A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,44
less of the day's chill, Charlotte took her cloak from her shoulders. Then she leaned forward, and poured out their tea.
“In fact,” said Jonah, “I enjoyed a few old tales myself yesterday, including some I couldn't quite recollect, told by Mr. Tinder and Mr. Flint. Ornamented, perhaps, for the benefit of the young men around the fire. One day, when we're no more than history ourselves, I hope they'll recall the old folk, dead and gone.”
Charlotte decided her questions could wait. “Tell me, Jonah, wasn't it iron-making you were engaged in?” She saw a shadow pass over the old man's face. After that, he appeared to resign himself.
“Something I've not often been asked by a young lass!
We used to make ingots not far from here, out of bog iron long gone—that which supplied smiths, ferriers, and even some who cast pots, like this old veteran of many a campaign.” He bent to return the black kettle to its crane, and went on.
“Back then the land was thick with trees, you know, which were took down to make the charcoal. Every year they cut miles of it down, and other damned souls burned the logs under great piles of sod—mountains that glowed for a week and more, day and night, covered to keep the air out. Very bad work that was, and many died of it, I'm sorry to say, falling in while seeing to the state of things on top, always keeping the blanket tight. A quick way to go, it may have been—but not a pleasant one to think on.” He took a sip of his tea.
Charlotte imagined the gruesome work for herself, while she waited to hear more. Jonah's hands, she noted, shook as he curled them around his cup. “What did you do, Jonah?” she finally asked.
“I, and many another, took the baked wood and used it to smelt out iron from ore. In beehives, as we called 'em. Great furnaces they were, with bellows taking the heat so high, the Devil might have felt at home inside! Once the ore melted, we'd throw in lime, and skim off what came to the top. The iron we drew off below. Twice a day it flowed down to molds on a sand floor. Sows and pigs, that's what came out of our beehives. Sold so others could melt 'em down and re-cast the iron, or more likely beat it into plate. Nowadays, better ore is mined from caverns underground, and I thank God none of those is near to our village. For men who do such work burn out, like the furnaces. A furnace is often rebuilt. But a man is not something to be torn down and raised back up again.
Once my lungs were afflicted, I was never much good for anything else. To be sure, the making of iron is a good business. But for some, at least, it's an unprofitable one.”
Charlotte was sorry to have reminded him of the cause of his infirmity. After gazing quietly into the fire, she poured a second cup of tea for them both. Jonah accepted his with a smile.
“Ned, now, won't fall into the same troubles as I did. I doubt he'd be fool enough to do the work, even if it was offered him…”
Perhaps sensing her silence held less than approval, Jonah was quick to add something more. “The boy takes good care of me, which is more than many a grandson will do.”
“I wonder if I should ask—is it true you and Ned aren't quite blood relations?”
“That is something we rarely mention, lass. But it's true enough Ned is my wife's nephew. I suppose Moses Reed told you, when he brought you to the ice yesterday. He has a sharp eye, and a mind that's nimble,” said Jonah. “And a good memory.”
“You were once neighbors, I think?”
“Many years ago. My wife was quite fond of him— called him ‘little Moses, of the Reeds.’”
“Jonah,” Charlotte asked while the old man still chuckled, “I'd like to hear another old story, if you wouldn't mind. Can you tell me something about Boar Island? Do you recall when the house was built?”
This time it was Jonah who looked away toward the fire. Regretting her curiosity, Charlotte wondered what unhappy memories her new question might have revived. A short convulsion of coughing followed. After that, his eyes came back to hers.
“I do remember something of that. I was, oh, twenty-two then. It's a fact I often seem to recall those days better