I feel like I’m a bee in a jar, shook up and poked at till all my insides are buzzing.

January 1849

Chapter 7

Henry

Mister Reardon, the blacksmith, takes me in and makes me his assistant, and I don’t go back to the Five Points. I sleep above the shop and spend every waking hour pounding iron. I like it more than I thought I would. It’s a good job to have as the days get colder, working by the forge. The rhythm of the pounding does me good, and at the end of the workday I look over what I’ve done and know that I’ve created something. I catch on quickly, and after a month Mister Reardon is pleased enough with my skills to take to heading over to the tavern across the way in the afternoon, letting me finish up by myself.

It’s gradual, at first, when business starts to die down, but as the weeks drag through the winter it becomes the thing we don’t talk about. Shortly after Christmas, a traveling blacksmith came to town and stopped traveling.

There’s less work coming in and, before I know it, I’m doing all the jobs we get and Mister Reardon’s spending his days tongue wagging with the barkeep.

It’s a Tuesday when he eats his breakfast and goes on across the icy road to the tavern, leaving me to the few orders we’ve got. Some nails and ax heads and a window grill. Pretty soon, I hear a commotion across the way and walk over to see what the problem is. A wagon’s hitched up outside of the tavern and in its bed there’s freshly made plows and scythes and hoes and all sorts.

Inside the tavern, Mister Reardon is being pulled off a man whose nose is smashed and bleeding.

“I go where I get the best price, you crazy bastard.” The man on the plank wood floor spits out bloody mucus.

“That’s enough of that,” the barkeep says to Mister Reardon, laying a rifle on the counter, his finger snug on the trigger. “If you’ve got problems, you’re not settling them in my place.” He sees me hovering in the doorway. “Get him out of here, Henry. Give him some strong coffee and a hot bath.”

I lead Mister Reardon back to his shop, his breath puffing white in the winter air. He goes to the nails I’ve made, fingering through the pile, grumbling that they’re too long and too thick.

“You can’t go picking fights with folks who don’t hire us,” I say.

He scowls at me. “I won’t be driven out of business.” He pronounces his words in the deliberate way people have when they’ve had too much to drink and they’re trying not to slur.

“Have you considered matching his prices, or offering a deal?” I ask. “Maybe you could do discounts for repeat customers. A traveling blacksmith can’t offer anything for the future.”

He sways on his feet and I grab his arm to steady him. He jerks it away.