Since you asked me to tell you, then paid me after I said “No” twice, here it is. I was born in 1799, so I’m 95 now. My name is Robert Weaver. Don’t go writin’ it down as “Rob” or “Bobby”, get the story right!
The gossips say the Ring Line people will be here any day, to put up a bunch of poles and wires, and a telephone box. We’ll be able to talk to people far away, if we can pay. Few of us even know anybody far away, much less want to talk to ’em. Even fewer of us have more than a handful of coin outside harvest time.
Like most folks here, I’ve lived in Riverton all my life. Of the hundred and ninety of us, I think only six or seven have been farther than half a day’s walk from home.
Since the potato famine around ‘47 or ‘48, most people here farm vegetables, barley, or dairy cows. When the potatoes failed, nearly half the town starved. Nobody here had the money to leave for America, like so many others did. It took three decades to grow our community back to nearly two hundred again.
But the story you want to hear was before all that.
My family has supplied clothing, rope, and horse tack to everybody in town back to the days of the Vikings. Except the Hillmans, back in their disgrace over half a century ago. That’s the story you’re paying for, so listen close. During those twelve years, nobody would sell to the Hillmans, help them, or even talk to them much. When the traveling Friar came around every third Wednesday of the month, we didn’t even let them come to the church services, which were held at one of our homes.
My sons Jerimiah and Abel herded our sheep and sheared them in the spring. My daughter-in-law Mary spun the wool into yarn, and my wife Lenore made clothing and blankets from it, god rest her soul. For underclothes, and if anybody had money for something fancy, I bought the cloth and thread on my twice-yearly trips to Woodridge and Engleton, and Mary would help Lenore sew.
I made rope, horse bridles and harnesses, and a few other things. Jerimiah’s wife Anne and our grandchildren took care of our chickens and family garden. Even the little ones six or eight years old helped as much as they could, instead of going to school. Life was a lot harder in those days.
It might seem harsh, what we did, but there was good reason. Joseph Hillman’s sin brought shame on his whole family, and even the rest of us. What kind of town would put up with an evil man like him? For the most part, we cut the Hillmans off from the community. A few even talked about burning their house or killing him, but that only would have made the rest of us evil too.
The Hillmans kept to themselves most of the time. Eight months after Joseph married Rachel, we discovered his crime. When his son David was born, Rachel’s sister Dina carried him to meet the Friar, so the child could be baptized. The Potter family passed them on the road, and saw Rachel watching from their front door. Rachel was still pregnant! Joseph had begat children on both women!
A few people took pity on Rachel, and sold her a few things the rare times she had any money. Most of the town shunned her, since what kind of woman would allow that in her home?
Mary and my wife wanted to at least sell them some clothes for the babies, but the rest of the town might shun us too. Dina walked half a day to the town of Woodridge to buy almost the same baby clothes my Lenore had made, but put in storage out of social pressure.
It rained and snowed while Dina returned, and she fell ill soon after. Some say it was because of poor food, instead of the cold. I’m not sure, but eating just a fish or two a week with only potatoes the rest of the time can’t be good for you.
A month later, I saw Rachel cry and watch, as Joseph dug a hole. They had no money for a headstone, and marked Dina’s grave with a simple wooden cross. The Hillman’s girl, Tabitha, was born the next week.
When Joseph’s plow broke in the spring a couple of years later, the blacksmith wouldn’t fix it for him. He had no money to buy another, even if anybody would sell him one.
Since they didn’t have a use for it anymore, they put the horse down, and ate what they could before most of the meat spoiled. He tried to sell it instead, but nobody would buy from him.
My daughter-in-law Mary took pity on them, and traded some horse meat for a blanket and a few bars of soap. When the town found out, nobody would trade with us or speak to us all summer! Believe me, horse stew isn’t nearly as good as beef, and we lost half our income for the year!
Without the horse pulling a plow, the only way Joseph could ready his fields for planting was digging with just a shovel. I saw him digging from dawn to dark every day, for nearly two months. He made an improvised kind of shovel out of wood so they’d have two, and his wife helped him several hours a day, in between caring for the two kids.
Since only a third of his fields had been planted in time, their fall harvest was meager. After the long winter, Joseph and his wife were barely more than skin and bones, and their children were thin too.
My family nearly joined their disgrace again when Mary gave them two chickens and a rooster. I nearly kicked Abel and Mary out of the house, but I realized we’d have a hard time getting along without them. Mary kept reassuring me that she brought the birds to them after dark, so the townspeople wouldn’t see where they came from.
The Hillmans hatched and raised the chicks, and had a flock of fifteen by the middle of summer. I have to admit I was impressed they could resist eating any eggs the first month, in their poor circumstances.
After several terribly difficult years, Joseph had enough to get a used plow and another horse, all the way from Engleton. The next couple of years went well for them, until an illness came through. Half the town was sick, but luckily only four people died. Two of them were Joseph’s wife and son. Nobody would give them any medicine, or go summon a doctor for them. My disdain and ill feelings faded quite a bit, and a tear came to my eye, as I saw him bury them next to the boy’s mother.
One day a year or so later I walked in my front door, and saw my wife spanking our grandson, Paul. I asked; “What did he do this time?”
“He was talking with the Hillman girl again. How many times do we have to tell him to stay away?”
Paul and Tabitha were both twelve years old. I remember it clearly, since the battle happened only a few days later.
Some Lord to the East of us had an argument with some other Lord to the West of us, and they sent their soldiers to fight it out. Most of the battle was fought on the Hillmans’ land. My family and I hid in our root cellar for safety, as most of the other families did.
At the end of the fight, the losers ran home. The winners stabbed or shot the injured losers, and helped or carried their wounded comrades away.
When the killing and the looting were done, close to three hundred bodies laid in the Hillman’s potato field! My son Jerimiah counted 276, but a few others said 277 or 279. Our town had more corpses than living people! None of us had even imagined such carnage! The whole town stared in shock a long time.
When Joseph got out his shovel and started digging a grave, I went back to my work. At sundown, I saw he had buried four of them. The next day he and his daughter managed to bury nine. The third day, as I was in the middle of making a rope, the smell started getting to me. I looked at the field, and saw the girl struggling to drag a body across the ground, as Joseph dug.
I heard her crying as she fell to the dirt. She sat up, looking at the sky, and shouted, “Why, god? Why won’t anybody help us?”
I was terribly ashamed. Tabitha didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t deserve any of the hardships she went through. She was just a child.
I realized what Joseph did was nothing, in comparison to what we did to him and his family.
I dragged the dead soldier the rest of the way, then went home to get my shovel. Eventually four other men helped us. The next day most of the town joined in, and we finished our gruesome work before sundown. We brought some food from our homes and had a funeral and picnic. Most of us shook Joseph’s hand or gave him a pat on the shoulder before we left.
Paul and Tabitha run the farm now, along with their sons and grandchildren. I’m glad they’re doing far better than Joseph ever did.
Our town learned a hard lesson. Sometimes kindness and fellowship are more important than justice.
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