Charles Adams, hands on his narrow hips, stood on the dirty gravel street in downtown Lancaster, Pennsylvania, mentally looking into his future. If only he could reach the piece of land granted to him in southwestern Ohio Country – 400 acres deeded from the Continental Army as payment for his long service in the war – and then survive the first winter’s snows and cold. Two big “ifs”, he knew, but he felt he had to try. He had survived the war, surely he could survive this new adventure. The war, however, had taken his father, and his father’s wish for Charles’ way in life, to become a lawyer. Charles knew he wanted to leave that dead past behind and find his own way now.
“Right then. You’ve loaded everything on the list?” The question was directed to the owner of the store Charles had chosen to provision his second hand Conestoga wagon. There were several establishments in Lancaster which were catering to the increasing number of settlers heading west into Ohio, and after checking on reputations, Charles had chosen the Pitt Emporium. He hadn’t heard any negatives, only good opinions from the locals about the owner, Benjamin Wickam. Knowing a good reputation was vital to business, especially this far away from Philadelphia, Charles felt good about approaching Wickam to provision his journey west.
“Everything’s been ticked off the list,” the shopkeeper replied, nodding to the piece of paper in his hand. “I substituted a handful of squash seeds for a bit of the corn and added a bag of seed potatoes also. Even if you plant squash and potatoes late, it’ll help give you food for the winter. You may get tired of the two, but you and the animals won’t starve. If you plant corn too late, you might get nought, so best to plant squash and potatoes too. If you don’t get the corn planted by mid-July, save it for the spring planting. I also added a tiny bag of apple seeds. My daughter loves apples and enjoys drying seeds and giving them away. She says by so doing, wherever she goes, there might be apples for her.” He laughed to himself, shaking his head fondly.
Charles nodded, appreciating the knowledge he didn’t have currently but over time would acquire. “I know the apples will take time, but I can foresee sipping hard apple cider in front of the fire on a cold winter’s night. Please thank your daughter for future good times. Now, Benjamin, if the wagon is loaded, let’s go and settle up. I can’t imagine you would say no to some money changing hands, yes?”
“Sounds good to me, Charles. We’ll go in and I’ll show you the ledger page I’ve kept on you.” The two men walked through the back door of the general store and into Benjamin’s office area, where he extracted a leather bound ledger from an assortment of similar documents, some covered in the dust ever present in such establishments. Twenty minutes later, Benjamin Wickam was a bit richer than he had been that morning and Charles Adams had his provisions for his journey westward.
“This calls for a celebratory libation!” exclaimed Benjamin, once the final transaction was completed.
“I won’t say nought,” grinned Charles, as he leaned back in his chair, pushing his recent hardships to the back of his mind. It had been a long wearying haul to this point, dealing with his past losses, both in terms of real estate and human life. His father had died defending Breed’s Hill, even before the Declaration of Independence had shaken the world. A good friend, who also shared Charles’ taste in men, had died of disease after the Battle of Tearcoat Swamp in South Carolina, before the victory at Yorktown ended the War. And Charles’ house had been torched and burned to the ground in retribution as the British were leaving Boston. He’d managed to sell the land for a decent price, but he would miss the old homestead. He was proud of his service in the Continental Army, but now it was time for Charles to forge a new path out west and leave his losses behind.
“Will you have ale, or something a wee bit stronger, like port?”
“Ah, if I have port now, the rest of the evening will be lost to me. I’d rather have the ale now and maybe after supper I’ll inquire of the innkeeper if he has a drop of port. There is something rather civilized about a drop of port before the fire, replete after a hearty meal, later in the evening. Methinks it’ll be some time before I enjoy that bit of civilization again.”
“You’re staying at Miller’s Tavern, right?” Benjamin asked.
“Aye, I’m there another day and night. I traded my old longrifle for a new one and it shan’t be ready until then. Martin Meylin promised me it would be ready late tomorrow. He wanted to make sure the rifling was perfect. Can’t go off halfcocked to Ohio now, can I?”
“Aye. Tell ol’ Miller to pour you a drop of port out of the bottle he has hidden below the bar, not out of the bottle he has on the shelf in back of him. The bottle on show contains dross and he pawns it off on unsuspecting travelers. And I’m glad you sought out Meylin. He produces one fine piece and I’ve nought heard any complaints about one of his rifles. He’s well known in these parts and much respected. A man’s rifle can be the difference between life and death on the frontier.”
The ale was poured and the two men whiled away the next half an hour with tales of life in Lancaster and life fighting the British over the past several years. Both had stories of hardship and privation to tell, before the peace ended British rule and a new nation was finally established. Charles was glad to share some of what he went through, especially the fact that he had survived it all. At the same time, he was tired of carrying the past in his tortured soul, and once established on his own land, far away from his old life, he suspected he would seldom speak of it again.
A voice came to them, shouting from the outer office. “Hey, Pa! Where’d you put that new axe we got in last week? Joshua Stiller wants to talk to you about a trade for it!” Benjamin’s son, Noah, stuck his head around the corner and said, “Oh, there you are. Did you hear me?”
“Aye, not deaf yet, me boy,” replied Wickam, slowly rising to his feet, a bit unsteady at first after his drink.
Charles laughed, rising himself, and said, “Off with you then. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Benjamin.” He nodded to young Noah, then headed out of the store and strode towards Meylin’s smithy. He wanted to check on his gun’s progress and make sure Martin was on track to finish it tomorrow. He trusted Martin, but the gun meant so much to Charles.
Walking past a barber shop next to a Doctor’s office, Charles wondered if he should get his hair cut, but in the end decided not to waste the money. Who would he impress? He could hack at it with a knife himself, if need be, later in the year. He walked on.
Standing alone at the end of a long winding street alongside the river was the Meylin smithy, far enough away from other buildings so the sound of hot metal being pounded on the anvil was not too intrusive on the decent people of Lancaster. Charles stood at the door, listening to the sound of hammer striking metal echoing in the stillness of the warm afternoon.
Inside, the middle of the overheated workshop was dominated by an anvil sitting next to a raging coal forge, the fire reinforced by bellows causing it to glow white hot. On the anvil was a spade, and Martin’s assistant, sweaty and shirtless, was raining down hammer blows on the hapless metal. He stabbed the spade back into the coals of the fire and let it rest there for a few seconds as it reheated for the final shaping.
Charles could not tear his eyes from the muscular man, the sweat running in rivulets across his massive chest and down the center of his belly, soaking the abundant hair on his rippled abdomen, the waistband of his cotton breeches now drenched. The firelight cast shadows and light in such a way to accentuate the man’s muscles. His nipples taunted Charles’ eyes, and he could not help but stare at this Hephaestian god working the forge. He had spotted the assistant before, while talking to Martin, but the baggy shirt worn by the assistant at the time had hidden the magnificence lurking underneath.
Charles had long been aware he was more attracted to men than women, ever since his days swimming with his older cousins in the Brandywine River during hot summer visits. He would nervously jump in the water as soon as he shed his breeches, in the hopes of hiding his instantaneous physical excitement at the sight of the nude, hard male bodies uninhibitedly splashing and frolicking in the water. He claimed a fear of heights to avoid having to jump naked from the rocky ledge ten feet above the swimming hole. His cousins, with their rippling muscles and hair in places Charles had yet to develop, had no such aversion, nor did they make any attempt to hide their own excited physical state from time to time. They would endlessly chase one another up the hill and push one another off the ledge into the river with squeals of laughter.
As he grew older, and eventually bolder, Charles managed to occasionally and very secretly indulge in his desire for male companionship. Whilst in the Army, he had even had some furtive, short lived relationships with men equally lonely and frustrated. But when William Wyler, to whom Charles had grown particularly close, died in a South Carolina swamp with Francis Marion’s men, Charles thought his combined losses had finally dried up his heart and his male organ both.
The stunning sight in front of him, provoking such a primal male reaction, proved to Charles he was in fact not dead at all, certainly not in his male anatomy. He had to stagger out the door so as to hide his obvious physical reaction and to allow himself time to settle his rattled composure. Charles was amazed his response was so strong and knew he would have to take matters into hand that evening for sure. He decided right then to return to the tavern to avoid any possible embarrassment and collect himself. He’d check on the rifle tomorrow.
The next morning, a more composed Charles was ready once again to face the world, and he set out to settle a couple of last minute tasks before shaking off the dust of Lancaster, bound for Ohio the next day. He returned to the smithy to receive his rifle, and to his relief, Martin’s assistant was not around when the two of them – Charles and Martin – test fired the longrifle several times to ensure the quality of the firearm.
More than satisfied with his new weapon, with its ornate metal work design on the stock and its well-balanced feel, Charles settled up with Martin and bid the man good day. With the certainty that if nothing else, he could always shoot something for dinner out on the frontier, Charles felt a little more confident in his likely success as a country farmer.
On his walk back to the Pitt Emporium, Charles stopped at another small shop and purchased two woolen shirts. They were much too heavy for summer, but in winter’s cold the shirts would be a most welcome layer. Back at Wickam’s store, Charles located his fully loaded wagon in the alleyway behind the shop. Standing at the tailgate, he ruminated on the rapidly dwindling space in which to secure his latest purchases, hoping he hadn’t overdone things. “Just as well,” he thought to himself. “If you forget something now, Charles, you can’t just nip down to the local store later, can you?”
Charles found Benjamin Wickam inside the store, instructing his son Noah in the proper way to stock the shelves. He stood off to one side and observed the two working together, a father teaching his son the skills he would need to be a success in the mercantile business. Benjamin was patient and kind, and playfully smacked the back of young Noah’s head when he intentionally put the bags of flour on the shelf with the label hidden. Noah laughed and turned the bags around properly with a grin.
Charles smiled to himself, remembering his own father doing something similar with him when the two were hunting in the woods outside of Philadelphia so many years ago. Henry Adams was well known as one of the best shots in those parts, and for him, hunting was a serious endeavor. He didn’t tolerate foolish behavior when guns were involved, and he taught Charles the skills to shoot as well as he did. Henry was a serious man, but he wasn’t above some teasing and playfulness with his son when it was just the two of them in the woods. Charles missed those carefree days with his father the most.
Charles was in high spirits due to his imminent departure and couldn’t keep a smile off his face. The grin only got larger when the tavern had lamb – one of his favorites – for dinner, a meal only available for the short duration of the lambing season. He relished his perfectly roasted leg of lamb and fresh bread while washing it all down with ale. The tavern’s dining room was full, diners lured by the enticing aromas wafting down the street, and Charles did not see any unoccupied tables. He was surprised no one had yet asked to join him as he sat alone at his table, but he expected it any minute. Little did he know his life would change dramatically when it did.
“Stage coming in!” said a diner sitting at a window after seeing the stagecoach pull up outside. There was a tiny buzz of excitement swiftly drowned out by sounds of people returning to eating a delicious meal. Charles looked up from his lamb momentarily when the opening of the door drew his attention as a handsome man entered.