Peter Grant - Wood, Iron, and Blood: A Classic Western Story Of The California Trail

J eremy shivered as the icy wind swept across the small family graveyard. After standing by the grave for upwards of twenty minutes, even his warmest clothes didnt offer much resistance to its wintry chill. Resisting the temptation to stamp his feet against the cold, he stood next to his mother and father as they listened to the pastors final prayer.

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister, Emily Miriam Ash, here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like to his glorious body, through the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.

The black-robed pastor, purple stole flapping in the breeze, took a small trowel, scooped up a little earth from the mound next to the open grave, and cast it upon the plain wooden coffin they had just lowered into it. He handed the trowel to the older man standing next to him, and Grandpa Harry did the same. However, he did not hand the trowel on to more junior members of the family, to Jeremys surprise. Instead he said, Thank you, Reverend Emanuel. I reckon Emily will understand if we dont dawdle any longer in this cold, otherwise some of her children and grandchildren might be joining her sooner than shed wish. Ladies, please take the Reverend back to the house. Boys, lets fill the grave.

The small group broke up, the men seizing spades and shovels that stood ready against the wooden fence, the ladies turning and hurrying back towards the farmhouse some distance away. Jeremy took a spade and turned to with a will. Hed loved Grandma Emily and would miss her, but he reckoned shed understand that the warmth hed generate from filling her grave was more important than solemn mourning right now. From the looks on his fathers and brothers faces, and on Uncle Jacks, Cousin Billys, Cousin Iras and Grandpas, they felt the same.

With seven men working hard, it didnt take long at all to put the grave to rights. Pa glanced inquiringly at Grandpa, but the older man shook his head. No headstone today, boys. Its just too cold. Emily will understand if we wait until its warmer to put it up. Come on, lets get inside and find something warm to drink.

Jeremy picked up the coils of rope theyd used to lower Grandma into her grave, and took them back to the barn while the others headed for the house. He took a moment to rub the nose of Stoker, the big black draft horse that pulled Grandpas plow and other farm implements, then hurried over to the kitchen, where he knew hot tea would be ready and waiting while the ladies prepared lunch.

As the meal came to an end, eaten in subdued silence compared to the banter normally exchanged during visits to his grandparents home, Grandpa rose to his feet and cleared his throat. I know youre all wanting to hear my plans for the future now that Emilys gone. You have to get home and do your chores before dark, so lets meet here again at ten tomorrow morning. James, Laura, Ill be obliged if youll let Jeremy stay with me. Im busy with something where Ill need his help. He can sleep here tonight.

His father looked surprised, while his mother frowned and asked, Why keep him overnight? What about his chores at our place?

James hastened to interject, Charlie and I can handle them for one night, dear. All right, Father. Jeremy, you be good now, you hear?

Jeremy tried to suppress his irritation. He was fourteen! Wasnt that old enough that such warnings were no longer needed? Nevertheless, he nodded obediently. Yes, Pa.

Thank you, James, his grandfather acknowledged. Wait here, Jeremy, while I see the others off.

It took almost twenty minutes for the older mans son and daughter and their families to harness horses to their wagons, say their goodbyes, and head for their farms not far away. Meanwhile, Jeremy wandered into Grandpas study and inspected the memorabilia on its walls. Hed seen them many times before, but always found something to interest him.

Grandpa had joined the Navy, rising to the rank of Petty Officer before swallowing the anchor, as he put it, and settling down with his new wife to farm in Indiana. However, his former divisional officer, now commanding his own ship, had sent him an urgent private summons before war broke out with Mexico in 1846. Grandma Emily had been steadfastly opposed to his re-enlisting, but hed gone anyway. Hed seen action in the landings and siege at Veracruz. Somewhere during the fighting, hed come across a windfall of gold coin. His plunder how much, hed never disclosed had allowed him to more than double the size of his farm, and purchase two adjacent farms for his son and daughter. That had helped Grandma to forgive him when he returned.

His eyes lingered on what looked like two short swords resting on pegs on the wall. One was a U.S. Navy Model 1816 cutlass, which Grandpa had carried ashore at Veracruz. The other was a sword bayonet from a British Baker rifle. Grandpa had picked it up at Veracruz from a Mexican cazador, or light infantryman, whom he said had no longer needed it. Its blade was slightly shorter than that of the cutlass, lighter and better balanced. Below the blades was a 1797-pattern Type III U.S. Navy boarding axe, not dissimilar to some pictures of Indian tomahawks Jeremy had seen, its blade balanced by a long, sharp spike on the other side of the head. It showed the characteristic jagged double teeth at the rear edge of the blade, used to hook fallen spars and rigging out of the way. An eight-foot U.S. Navy boarding half-pike stood upright next to them, its four-sided forged iron head still clean and sharp. Jeremy had asked his grandfather once why he hadnt brought a twelve-foot full pike home with him. Grinning, Harry had told him he hadnt wanted to have to build a room with a thirteen-foot ceiling to accommodate it.

In a glass-fronted case next to them stood a short, slim .52-inch Jenks Mule-Ear Navy carbine with its distinctive side-opening hammer, and a longer, heavier double-barreled muzzle-loading percussion ten-gauge shotgun, the twisted patterns of its Damascus steel barrels gleaming beneath a light coating of oil. A pair of U.S. Navy-issue .54-inch Model 1842 single-shot percussion pistols rested on pegs next to the long guns.

His inspection was interrupted by the sound of the farmhouses back door opening, then slamming shut. His grandfather walked into the parlor next door, calling, Where are you, Jeremy?