The Land of Three Houses

By J Thomas Brown

William Sterner is seeking the better life but makes mistakes along his way. The novel begins in Pennsylvania in the late 1700s, in a place called Nockamixon by the Lenape, meaning Land of Three Houses. He elopes with the daughter of a wealthy British sympathizer, Mary Bartholomew, and they run away to start a flour mill on the Wissahickon River near Philadelphia. Their mill is a success; William buys a ship, filling the hold with 800 barrels of Pennsylvania flour to sell in Livorno, Italy.
When he reaches Livorno, Napoleon had arrived just before him, and his ship and crew are captured by the French. As he negotiates to win them back, he meets the notorious writer, Madame de Staёl, succumbing to her charms. Madame de Staёl once said, "In matters of the heart, only the improbable is true." The improbable becomes true, and he must learn what really matters in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528911528

J Thomas Brown

J. Thomas Brown grew up moving, then finally settled down in Richmond, Virginia, with a family of his own. His father, an IBM© executive during the Golden Age of American Capitalism, had the wanderlust and transferred up and down the U.S. East Coast, to Sweden, England, France, and back again.

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About The Author

J. Thomas Brown lives in Richmond, Virginia, USA with his wife, Deborah, two cats and a dog. They have raised three children and have four grandchildren. He has coproduced local TV writing shows and coordinated poetry readings at the Richmond Public Library, Richmond, Virginia. His short stories have appeared in The Zoo Fence and the Scarlet Leaf Review. J Thomas’s poems are due for publication in the River City Poets Anthology (2018) and his short story, Breaking Them with Words, will be published in Everywhere Stories: Fiction for a Small Planet, Volume III, in November of 2018.

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J Thomas Brown (2018)

The right of J Thomas Brown to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788232340 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781788232357 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781788232364 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from well-known actual historical figures and events that are contained in the novel, all names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to living persons is coincidental.

Book cover image by Susan Watkins.

Prologue

(The Tohickon Valley)

Lake Nockamixon dam was begun by the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers in 1968 and completed 1973, collecting the water of the Tohickon Creek and filling the Tohickon Valley to create a recreational lake seven and a half miles long and one and a half miles wide. Although the meaning of the Lenape word, Nockamixon, may be lost, one interpretation is place of three lodges, or land of three houses.

There is a lot of history ninety feet below the lake’s surface. Imagine standing on the shore. A breeze kicks up, spreading ripples across the surface, the sunlight breaking up into thousands of mirrors, becoming a window we are passing through. Time loses its grip and we arrive at the other side of the portal in the Land of Three Houses in 1793.

Chapter 1

(The Miller’s Son)

It was a perfect day, the kind when nothing could go wrong. The shade withdrew into the bank as the sun climbed higher, dissipating the illusion of depth by turning the Delaware a lighter shade along its edges. A pleasant breeze blew against the current, the sails were furled as the captain guided the boat with one hand on the tiller, the other holding a jug of rum to his lips.

Two crewmen poled, pushing in unison along the walking boards running the length of the shallow hulled, sixty-foot craft, but most of the work was done by the current. They had loaded nineteen tons of iron ore at Durham Furnace, leaving at dawn in a flotilla of fifteen Durham boats bound for Trenton and Philadelphia, but had fallen behind due to excessive draft from overloading.

The crewmen were seasoned boatmen and had made the trip many times before. The man poling the bow had, over the years, turned into a hardened mass of sinew from the grueling labor.

The boatman amidships was eighteen, corded with muscle, and tall. His shaved head was bare except for a long braid in back from which hung a comb and feather. The clothing seemed oddly mismatched: English breeches with a leather pouch swinging from the belt, a worn linen shirt, and moccasins.

Sir, he said, we’re drifting close in. There are rocks below on this stretch.

The captain stood at the edge of the stern, lowered his britches and urinated. When he finished buttoning up, he staggered back and resumed his grip on both tiller and jug.

You feckin’ heathen, nobody knows this river like I do.

Captain, there’s an eddy coming up, said the boatman in the bow. He thrust his pole out into the eddy and leaned with his full strength, but was forced off the walking board, landing in the pile of ore.

The Lenape leapt to the stern and snatched the jug from the captain’s hand, throwing it into the river. Pushing him aside, he grasped the seventeen-foot tiller to guide them into deeper water. The captain pummeled him with his fists in a drunken fury as the current pulled them on.

The inertia of nineteen tons of ore and the bulk of the boat was too much to overcome. Several planks ripped away from the hull as it passed over the hidden rocks below. Within seconds the top of the mast remained as the only reminder the boat had ever been that way before. The men washed up onshore fifty yards down river from the wreck. The captain assessed the situation: the cargo was lost, company property destroyed, his livelihood gone. The Lenape, who couldn’t swim, lay face down a few yards away, half conscious.

God damn your ass, said the captain. He pulled the half-drowned man’s shirt up over his shoulders, yanked out the belt from his own britches, and began flaying with an animal fury, the belt buckle cutting into the man’s flesh deeply.

Don’t you ever, ever take the tiller from my hand again! He continued beating and cursing until thick sinewy arms enfolded him from behind in a choke hold.

Stop it. Come to your senses, said the burly man.

The Lenape staggered to his feet and disappeared into the brush along the riverbank. The boatman relinquished his hold.

The captain gasped in lungfuls of air. Look what he’s done, he’s ruined us, and after all I did for him. Come on, we’re going after him.

Let him go.

Miles away in Rockhill, William Sterner, the miller’s son, was raking out hot flour on the attic floor of the mill to cool. It was a chore he liked less than any other. As the day progressed to late morning, the temperature rose and the dust in the air caked to his bare torso. The sound of water running down the race and the turning of the wheel pervaded the air as the millstones rumbled in the basement. The entire mill vibrated with the slow, powerful energy of cogs moving and belts humming.

When done, he threw down the rake and backed down the ladder two rungs at a time until he was in the basement where it was cool and dark. John Sterner, a portly man dressed in a sack cloth coat and white brimless cap, fed the grain pouring from a chute to the eye of the grindstone by intuition and feel, using his thumbs to guide and test.

John Sterner had worked for a miller in Germany and had learned the milling trade there. He sailed from Rotterdam with William’s mother, Elizabeth Hoenig, to escape with others of the Palatinate immigration of reformed Protestants on a ship called the Judith. They landed in Philadelphia and made their way to Quakertown, then Rockhill, where they settled. The land was cheap but cost them all their savings. After two years of backbreaking work, they had built a two-story log house with a separate log kitchen, a barn and outbuildings, sustaining themselves by farming the rich soil.

William was born by the end of the third year, and had grown to be well above average in stature and strength. He attended school for the customary two years at the Rockhill one room schoolhouse. His teacher, who thought him bright, recommended further education to put him on the path to college. Despite the grueling labor, their lives in the holy experiment seemed to be bearing fruit, and they were content to survive and grow a family, although William turned out to be their only child.

I’m poached, said William. I’m taking a swim.

Well deserved, too. His father’s eyes remained riveted to the stone.

William blinked in the bright sun as a breeze rustled the trees, pulling the musty coolness of the basement outside. It was like the creek and the mill and the air talking all at once; a physical presence reminding him of something in a language that didn’t have words. He yanked off his boots and dove into the millpond.

Pennsylvania was new, but the land was old. His father had bought 200 acres on the Tohickon Creek in Rockhill Township, Bucks County, from Peter Sheppard in 1773, who had purchased the land from William Penn’s sons, Thomas and Richard, in 1757. They had been sent to Penn’s Holy Experiment to straighten out things for their father who had been embroiled in battles to retain his charter on the colony. Although William Penn was the victim of treachery back in England, Thomas Penn was not averse to creating his own, and concocted the Walking Purchase to wrest over twelve hundred square miles from the Lenni Lenape by trickery. Known as The Grandfathers by other tribes, they had inhabited the land for over 10,000 years, but had to leave according to the treaty.

The land came to have two dreams: one of the first people who had lived there in equilibrium with it, understanding the interconnection between living things, and one of the newcomers, who had come to subdue it and subordinate it to their needs.

The Tohickon, which powered their mill, should have been declared a river, not a creek. It ran swiftly over rocks and boulders through most of the Sterners’ 200 acres, but slowed and deepened before the dam John Sterner had built at the base of his property to feed the millrace, then spread into wide shallows that flowed over Rockhill Road to the Fulmers’ farm.

Rockhill lived up to its name and provided the stones needed to build the foundations of the Sterners’ house and mill. The two-wheel overshot mill was built with local help and materials: cypress and white oak cured in the mud along the banks of the creek for the waterwheels; river quartz for the millstones. The second waterwheel powered a reciprocating saw.

Farmers came from miles around to have their grains ground at John Sterner’s mill. He had an honest thumb, they said. The truth was that John liked to build and improvise and was more an engineer than a businessman.

Sometimes the miller had to hire more hands. The summer of 1793 was a hot one with record large crop yields. They had fallen behind and there were wagonloads of grain to be ground. His son begged him to hire someone soon. On a blistering hot day, William’s prayers were answered. Elizabeth leaned out of a side window:

John, there’s an Indian coming!

John stood in the doorway, nodding as he drew near. He was about William’s age with the same height and build. A cast iron frying pan rang against the sled he pulled behind him when it hit a bump.

I am Tamakwaweekit, he said solemnly.

The miller eyed him suspiciously. John Sterner.

My white name is Charles Durham. Everyone calls me Charles, he added, smiling and extending his hand.

The miller brushed the flour from his hands and shook. How may I help you?

I’m looking for work. I’m a hard worker and learn fast.

What kind of work you been doing?

Charles pointed to the frying pan, made from pig iron at Durham Furnace. Shipping ore and iron goods down to Philadelphia.

Why do you want to change trades?

Charles grinned. I can’t swim.

William shook with laughter. We could use someone with a sense of humor.

Charles grimaced and tugged at the back of his shirt.

What’s the matter? William asked.

Charles’ eyes darted from William to John. There was a little incident. We were poling near the rocks above Trenton. The captain was so drunk the boat got sucked into a whorl. A boulder ripped through the bottom and we lost the load. He said it was my fault and beat me. If he wasn’t so drunk, he could have steered us away.

Charles pulled his shirt up and turned, exposing a series of deep cuts beginning to fester.

John shook his head. That isn’t right. But what if they come looking for you?

Papa, give him a chance. They won’t come after him. You know we’re shorthanded, said William.

They don’t care about an Indian, Mr. Sterner.

Let me think on it. Come inside the house and I’ll ask my wife to dress those wounds. Have supper with us. You can sleep in the extra room tonight.

Thank you, Mr. Sterner.

Charles followed them into the house and sat on the bench in front of the seven-foot fireplace. The last few rays of the setting sun streamed through the rippled glass windows onto the whitewashed walls. William brought over a lamp.

Elizabeth, come down to meet our visitor and bring some healing salve with you, said John.

Who do we have here? asked Elizabeth, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

This is Charles Durham. He ran into some trouble on the river and has some nasty cuts on his back. They need tending to.

I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sterner, Charles said.

I’m pleased to meet you, too. You’ll need to take off your shirt so I can take a look.

Charles did as instructed.

Nothing I can’t handle, she said, grimacing. I’ll wash it off first – it’s going to hurt. We’ll get you a clean shirt, too.

She disappeared briefly, returning with a basin of water and some cloths. As she cleaned the wounds, Charles stared into the fire without flinching. I’m sorry for the trouble.

It’s no trouble. I’m putting on lamb’s ear – it’ll feel better and prevent festering. You’re so polite. Where are you from? Who are your folks?

Pechoquelon. I’m Lenape.

I thought the Lenape went to New York.

My family got the pox. The church at Durham Furnace took me in. They named me Charles Durham; nobody could say Tamakwaweekit.

After dressing Charles’s wounds, Elizabeth walked to the kitchen, a long log building in back of the main house with a separate guest room intended for customers having their grain ground at the mill. Sometimes they had to stay for several days.

She hooked an iron kettle of stew on the arm of the fireplace crane and swung it over the fire to heat. When it was hot, she carried the kettle to the dining room in the house. After grace was said, they broke bread made with flour ground at their mill. The bread was a coarse, nourishing, brown bread made from the middlins. The meal was eaten quickly by lamplight.

Tomorrow is Sunday, said John, make the most of it, the winter wheat will start coming soon. We may get a couple more loads next week.

So, we can start Charles Monday, William said.

So, Charles and I can have a talk about it first.

It can’t be all work, said Elizabeth. William needs some time to get out and meet people his own age.

John turned to Charles. Some of the millers around here do well, but we’re just breaking even. What I can offer, providing you are as good a worker as you say you are, is a chance to learn a trade, a place to sleep and all your meals in exchange for your labor.

First, let me say, Mrs. Sterner, how delicious the meal is. Charles smiled charmingly, displaying a full set of white teeth.

At least someone here has manners, she replied.

It is delicious, echoed William.

Yes, it is, said John. Charles, there are a few things we need to discuss.

Mr. Sterner, isn’t it usually the way to pay some wages, too?

I pay what I can afford to. Everybody thinks millers are rich, but I’m not.

Could you pay three dollars a month, sir? I can do the work of two men. You would be saving money.

Do not press me. Two dollars a month and no more.

You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Sterner.

William frowned. You pay me nothing at all.

You’re my son. Someday this will all be yours.

You’ll probably outlive me. What am I to do until someday comes?

Two dollars a month for you, too. Show Charles to the spare room by the kitchen before I change my mind.

William leapt from his seat. Thank you, Papa. Come on Charles.

Farmers who brought a large amount of grain to be milled might stay as many as three days in the spare room until the milling could be completed. Small but comfortable, it contained two beds and a table. William helped Charles stow his few possessions.

Take which ever bed you want.

Thank you. Charles eased himself onto the closest bed, stomach first.

I’m the one who should be doing the thanking. He only agreed to pay me wages because of you. I should be living on my own by now anyway.

The Lenape raised his head wearily. I’ll trade places with you.

I suppose I am lucky. How long you been walking?

Since noon yesterday. From Trenton.

You were in a hurry. What made you stop here?

I thought this looked like a friendly place. I was pretty tired, too.

William squatted on his haunches and looked Charles in the eye. My father wondered if they were coming after you. Are they?

I went as fast as I could, but I never looked back once.

Sleep as late as you like.

William walked back to the house listening to the drone of the cicadas. The hay moon had risen large and orange. Tomorrow would be hot.

Chapter 2

(Copperhead)

Farmer Krebs showed up with a wagon of rye just after dawn. John shook his son to wake him. Krebs showed up early. Time to get up.

William dressed and walked to the kitchen where his mother knelt on the hearth.

She removed the brass curfew covering the embers of last night’s fire and fanned them with a turkey wing.

I’ll get Charles, William said.

Elizabeth added some kindling. Let him sleep. It’s going to be too hot and dusty for good healing. We’ll give him another day to rest and keep the dressing clean. Better get on over.

It was the same routine every day. John disengaged the runner stone and opened the sluice to the water wheel. The main drive shaft, which ran all the way to the attic, started turning. It provided power to the sack hoist used to load and unload the wagons in the yard.

Krebs had positioned his wagon directly below the third floor hoist arm. William hooked a sack and went down to the basement. Instead of stairs, ladders were used to make it more difficult for rats and mice to get to the meals and grains above. He lifted the ladder to the main floor trap door and slid the door aside. Three cats, shut in for the night to hunt rodents, peered down at him from the edge. When he got to the attic, he opened the hoist door on the front of the building, then raised the sack from Kreb’s wagon by engaging belts from the main drive shaft.

He had finished hoisting half the load when George Knaus arrived in the yard to pick up his order of lumber and shingles. William had to stop what he was doing and go down to the yard to help him load. By the time Knaus was loaded and on his way, it was noon.

When do you think you’ll have my grain ready to pick up, John? asked Krebs.

We’re shorthanded. Probably tomorrow afternoon. I have an extra bed if you need to spend the night.

There’re some things I need in town. I’ll come back tomorrow. You should get yourself some more help.

I have someone starting tomorrow.

Krebs flicked the reins. Good for you, he replied.

The afternoon never seemed to end for William. He ran up and down the ladders until his feet ached. As he descended the rungs to check the middlings late in the day, Charles appeared through the trap door in the floor.

Feeling better now? asked William.

Yes.

Good. I’ll take you through and show how it works. William patted a hand hewn square beam supporting the floor above. The mill is one big machine and we’re moving around inside it, so watch where you go. If you get caught in the cogs or the belts, or fall through the floor, you’re going to be hurt.

It’s like the ironworks, you have to keep your eyes and ears open all the time, replied Charles.

That’s right. Do you see those sacks? He pointed to four large sacks, each beneath its own chute in the middle of the floor. Above us upstairs is the bolter. As the flour gets ground it runs through the bolter and separates into bran, shorts, middlins, and fine flour. They come down the chutes from up there in the bolter down into these sacks. We take the middlins and run them through the hopper again so we can get all the flour out of it. William grabbed a bag and poured the contents into the hopper.

"Where does the hopper chute