the most magnanimous sentiments toward their masters, with no resentment. In fact, they sang their colored songs with the utmost high spirits in irresistible style. It was almost impossible not to get swept up in the hilarity and humor of the occasion, and yet Ira held back.

Something just didn't seem quite right. Something just didn't ring quite true, but he didn't know what it was.

He knew black people of course. In his work he had much to do with men and women who worked in hotels, smithies, stables and cooperages. They loved their music indeed. They also did their work well, and seriously, but not one of them had spoken kindly of life in the South.

Ira looked at the foursome again. They were indeed very funny. But he had never seen black folk move in this way. He understood parody, but he did not recognise the model for it here.

As the tall, gangling one, whose movements were just a little too stiff and angular, approached up-stage to engage the audience in an aside, Ira received a great shock. He was gazing, fascinated, at the man's face. His color was peculiar. And it wasn't even. There was streaking of some sort, and there was a pale patch just below the collar line. He was looking at a white man. A white man pretending to be black. A funny black man, singing songs- white songs. Ira's own face felt drained – as white as these people's were black. He hastily checked the other three, but knew already what he would find.

Aghast, he wondered if anyone else in the Theatre knew. He turned round to look at the faces of the crowd. But already watching him was the face of Alphonse. His expression was that of mild amusement, mixed with sadness. Ira realised, that once again, he had been found to be incredibly young, and possibly stupid.

“This is the business of entertainment, Ira”, Alphonse would say later. “You get their attention and keep it it for an hour or two. They may or may not be interested in art, but they have paid their money – they want to leave their own world for just a little while. There's no telling what will do the trick. It depends more on them than on you.”

“Well”, he added, in response to a quizzical look “I mean to say, on the performer.” Ira left the performance plunged in thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ON THE HUDSON

Things were going well, but as the weather cooled, the tourist traffic decreased. The rains came, and the first snow. Ice began to appear on the river and the packet began to look more Spartan in appearance, with a manner of living to match. Ice breakers went ahead to gently break the crust. Traffic was so profitable that it had to be protected at all costs, yet without damaging the Canal walls. Repair was costly, tedious and disruptive, so maintenance was constant. Ira was hardly surprised then, when Mr. Stevens, who had always been courteous but formal, sought him out.

“Ira, it's been a pleasure to have you, but I think you know what I am about to say – you see how it is don't you? We will cease touring at the end of this week, possibly for good. It depends on what the owners wish to do with the craft. If you are interested, I can put in a word for you with some folks on the Hudson, but it could be hard work.”

He was hardly surprised, but was still devastated, when everything was going so well.

Alphonse seemed philosophical about this, as he was about everything, and Kelly had already de-camped to seek his next scene of triumph. Ira had grown to like the sophisticated young folk with their educated talk and their tales of travel and the world beyond, which generally started with New York.

So it was to New York that his mind turned, and with great lack of imagination he imagined himself plying the same “house cooper” trick up and down the Hudson. In the event, this proved not so easy to organize, and he decided to settle for a more menial and ordinary job just to begin with. To his chagrin, however, he found a great many of those jobs occupied by Irish immigrants at ruinous wages. He had earned well, and  saved well, but needed to find work. Trade cooperage was banal work for him now, and he needed something to suit a new way of life.

As he left Albany, he saw that the river was already considerably iced. The great barges were already collecting blocks for city refrigeration and the manufacture of ice cream and sorbets. Their great hulls crushed the ice with ease, and where necessary, ice-breakers went ahead , keeping a channel open for essential traffic. Wooden boats, thought Ira, would not fare well in this place. What could they do at this time? And of course, he realized that this was the perfect time to lay them in for maintenance and repair, which would require the services of skilled workers. He was confident of adapting his abilities to these tasks and, with high hopes, started to make notes of the shore hamlets with promising docks, bays and inlets.

It took some time, but Ira eventually found work with an enterprising man with the same idea, a man who not only hauled his own boats in for the freeze, but set off along the River to seek out those who could use his expertise. He worked from his own craft, ice permitting, sailing into bays and coves and drumming up business. He would take work in, set up near the shore, and start routine repair work, often blocking in and replacing parts of items such as rudders, keels and cleats. Locals, seeing him thus engaged would often approach with a small shopping list of repairs of their own. With a show of sage reluctance Mr. Van Zwyl would take on a small amount of work, but in truth this ruse worked well.

Ira learned to work with new woods, including imported tropical hardwoods, dense and water resistant, useful in marine joinery. He learned to recognize and cut out valuable scraps, odds and ends, for patching and repair jobs. Scouring the banks for the skeletal remains of older craft, he began to feel some affinity for the gulls who cleaned up the carcases of dead fish lying on the shoreline.

Van Zwyl was not a sentimental man. In fact, he was a hard taskmaster, and felt no duty of care for young Ira. Ira slept aboard the boat most nights, but Van Zwyl didn't wait for him if he was late-just upped anchor and took off for the next cove. Finding him was Ira's problem. But he was a reliable payer and a good craftsman whom Ira respected. Again, the arrangement gave Ira freedom, and the freedom which he now craved was the freedom to investigate New York City.

The city should have been large, overpowering and intimidating, but Ira was young enough to find it primarily exciting. He was warned again and again to keep out of trouble spots and never to travel alone and he tried to observe these injunctions where possible. Arriving by water, he had always to pass through the docks, where many of the newly arrived Irish worked. He found them tough, but not unkind, and he received no harm from them.

There were attractions enough in the City to milk Ira of his hard-earned cash, but he had already seen too much sadness in the Canal towns and groggeries of New York. It was the new Astor Library which attracted him like a magnet, and there he would spend hours, unaware of the time, but absorbed in volumes of History and the latest discoveries in natural science. He read with no particular purpose but merely collecting and storing information for the future. Around him were many ardent scholars, most of them intent on bettering themselves in this young land. There were many who were regulars, and who looked neither right nor left, but struck deep into the mother lode of knowledge spread out before them.

And when time and opportunity permitted, he explored the popular attractions of the city. Barnum's museum was a grab bag of entertainment, some of which, as he well knew from his more sophisticated Canal acquaintances, were considered rather down-market. This did not concern Ira, and he was gradually exposed to the passing parade of native-born and European talent in music and Theater, as well as the high-toned moral crusading, usually about Slavery or Drink.

Without fervor, but with considerable interest, he took it all in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YOUNG TITUS AND SAM

One evening, at a performance of a play he had heard much about, “Uncle Tom's Cabin”, his attention was drawn to a young man about his own age. His fair hair was fashionably long and artistically unkempt, and he carried with him a larger book than would normally be comfortable. A  book, however, which stamped him as “a serious person”, not because of its content, but merely because of its presence.

“Could it be?” said Ira to himself.

“Yes, I think it could” he replied.

Ira felt himself to be a new man, no longer the shy up-country yokel his cousin had once no doubt taken him for, and he was suddenly eager to share his new knowledge and experience with his kinsman.

In the post-performance melee Ira interposed himself in front of Titus, who looked every inch the City Intellectual. He waited a moment for a sign of recognition, but it didn't come, and eventually Ira had to say

“Titus, you don't recognize me. I'm your cousin Ira, from Parish.”

Ira may have been mistaken, but he could have sworn that Titus winced.

“Second cousin, actually” rejoined Titus.

Ira went on, for he had much that he wanted to say. He had enjoyed the play, but despite the moral outrage he knew he was supposed to feel, he was beginning to resent the theatrical manipulation of the author. Life was never so simple; if there was one thing he was learning, it was that. This is what he would have liked to discuss.

Titus did not appear to be listening throughout, and although he was courteous and genial, Ira felt patronized. Titus' eyes were constantly flicking across the crowd, and now and again he would smile more beautifully, or bow slightly. Again Ira had that familiar feeling of being too young, and rather naïve.

Like a theater critic called upon to provide his precis of appreciation (or otherwise) Titus began. His delivery was polished, his phrasing beautifully weighted, and his sentiments fine indeed, as he deplored the existence of the great evil of slavery, the depravity of those who would support it and the necessity of uprooting it forever in the pursuit of a great and noble nationhood. Ira listened dutifully, feeling at every moment progressively reduced in importance and stature, until, in mid-flow, Titus was cut off by his companion, a casual-looking, relaxed fellow who had been only half-listening, and had been gazing round at the throng with considerable interest.

“Don't mind him Ira. I'll tell you the rest later. I've heard it all before.”

And extending a warm handshake he added “I'm Sam.”

Titus suddenly looked younger, and a great deal more human, and Ira thought he might begin to like him again. As for Sam, there was something so warm and genuine in his manner, that one felt an immediate kinship.

“”Ah, yes, I do go on, don't I? But there are some subjects you can't equivocate upon.”

“My feelings exactly”, rejoined Sam, “which is why I would like to ask you both back for a drink.”

And Ira felt, that at that moment, there was no-one in the world whom he would rather have a drink with than this Sam.

Months later, the three were firm friends, with an interesting dynamic between then. They were all of an age, yet of differing temperament.

Ira was essentially a farm boy and cooper, ready to bend his back to his job, and carve out a living where fate decreed.

Titus was the scion of a famous missionary family, and knew that he was expected to continue this fight. But he was more interested in the culture and history of the Old World, and the Science and Philosophy of the New. And, it had to be said, he knew a good deal about both. He was currently at Yale and intended to go to Williams College as a medical student.

Sam was up from Missouri. He was engaged with a city printing firm, hoped to make a living at letters some day and seemed to oscillate between jobs in New York and Philadelphia. He was highly interested in Ira's watery adventures and also the details of his home life. Ira felt that they had a lot in common. Sam was also prone to de-bunking Titus' more grandiloquent moments, for which Ira was eternally grateful. Even on the subject of slavery Sam was comfortable. Where Titus seemed genuinely offended by the institution, Sam, who had at least had some experience of it, was phlegmatic and unmoved.

“Can't say as it bothers me one li'l bit” he drawled. “Seen plenty white folk worse off'n slaves I knew.”

“White folks have choice, Sam. They can make their own future. These people have been deprived of choice.”

The topic really didn't engage Sam, and Ira could see that it was simply part of the scenery for him – he wouldn't change his mind until he had to confront a serious issue, and that hadn't happened yet.

Naturally they talked about the possibility of conflict over the issue. Titus  felt that should it be necessary, the Federal Government should force the Southern States into Abolition, but on this issue Sam was scornful.

“I c'n tell you now” he rejoined “no Southern State is goin t'take one lick o' notice anythin comin' outa Washington. Next thing y'know, we'll all be killin' each other t'save the black men.” This he found so comical that he chuckled quite some time. He suddenly sobered up, and resumed a serious face. “Right or wrong gentlemen, home  is home, and every man doesn't just have a right to defend it – he has a duty.”

Ira had taken to staying over with Sam, whenever they happened to be in town together. and took his chances on finding Van Zwyl. He was never far from the last job, and showed no displeasure at Ira's absences or pleasure at his reappearance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A CAMPING TRIP

Ira liked Sam very much and invited him and Titus to stay. It was Summer, and Ira was able to negotiate barge transport with old cronies. For a little hoggee  and roustabout duty they enjoyed the leisurely experience of the Canal  and the pleasure of each other's company. They made slingshots and wrestled, told stories and chatted girls, that is, except Titus, who wrote poetry and read a great deal, and sometimes lamented the lack of adult conversation. Sam told stories or reflected in his oblique way on life in general.

At Parish, the three were fed and rested, met the family and the locals, to Sam's amusement and Titus' distaste. Ira did not wish to have Sylvanus and Titus engage in any discussions that might end badly, and organised a camping trip to Coan Pond just a few miles away. He hoped the old blazes were still on the trees, and there was still enough forest to intimidate his guests, but both boys read the marked trees and the slight path as easily as a New York pavement.

“Is there an aboriginal population extant here?” enquired Titus, in his inimitable way.

“No, only some Injuns” answered Sam slyly, skipping a stone across the smooth waters.

“I feel that we are the intruders” intoned Titus. “How can we, white men, Europeans, appreciate this wonderful country in the same way as the red man?”

“But if we go home, there'll be no-one to appreciate it, and whoever made it will be very offended. And you know what He's like when he's offended.”

Ira was pleased that his father was not involved in the conversation. As they chatted, they gathered the wood and brush for fire and repose. Some serviceable bedding frames of small logs had been left, for which they were most grateful. Camp established, they took to the waters in canoes. Ira knew where they were most likely stowed, and found an old craft there, as well as a couple of new ones. He didn't know whose work they were, but was most appreciative.  They took all three, stripped down, and headed out on the lake for fun and fishing, but Sam decided that Naval combat was the order of the day. The air was exhilarating, and the sun was warm, soaking into their pearly white skin. Ira felt a tremendous energy just being out on this water, in the midst of the ancient forest. He lined up Titus' boat, giving it a glancing blow, annoying the hell out of Titus. Sam gave as good as he got, and teamed up with Titus to give Ira a hard time. As Titus' boat bore down on him after a buffeting from Sam, he threw caution to the winds, slipped over the side, and grasping the prow, rocked Titus' canoe till he'd tipped his unfortunate cousin into Coan Pond.

“I baptise thee Titus Munson Coan Pond” gurgled Ira, though mouthfuls of lake water. Sam howled with glee at the unexpected tactic, and they all dragged the canoe to shore, righted and baled it, and set off again. As the battle rejoined, Ira found he could stand in his canoe, did so, and launched himself again at the unfortunate Titus. The repeat sally was just as unexpected, and all agreed was worth it as they repeated the rather tedious, by now, exercise of re-launching. Would it be an error of judgement, wondered Ira, to go just one step further, and threaten Titus' dignity. He decided to give it a go. As soon as Titus was within the zone of no-return, he slipped overboard again, and confronted his relative as if he were a primeval monster emerging from the depths, with Titus' name etched into its dinner menu.

Ira could see that Titus was confused and confounded, and somewhat desperate. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered why he was doing this, but knew full well that it was a great way to prick his pomposity. Slowly, and intimating, he hoped, deadly steadfastness of purpose, he inched toward his cousin's canoe. Titus had risen to full standing position, and looked at the end of his tether. He held his paddling blade in both hands, and was poking it at Ira, hoping to warn him off. Three or four jabs near his face did not worry Ira at all, but then  the wet blade slipped in Titus' hands and there was a bright light, then darkness and cold as he slipped down into the lake. He knew immediately what had happened and could even see his cousin's horrified face at the moment of impact. The blow had struck him just below the nose, and could have broken his top teeth. Still below the water, and in a strange, controlled mood, he felt his nose and teeth, and satisfied that they were still intact, paddled himself, for a few moments longer, below the surface.

Now he let himself rise to the surface, and even before he emerged, had fixed his gaze, once more the eyes of a monster from the mysterious depths, on that spot where he knew Titus would be. As he broke the surface, his gaze hit the target, Titus still with the paddle in his hands, which were shaking. His face was white and his mouth worked, without sound. Ira turned, and with calmness and deliberation, swam for the shore, where he now discovered that his nose was bleeding profusely. He'd been prone to nosebleeds as a child and was not overly concerned. In fact, it had won him some fights where his opponent had panicked at the sight of blood, while Ira was prepared to fight on.

He lay on his back for some minutes in a state of strange satisfaction as the bleeding gradually stopped. Sam and Titus brought the boats in, Titus apologising profusely, but mightily relieved that no damage was done, Sam pretending to be a riverboat captain, hollering “Half twain-quarter twain-maaaark twain!”  Soon, Ira proposed they go and catch their dinner.

The evening temperature was low, and they needed the fire which had treated their lake catch so well. As members of their race had always done, they entertained each other long into the night with stories, jokes and speculation. Truth to tell, Titus had a great fund of knowledge, and presented it well. The geology of their region, the history of the Indian tribes and their legends, were fascinating to Ira and Sam. Sam always had his own laconic observations which seemed to find the right perspective, thought Ira. Surely Sam was an original thinker. Ira felt that he couldn't match his friends' talents, but surmised that the world needed listeners too. In any event, they drew him out on his experiences, his home life and family history.

Sam obliged with suitable ghost stories, having excused himself, they presumed, to relieve himself before settling down to the narrative, which was highly entertaining and finished with the story of the Great Snake of Coan Pond. He built the atmosphere in a most convincing fashion largely due to apparent lack of artifice. By the conclusion of the story, they rather believed in this malevolent and dangerous creature. They were certainly aware of their vulnerability, their camp fire drawing attention to any predator who felt the need of prey.  Ira started. Surely he heard something move in the bushes. Titus too had noticed, though was trying not to show it. There it was again! Arming themselves with a stick and a brand from the fire, they crept carefully toward the sound, each of the Coan boys moving out a little sideways to protect themselves. Sam, however, stayed where he was. It moved again, and they jumped, but held position. It jiggled and scratched, but didn't advance on them. As they got closer, the light from the brand showed something spiky and bushy, and as they closed in, it leapt at them with a great roar, whereupon they almost fell over each other in their haste to retreat. Sam rolled on the ground laughing, and finally released the rope he had been holding all along, and to which was attached his serpent in the bushes, a leafy branch wedged in a small bush on the perimeter of their camp. He spent much of the  rest of their stay menacing them with pieces of foliage and roaring.  

Sam and Titus were bemused to think that the very water they had enjoyed, which had provided them with entertainment and sustenance, was named Coan Pond after the family. Titus was thoughtful, wondering perhaps, thought Ira, whether his famous father might leave a similar landmark in Hawaii. Sam was more voluble on the subject. “Coan Pond – Coan Pond – now that's a mighty fine thing, to have such a body of water named after you. Just imagine. It doesn't walk, it doesn't talk, but it will be here long after we're gone. And in its own way, I guess it  will say  “Ira Coan was here.” So you won't have to conquer the world, or enslave other people or build a canal to be remembered, Coan Pond will do it for you.” He tossed some more wood onto the fire, and remarked reflectively “I wouldn't mind something like that myself. Only thing, a pond sounds a mite trivial. I reckon I'd have to have myself a lake.”     

END OF NEW YORK

Another face showed itself at an orchestral concert. The music of Beethoven was always powerful and popular, and the New York Philharmonic Society was a fine organization indeed. They were presenting an all-Beethoven program, including the Third piano concerto and the Third Symphony. The piano soloist was the visiting German, Sigismond Thalberg.

The performance was everything that Ira had hoped, but he was largely curious about the piano soloist, Thalberg, who was said to be the greatest player in the world. Ira had no way of judging this, but was highly moved, even transported by the concert. As usual, there were long tracts where he lost attention, and his mind wandered off into byways of imagination only to return with a key change or a new development.

But it was in the second, slow movement, that his attention was gradually focused, for as the beautiful theme unfolded, Ira felt that he had heard this music before. It was with a feeling of deja vu that he heard out the rest of the movement, knowing what was coming, but not knowing how he knew.

It was in the post-concert crowd, again, that he saw his old protector, Alphonse. He looked completely at home in the well-dressed crowd, and with an elegant lady on his arm. And Ira remembered how he knew the music of the slow movement – it was on the Canal, of course, it being one of the passages Alphonse used as an interlude. No fuss, no fanfare, just the beautiful and contemplative music unfolding.

Alphonse looked completely at home in this well-dressed, elegant crowd, and Ira let the moment pass.

His time with his two friends was enjoyable, but also unsettling. Titus was well on his path to academic glory, no doubt, and a medical career it would seem. Sam also was driven, and although he was keen to support his family back home in Missouri, he was just the sort of person you would expect to succeed, whether in business or politics. And New York seemed just the right place for them. They had left the golden sands and the wide Mid-West for the cool grey giant which held so much promise. But Ira was not sure where his future might lie in such a place.

Meanwhile, his work was taking a toll. Much of it had to be performed outdoors, and the chill, the rain and snow, were depressing and debilitating. Old van der  Zwyl might have been made of teak, impassively working his way through his gallery of hulls, rudders, keels, spars and fixings. He was not interested in conversation and had no golden sand on his mind as far as Ira could ascertain.

More and more Ira began to think of escape, but before he could do so, Sam came up with an announcement. He was going to be a riverboat man on the Mississippi. Ira was struck dumb with envy. This was certainly a step in the right direction he thought and wonderful news for Sam. In the meantime, business was not quite as brisk around the shipyards. The old wooden boats were in decline, and economic activity had stagnated. The future didn't look quite so rosy. Little by little, Ira came to a decision that millions of young men had reached over the millennia. He would join the Army.

TO JOIN THE ARMY

It was always an option, of course. He would wear a uniform. The new uniform of the United States Army was a handsome one, and one which a fellow would be proud to wear.

 

He would have a weapon. Again, this was something which would not bother Ira, as he had been used to guns from an early age. He enjoyed shooting out in the woods, and was competent with all manner of small arms. This was a point of contention with Titus, but not with Sam.

And he would see the world.

Well, some of it. The Army had been expanded considerably, he knew, in order to police the territory traversed by Easterners on their way to the goldfields of California. They were there to protect the settlers from the Indians, who were capable of great violence. Like most of his countrymen, he was intrigued by frontier tales of this warrior race and wanted to see the real thing. He had seen paintings and lithographs, he had heard lectures and homilies and he had seen theatrical re-enactments, but felt that he could come to no harm, with the backing of his weapon and his colleagues in the modern U.S. Army. What's more, his Grandfather had fought the British in the War of Independence, his cousins had fought in the War of 1812 and other relatives had been involved in the Mexican War. And was it not the “manifest destiny” of this young nation to help lead others into the light of democratic civilization?

To join the Army – what untold millions have done, in the long and sad history of our planet. And here was Ira, like those millions of young men, boys really, walking headlong into the same old trap.

Did he do it for vainglorious reasons? There may have been a tiny element of that, Ira might have admitted, had he been completely honest.

Did he do it to fight? He wasn't aware of any enemies. The Mexicans were coralled inside their own territory, and the English were trade partners at this time. The Indians were troublesome of course, but the task was one of policing the West. It was common knowledge that there were depredations committed on the settlers who had been swarming across Indian lands since the discovery of gold in California. There was also the concession that many of these Indians had been sorely provoked by white men of little character. The presence of professional soldiers to keep the peace could therefore only be beneficial.

And Ira sincerely hoped that the Indians would see it that way too. And if they didn't, well, he supposed he would do what he had to do when the time came.

Titus wept, figuratively at least. The noble savage was high on his list of favored subjects. Sam, for his part, seemed quite envious, but was determined to pursue his plan to take up work as a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi.

He bade farewell to van Zwyl, who generally showed little emotion and no affection. He was sceptical however, about him joining the Army. "Seems this is something young men just have to do" he declared. Ira tried to explain that he didn't have to do it, but chose to, but the older man remained scornful. He paid Ira off, quite well, even generously. Ira rolled up his cash in a leather wallet which he lashed in with other items wrapped in calico. He carefully arranged the Madonna to protect her from any more little mishaps. Catching sight of her, van Zwyl exclaimed "Ah! so you're one of those." He refused to elaborate. They took brusque leave of each other, and Ira never saw him again.

As he prepared to put his home life behind him, he found himself thinking again of Kate. Also of the small children he had known who had perished. The ones who never ever reached school age, schoolmates who met with accidents in the woods, with machinery, or on the Canal. In fact, he became quite morbid, but also felt that he needed this time to reflect. It was easy for him to travel up-canal with folks he knew. He was pleasant company and a handy worker and now had much more awareness of the world.

He knew that times were tough, and many people were not having an easy time of it. Trains were stealing more canal traffic and the last season's crops were not spectacularly successful.

 

 

 

 

 

GOODBYES

So it was a sombre young man who arrived back at the family home.

Sylvanus was not greatly changed in any obvious way.

Ira calculated – he himself was now nineteen, so his father must be – seventy-seven! That seemed to Ira to be a great age indeed. Sylvanus seemed curious about Ira's life in New York, on the Hudson and the Erie. It was real interest he showed about the canal town entertainers. The tale of the charade of "Kelly", the bogus Irishman, amused him greatly, but also drew a moral concerning true character. The fashions, frippery and general folderol of New York also drew much frowning and warning, but without any of his old venom.

He was interested in the general tenor of thought from New York. Ira was not really attuned to this, but Titus was, and Ira  trotted out several of cousin Titus' pungent opinions.

Titus was a committed abolitionist, and could expound on the evils of slavery for considerable periods. These opinions Ira trotted out with flair, surprising both his parents. Sylvanus seemed pleased, while Frances managed both to keep her counsel and convey a strong air of skepicism.

Ira spent some considerable time doing maintenance and repair work, which seemed to energize Sylvanus. As long as they were engaged in practical tasks, Ira felt comfortable.

It was in the evenings that Ira felt that precious time was now beginning to fade just like the setting sun. He relished the time with Frances as she performed her little tour of duty, clipping her favorite flowers and conversing with her favorite animals. Francis of Assisi could hardly have done better, thought Ira. He would have been better not to say so, for she answered "Who's he?"

He told her, and she seemed very please to hear of this strange man, not at all like the Papists so reviled by her husband.

Somewhere, she filed these new facts away along with the ancient repository of pagan knowledge she seemed to carry around with her.

Ira was puzzled, as it was clear that his mother had not had much education, yet she was the first person people asked when needing diagnoses for their illnesses and injuries. She knew everyone's lineage, and unlike Sylvanus, who protested that he neither knew nor cared where his Great Grandfather had come from, she could reel off, not only her own descent, but the intertwined familial connections of half the county for several generations. Ira wondered if she was the sort of person people used to accuse of being a witch.

As he mused, she shaved some bark into a blossom mixture she had collected, all in a square of muslin.

"Breathe that in" she intoned, in a funny, sing-song voice.

Ira did, and experienced a wonderful heady sensation from a musky mixture with an uplifting, far-away note dominating.

Ira looked with wonder at his mother.

"It's witchcraft" she growled, joking.

Yet again Ira marvelled and said to himself "I must have the sort of face anyone can read”. He made a mental note to do something about it.

Concerning the Army, he had made his mind up, however, and on October 26th 1855, he enlisted in the 8th Regiment at New York City.

A new life began.

 

 

 

 

 

FROM PART 1 OF “COAN THE COOPER” (A biographical novel about Paul’s great Grandfather)

AT HOME IN OSWEGO, NEW YORK, AND ON THE CANAL