Tall Tail

Monday, September 13, 1784

Peter Studebaker, a wagonmaker from Huntington Township, York County, Pennsylvania, sat in an empty classroom with Captain Bartholomew Graves, lately of the Royal Irish Artillery. He had come to deliver a letter given to him from Charles West, as well as to talk a little business.

Schoolteacher Bartholomew smiled at Peter, a man of middling years like himself. “Your business flourishes,” he complimented his visitor.

“Which is why I’ve come to you. As an artillery officer, you must be good at math.” He chuckled. “Your students I’m sure profit from this.”

“Ah, Mr. Studebaker, if only I could get them to sit still.”

Both men laughed at this, and Peter glanced at the floor, then up at the rugged veteran of the British Army. “You had to carry cannon over rough ground and at times at high speed. What I am interested in, sir, is the manner of axle. My son and I mean to make the strongest wagons in Pennsylvania. Axles.”

“Always the weak spot and the rougher the ground, the more damage,” said Bartholomew. “A wheel can fly off. That can be replaced or mended, but when an axle breaks, without proper tools and a forge, that’s the end of it.”

“I have heard of your success on the battlefield.”

“You flatter me. If I’d been successful, I’d not have been captured at Saratoga.”

Peter slapped his thigh. “Ha. Ah, but then war must be such confusion, smoke, noise, if a man can’t hear the trumpeter or see. To simply live is a victory. But I know you were not here at Camp Security.”

“No. I was down at The Barracks outside of Charlottesville. Hearing piecemeal reports of the southern campaign, I felt the Crown would lose this war, and I tell you, sir, even if it sounds treasonous, I began to see that you should win.”

“Indeed.” Peter nodded.

Bartholomew held out his hands expansively. “I determined to live in a new land, a free land and one where my lowly birth would not impede my progress.”

“But you, sir, attained the rank of captain.” Peter knew some of Bartholomew’s past. The Irishman was well liked; his friends often told some of his tales.

Bartholomew leaned forward, his chair creaking a bit. “I had outlived my senior officers, all of them having purchased their commissions. Not a brain in their heads. And then I secured some promotions through combat. Ah, Peter, war is a terrible thing, but we always make advances. And so the next war will be even more terrible than the one that preceded it.”

Wryly, Peter replied, “I hope, sir, some of those advances involved axles.”

Now it was Bartholomew’s turn to slap his thigh and laugh. “What would you have me do?”

“Come to my shop. Look at the axles and the wheels of each of my wagons. I will pay you.”

“We can talk about money later, Peter. I will ride over this Saturday.”

Peter changed the subject. “Do you like teaching? I wonder, it must seem dull?”

“Ah.” Bartholomew grinned. “The boys at York County Academy are not dull—wild, perhaps, not quite what the Episcopal Church had in mind—but I have an affection for them. Perhaps I recall my own misdeeds when I encounter theirs.”

Peter nodded. “Yes. It goes so fast, does it not? Time?”

The former captain shook his head. “Sometimes in my sleep I can hear my mother’s voice.” He waved his hand. “So long ago, but Peter, we are here and we must make the most of it.”

Smiling as he rose to shake hands, Peter agreed. “Indeed, good sir, indeed. Please send my greetings to your excellent wife.”

“Mary will be pleased.”

After Peter left, Bartholomew put the envelope from West in his pocket. His mind went back to the Revolutionary War for a moment.

Separated from his unit, thanks to a ferocious barrage at Saratoga and a thrashing infantry charge, Bartholomew Graves wound up being captured by a large, handsome, decent man, John Schuyler. He also marched all the way to Virginia with another prisoner of war, the young Captain Charles West. It was Bartholomew, held at the camp in Charlottesville, who counseled Charles near war’s end to escape and paid him to forge discharge papers. The future was here in America.

By war’s end, Bartholomew was working his way up the Wilderness Trail, finally reaching the Mason-Dixon Line.

He remained in Hagerstown, Maryland, until war’s end, where he worked for a lawyer who needed a man who was good with numbers. All artillery officers are good with numbers. But once the war was over, Bartholomew headed for York, not all that far. He’d heard this town just west of the Susquehanna River boasted good land, plenty of work, and a great deal of construction. Also, while predominantly Lutheran, they were not inhospitable to Catholics. He was not terribly religious, but he was Catholic.

Doing odd jobs to get by, he heard a vacancy had opened at the Academy affiliated with St. John’s Episcopal School. Having been buffeted by the anti-Catholic laws in England and the king’s service, he hesitated to apply. Allowing people to worship as they pleased was not the same as hiring them. But Mary, the young woman whom he was courting, told him, “Barth, just go. No one is asking you to renounce your faith.” Mary giggled. “What little there is of it.”

Baited, he did go, and the Rev. John Andrews hired him on the spot. So Bartholomew Graves became a mathematics teacher, and shortly thereafter, a husband to Mary.

—

It was a perfect early September day in York County, absolutely delightful. Walking through the streets, he passed gardens filled with chrysanthemums. There was color everywhere. His step quickened. He swung his gentleman’s walking stick with vigor to match his step.

Opening a low wooden gate, he stopped to admire the small brick dwelling. There were flowers in front, a vegetable garden in the back. The door, painted blue, sported a brass pineapple knocker, a gift to his wife.

Chickens cackled out back. Opening the door, Bartholomew was greeted by a beagle. He knelt down to pet the dog.

“Barth?”

“Yes, my dear.” He went into the kitchen, herbs hanging by the window, cabinets wiped clean, the floor clean, strewn with fresh rushes. Mary would brush them out, put them in the garden. She swore the bit of blood from her lamb chops or beef brisket that fell on the straw was the reason her garden flourished.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked over to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and gave him a welcoming kiss. “And did you thrash the little hellions?”

“Not today, my love, but I had a most interesting visit from Peter Studebaker.”

“The wagonmaker?”

“Yes. He would like me to help him. He feels I can, as I had to move heavy cannon over bad roads, onto fields. Said I would.”

“Now, don’t you go giving away the store, Bartholomew.” Mary used his full Christian name. “You are too generous. Too generous by far.”

He waved his hand. “He will pay, dear.”

“What you are worth, I hope. I can’t run a house on a pittance. We could use some help, and, my dear, you need a horse. Such would help on the burden of this house.”

Smiling, for he heard this refrain often, he said, “A house. You deserve a castle. You deserve servants in livery and a coach-in-four with matched horses and jewels.” He ran his fingers down her cleavage, as she wore a lower-cut dress, given the weather. “Jewels that will rest on your natural jewels.”

Mary took his finger and lightly bit it. “You are no good, Bartholomew. I knew it the minute I looked at you. I said to myself, ‘There is a no-good man, but, oh, there’s something about him.’ And here I am. Married to the same.” She laughed, then turned to tend her oven.

All the windows and doors were open to let the heat escape. Unlike Virginia, these Pennsylvania homes did not have summer kitchens. While the heat came up in the summer, it didn’t last as it did in Virginia, and fall skidded in earlier, a perfect fall with robin’s-egg-blue skies, Canada geese flying overhead, fields waiting to be harvested. York County was rich in soil and water, and was stirring with industrious people. Walking through town, one could hear the hammer of blacksmiths, the rumbling of wagons, the shops making all manner of goods.

“What’s for supper, love?”

“Shepherd’s pie. Oh, I know it’s a bit early for shepherd’s pie, but I just felt like it. Won’t be long.” She brushed back a stray hazel tendril.

He took the letter from his pocket. “From Captain West. Peter Studebaker was given it by a drover when Peter was in Littlestown.”

The two men kept up a leisurely correspondence, both being former officers in the Crown’s army and choosing to live in the former colonies. The colonials rarely used the post except for business. First, it was slow. Second, it was expensive. Two sheets of paper might cost twenty-five cents, and the recipient had to pay. So letters were often passed along hand to hand. But West and Graves, Europeans, used letters to catch up with each other. Each man observed these “new” people with interest. Unlike the “new” people, they did not consider personal mail a luxury. They considered it civilized.

Bartholomew sat down to read. He didn’t need spectacles, quite unusual. “Mary, he says all is well. Ewing Garth bought more land west of his current estate. The orchard is thriving. The hard winter seems to have helped this. He doesn’t know why. He has accepted a commission to design a Lutheran church, to be called St. Luke’s—”

Mary interrupted. “Are there many Germans there?”

He nodded. “Not as many as here. A few Swedes and Italians. Like here, my dear, so many Italians who fought for King George escaped from the prisoner-of-war camp.”

“Truthfully, the guards at Camp Security here looked the other way,” Mary said. “My father said we needed men to work since so many were in the army. I hope never to see such times again.”

“God willing, you won’t, my dear.” Bartholomew looked up from his letter and smiled. “He also writes that John and Catherine are well. His Rachel is radiant. No children yet, and Ewing is becoming fretful.” Bartholomew laughed loudly. “Such things take time and skill.”

“I’m going to pray for you,” Mary teased.

“No, dear, pray for them.” He laughed uproariously again, then returned to the letter. “Charles writes that there has been some exceptional brutality on a nearby estate regarding slaves. He says the longer he sees this institution the more he feels it is wrong, even though the Bible condones it.” Bartholomew looked up at Mary. “I don’t know what’s worse, being a slave or being an indentured servant.” He sighed. “I rather think this will resolve itself. Hellam Township has seven slaves and more indentured servants. I have no idea how many such people work in York County, but, Mary, the day will come when we visit Virginia. It’s different.”

“Because of slavery?”

“Different in many ways. A few very rich planters control the state.”

“Well, let us not forget those very rich merchants in Philadelphia.”

He smiled at her. “Quite. I think it will always be a few at the top, some in the middle, and the rest below, but I see this home you have brought to life. I see glass in the windows, a hearth with a good draw, fancy, a feather bed. I think we live quite well.”

Mary came over and kissed her husband’s cheek. “You see to that, Barth. I knew when I looked at you that you were a man who would succeed.”

“I thought you said I was trouble,” Bartholomew teased. “And do you know what I thought when I first saw you? There’s a colleen worth fighting for! And there’s a girl of strong opinion!”

“You like the strong opinion?”

He shrugged. “I had no choice.”

She swatted at him with a clean wooden spoon. “I ought to crack you wicked hard.”

“I am never bored. And I am well aware that you with your rosy cheeks, your heavenly bosom, your full figure, you could have won any heart you wished. But you accepted me, a captured fellow, a man fifteen years your senior, gray amidst the black hair, in my mustache, even, you picked me.”

Mary pursed her lips, as if she’d just made a practical decision. “You actually listened to what I had to say. Father and Mother were worried, of course.” She walked back to the stove. “All that’s behind us now.”

“Are you happy, love?”

She turned to look at him. “I am the happiest woman in York County.”

“Then I am content.”