Battle Cry - Leon Uris [106]
From here they could see the quiet land below for many miles.
“This land was bought for my son Timmy,” Enoch said, lighting his pipe. “I suppose it belongs to Patty now. I even have some prize rams and ewes and a full rig of tools put away.”
Andy was awestruck. From the edge of the knoll he looked up to the sky. A mass of crazy-shaped clouds floated past. Then he had the feeling, as a man does when he stands on the side of a hill and looks up, that the very earth was rushing up to heaven, that nothing was wrong and nothing could ever be wrong. As if in a sweet dream, he let Enoch lead him down to the edge of the trees.
Sunken into a small oak, he saw a rusted axe. It was covered with moss. Enoch looked at it and spoke softly. “My son planted that axe before he went away. He told me that one day he’d return and clear this land.”
Andy reached for the handle in the automatic motion of a lumberjack.
“I’m afraid it’s frozen, Andy.”
He wrapped his large hands about the handle and pulled; it grunted, then gave. Enoch stepped back as Andy ran his fingers over the blade, spat on his hands and swung on the tree. Smooth, powerful strokes and the bite of his axe rang out through the hills, and echoed back like the music he had heard so often in the north woods.
The oak groaned and Andy put his weight behind him and sent it crashing to the ground. He straightened up and wiped the sweat with the sleeve of his dungaree.
“You’ve got a good pair of hands, lad…it’s a man like you that will be clearing this land someday.”
Andy sunk the axe into the stump and turned and headed back to the farmhouse.
Mrs. Rogers put the platter, brimming full of fried chicken, before Andy. “Patty told me you were fond of chicken fixed this way, and I suppose you boys are a wee bit tired of our mutton.”
“Gosh, Mrs. Rogers, you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble,” he said, grabbing a drumstick.
“I hope it turned out all right. I’ve never made it before. Goodness, I had to phone at least five people to get a recipe.”
“Mrs. Rogers,” said Enoch, “be getting us some beer, if you please.”
“Mr. Rogers,” said Mrs. Rogers, “I’ll not be going near that closet. Was only this morning that another bottle exploded. It’s not safe for body or soul.”
“Ach, woman,” he grunted, getting up from the table.
The door burst open and six persons entered. A man, unmistakably of the Rogers clan, his rolypoly wife and their four rolypoly children.
“Uncle Ben!” cried Pat.
“Patty, darling, it’s been a bloomin’ long time since we’ve seen you, lass.”
Mrs. Rogers leaned closed to Andy. “Brace yourself, lad, there’s to be a real onslaught tonight.”
“Now, where is the Yank Marine you’re hiding, Patty?”
Mrs. Rogers rocked back and forth in her aged, creaky chair. Enoch lifted the large ale mug to his lips, shifted his pipe and gazed into the fire. Andy rested on a soft overstuffed chair, Pat curled on the wool rug at his feet. The dancing flames from the open hearth cast flickering shadows about the snug little room. Beamed ceilings, paneling rising from the floor to six feet, then a shelf around the entire room, lined with big pewter mugs, wrought brassware, an occasional oval framed tintype picture of one of the clan. On the rugged stone fireplace, a framed needlepoint picture: God Bless Our Home. And mounted heads of the wild pigs that dared endanger his flock. It was sturdy, like Enoch and like his land. He drained his mug and belched.
“Mister Rogers!”
“Good Lord, woman, can’t a man belch in his own house? As I said, Andy, it’s a simple life, not much like your America.”
He reached down and gave his dog a comfortable stroke. “A good piece of land, a good woman, and a good dog. A man has his work cut out for him. We Rogers can’t understand city folk, we never will. All the rushing and tomfoolery of it. Here, in the hills, is the only way to live.”
“I suppose you may find us dull, Andy,” Mrs. Rogers said. “I’m sorry that you had to have the whole family barge in on us, but Patty