A Sign of the Times

A Sign of the Times

By

Emil Cicogna

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2016 Emil Cicogna

Published by Flint Hills Publishing at Smashwords

www.flinthillspublishing.com

All Rights Reserved

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Joshua Collier stacked the wood he’d already split in a large pile next to an old tree stump. He had gathered the wood from around his family’s property, dead branches mostly that had fallen to the ground. Several of the thicker pieces that needed to be chopped down to size he’d thrown to the side. A rattling of wheels and the snorting of a horse told him a buggy had pulled up in front of their house. Due to the dark clothes the man in the buggy wore, Joshua could tell that it wasn’t one of the local farmers. He dropped the blade of the ax into the tree stump.

It was the month of August, 1885. Inside a rural forge in western Pennsylvania, William Collier, a blacksmith stood above an anvil striking a piece of red-hot iron with his hammer. Sparks flew off the metal onto the floor as he held the glowing bar between the teeth of a pair of long-handled tongs. He reached for the wooden hand- grip of the bellows to pump a breath of air across the fire and the metal glowed white hot. The ringing sound of the hammer hitting the iron bounced off the rafters as he shaped the blackened bar into a horseshoe.

PA! HEY PA! William heard the voice of his younger son calling from outside. He turned to see James standing in the barn door opening. James was ten-years-old, dressed in worn denim pants, and a red and blue checkered shirt. Holding the edge of the barn door, he looked at his father through the dark bangs of hair he’d tried to push under his cap. Pa, Mr. Hurley is here. He wants to talk to you.

Holding the horseshoe in the grip of the tongs, William examined it quickly then plunged the burning shoe into a tub of water. Steam rose into the air making a vaporous atmosphere inside the forge. The hissing of cold water against hot iron swirled around him as if he stood inside a snake pit. William pulled the finished horseshoe from the tub and dropped it on a pile of about a dozen others behind him. His blue denim work overalls were blackened in front from the flying metal splinters and burning hot embers.

William dropped the tongs onto a wooden table and placed the hammer next to them. The small table held many of his tools. There was a handle attached to one side made of twisted wrought iron upon which several pliers of different sizes were hung. Breathing hard before the glow and heat of the forge, William wiped his face with his sleeve and thought about his older son, Joshua. He was now sixteen-years-old and it was time to start teaching him the trade he would use to provide for the next generation.

With the quickness of a jackrabbit, James ran ahead toward the log house where the Collier family lived. His father walked from the forge, stopped at a long narrow wooden water trough, and plunged his hands, arms, and face into the cool water washing the sweat and soot off of himself.

Approaching the house William could see his wife Evelyn hanging wet clothes on a rope line. His four-year-old daughter Rachel sat at Evelyn’s feet wearing a dirt-streaked dress and no shoes. Her hair was long and dark and straight like her mother’s. A patch of corn stood next to their house, the stalks waving in the sun of late summer while several chickens scratched around the yard.

Joshua stood on the porch. He wore an old blue work shirt, trousers held up with suspenders, and a pair of scarred work boots. He listened to something Mr. Hurley was saying, though Hurley spoke without looking up from the tips of his fingers. Joshua saw his father coming and gestured to him with a lift of his chin. William returned the gesture and nodded a silent understanding.

Hurley was seated on the pine rocker which comprised the only furniture on the porch. He was busy at the task of cleaning his finger nails with a small wooden toothpick. His short silver hair signaled he was in his fifties, and he wore round wire-rimmed spectacles and had a wide double-chin. Though not a wealthy man, Hurley’s dark suit was in stark contrast to the worn denims of the Colliers. William knew this was no social visit. Hurley was a businessman and William hoped he’d brought some business with him. As he reached the porch Mr. Hurley stood and extended his hand which William shook with measured recognition.

Good-day William.

’Afternoon Ed. What brings you out here?

I suppose you know they’re nearly finished building that new schoolhouse. They delivered the woodstove this morning and it’ll need the piping put in for the smokestack.

Hurley’s eyes were intent upon William’s. He slid the toothpick into his vest pocket. Think you’ll have time for it? That teacher would like to see it done as soon as possible.

William glanced over his shoulder at Evelyn. He knew she could hear what Hurley was saying. Evelyn looked back at him as she hung a shirt on the line. Yea, I’ll have time. I’ll be over there tomorra’ morning.

William nodded briefly at Hurley as he spoke and Hurley’s face lit up, glad that his trip out to the Collier home had not been wasted.

Splendid. I’ll let the new teacher know you’re coming so she can meet you there.

Hurley turned and looked at James who stood near the porch observing them, Maybe now you can start going to school, Hurley pointed at Joshua, you and your brother.

I can? Ma! Can I? James’ eyes darted back and forth from William to Evelyn, Mr. Hurley said I can go to the school!

We’ll talk about that later, William said matter-of-factly. He looked at Joshua then back at Hurley with a sudden hardness in his expression, but Hurley stepped off the porch, reached back for William’s hand, shook it quickly and began walking toward his buggy that he’d hitched to a poplar tree near the side of the house.

I’ll tell that teacher you’ll be there tomorrow morning. Good afternoon William, Hurley called back over his shoulder.

All right, William returned, leaning on the porch rail.

Hurley climbed into the buggy and they all watched as he clip-clopped away. William looked over at Evelyn again. She hung one of Rachel’s dresses on the line, wringing out the last bit of water from it, her hair dangling around her face as damp and limp as Rachel’s dress. She looked back at him as the water dripped through her fingers. Be nice to get that work at the schoolhouse. You finished with those numbers you were makin’? Evelyn’s eyes remained on William. She was thin and pale but her thinness did not hide her wiry strength.

They’re finished. I’ll drop’em off in town tomorra’. William pushed himself off the porch rail and started back toward the forge.

We’ll be needin’ a few things, Evelyn called after him.

Yea, I know. He looked back at Joshua on the porch, Joshua! Fill the wood box, and the water tub.

All right Pa. Joshua stepped off the porch and headed toward the large pile of wood near the forge. Much of it still needed to be split. The tree stump, with the long-handled ax buried several inches into it, stood before the pile. With a quick wrench of his arm, Joshua removed the ax then stood a short log on top of the stump, grasped the handle in his powerful hands, swung the ax above his head and brought it crashing down, splitting the log cleanly in two. He kicked the pieces aside and placed another log on the stump.

Chapter 2

The new schoolhouse came into view as William rounded the bend in the dirt road heading into Mercerville. The trees stopped on the edge of town and he could see the buildings on either side of Main Street. It seemed like the square profiles of the buildings stretched further and further each time he rode in. The schoolhouse stood on a cleared lot just behind the last of the houses off the main road, directly across from the church. It was a wooden clapboard structure, painted red, with bright white window frames and shutters, white wood trim, and a green wooden door. There were three tall, narrow windows on either side of the building. A small red outhouse was set back behind it.

The sound of hammering met William’s ears as he neared the school. A carpenter was stretched out on the roof nailing down the wooden shingles. He stopped for a moment, looked up and waved his hammer in recognition. William waved back as he brought his wagon to a halt. He climbed down, took another look at the building and walked inside.

The school teacher was at her desk arranging her things. As well as William could judge, she was in her twenties. She wore a long skirt and a white shirtwaist. Her hair was swept up around her head and there was a small cream colored cameo pinned between the starched white collars of her blouse. She looked up at William with half a smile, as if she’d known he would be arriving at that precise moment.

Are you Mr. Collier?

Yes Ma’am.

Good. I’m Leanna Pallas. She walked to him with her hand extended. William shook it mechanically, not expecting such a forward introduction. I’m going to be the teacher here.

William Collier. That the stove you’ll be usin’? He pointed to a black potbellied stove that rested in the middle of the room.

Yes. All the pipes are there I believe. You can leave it right where it is.

All right.

They looked at each other not sure what else to say. William nodded as he often did, removed his hat, approached the wood stove to check the pieces of pipe, and Pallas returned to her desk. William studied the sections of pipe, then picked up an elbow-shaped piece and placed it at the back of the stove. It fit correctly and he began lining up the pieces in the order they would fit together.

Pallas moved about the classroom preparing it for her students. On her desk was a large brass bell with a straight wooden handle. There was an inkwell with a pen, a box of chalk, a box of pencils, a small pile of books including a copy of Webster’s Elementary Spelling Book, a leather-bound Bible, and a long narrow switch. Behind her desk was a stand-up blackboard, and on the wall hung an 1880 edition map of the United States. On the other side of the wall hung her teaching diploma from Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, the teaching college in Massachusetts where she’d done her training. On a staff in the corner was an old but undamaged American flag.

Desks were set in two groups of rows that started a few feet from the front of the room and ended near the back wall. The cast iron pot-bellied stove was placed in the middle aisle between the two groups of rows. Two tin kerosene lamps hung from the ceiling at the front of the room, one on either side of Pallas’s desk. There was a painting of Athena, the Greek Goddess of Wisdom, hanging behind the teacher’s desk. The top of the frame nearly touched the low