this one’s name. He’d been pretty close—it wasn’t Martin, not Ludwig, but
Luther.
Luther Undertoe. Just seeing the name made the hackles on the back of his neck go up. He wasn’t sure why, but he filed the feeling away and then continued reviewing the names.
They signed up the men in teams of ten, one horse and cart to a team, one shovel to a man, one team to each cross street from Wall to Reade. The first job of all was to clear Broadway all the way down to the streetcar tracks. After that, the crews would work east, then west, if they got to it. When the orders had all been given and the men were ready to set out, the old man looked down at Will’s paper once more and then directly into his eyes.
“Well, Mr. Williams, it says here you’re the foreman, which means you’re responsible for all that property—shovels, horses and carts. I’m aware you been out of work yourself, from this referral, and that you just picked these men off the street and can’t speak for their characters, so keep an eye out, eh?”
Responsibility. This was the opposite of being an able-bodied laborer, and he was more than ready for it. He nodded, then shouted instructions to the drivers and hopped up onto the front of a cart. The going was slow through the snowy streets, but at last they reached Broadway and Wall. He looked north and south and watched the men plod through the snow beside the carts. The driver got down from his bench, and the stableman-turned-foreman was on the verge of doing so, too, but he paused. He was the foreman, not a laborer. He didn’t really like the idea of just watching other men work; he felt he ought to jump down and work alongside them; but it would hardly be possible with his hands as they were. The newly healed skin would quickly tear. He could never keep up.
Then he thought of his impromptu pulpit back at the bar. He thought of the pastor in the church in Fürth and the way his uncle had marshaled groups of hired hands to bring in the hay in the fall. Speech was a different kind of power from brawn. In every group, there was someone whose job was to talk to the others, to rouse them, to goad them. He’d gotten a taste of that back at Billy’s.
He was the foreman—
the papers in his pocket said so. He looked out at the men in their dark clothes, leaning halfheartedly into their shovels, then wrenching up and flinging loads of snow in all directions. There wasn’t much to say about shoveling snow. He’d done enough of it to know that.
Snow came early and fell heavy in Fürth. It held the whole world in a state of crystal beauty for a good five months, and the only means of travel from Wittold and Hedwig Diespeck’s farm to town was the sleigh with its shiny metal runners and tatty bearskin lap blanket. Deep drifts gathered quickly, and when the wind was from the south snow would fill the entire yard and barricade the doors to the barn. Then he and his uncle would boost his youngest cousin up to the hayloft window to feed the cows, while the rest of the family worked to free up the doors to let the animals out to water at the trough by the well. His uncle took frequent leisurely breaks to admire their progress and smoke his pipe while he and his sister, Lottie, and Tante Hedwig and the cousins grunted and sweated and shivered, all at once. He remembered one snowbound morning in Fürth when Tante Hedwig had been especially peeved. “Get back to work yourself, Wittold, you lazy man!” she’d demanded, and Uncle Wittold did so, but not before dispensing a piece of advice that made the work go easier and faster both, advice no one asked for and no one thanked him for, except in taking it, advice that Will Williams, fugitive from Europe, suspected arsonist and foreman, repeated now for the benefit of his crew:
“Remember, to squat saves the back, men—bend at the knees, not the waist!”
The crunch of metal blades was dull. Their shovels had not yet rung against the cobbles, but the
Luther.
Luther Undertoe. Just seeing the name made the hackles on the back of his neck go up. He wasn’t sure why, but he filed the feeling away and then continued reviewing the names.
They signed up the men in teams of ten, one horse and cart to a team, one shovel to a man, one team to each cross street from Wall to Reade. The first job of all was to clear Broadway all the way down to the streetcar tracks. After that, the crews would work east, then west, if they got to it. When the orders had all been given and the men were ready to set out, the old man looked down at Will’s paper once more and then directly into his eyes.
“Well, Mr. Williams, it says here you’re the foreman, which means you’re responsible for all that property—shovels, horses and carts. I’m aware you been out of work yourself, from this referral, and that you just picked these men off the street and can’t speak for their characters, so keep an eye out, eh?”
Responsibility. This was the opposite of being an able-bodied laborer, and he was more than ready for it. He nodded, then shouted instructions to the drivers and hopped up onto the front of a cart. The going was slow through the snowy streets, but at last they reached Broadway and Wall. He looked north and south and watched the men plod through the snow beside the carts. The driver got down from his bench, and the stableman-turned-foreman was on the verge of doing so, too, but he paused. He was the foreman, not a laborer. He didn’t really like the idea of just watching other men work; he felt he ought to jump down and work alongside them; but it would hardly be possible with his hands as they were. The newly healed skin would quickly tear. He could never keep up.
Then he thought of his impromptu pulpit back at the bar. He thought of the pastor in the church in Fürth and the way his uncle had marshaled groups of hired hands to bring in the hay in the fall. Speech was a different kind of power from brawn. In every group, there was someone whose job was to talk to the others, to rouse them, to goad them. He’d gotten a taste of that back at Billy’s.
He was the foreman—
the papers in his pocket said so. He looked out at the men in their dark clothes, leaning halfheartedly into their shovels, then wrenching up and flinging loads of snow in all directions. There wasn’t much to say about shoveling snow. He’d done enough of it to know that.
Snow came early and fell heavy in Fürth. It held the whole world in a state of crystal beauty for a good five months, and the only means of travel from Wittold and Hedwig Diespeck’s farm to town was the sleigh with its shiny metal runners and tatty bearskin lap blanket. Deep drifts gathered quickly, and when the wind was from the south snow would fill the entire yard and barricade the doors to the barn. Then he and his uncle would boost his youngest cousin up to the hayloft window to feed the cows, while the rest of the family worked to free up the doors to let the animals out to water at the trough by the well. His uncle took frequent leisurely breaks to admire their progress and smoke his pipe while he and his sister, Lottie, and Tante Hedwig and the cousins grunted and sweated and shivered, all at once. He remembered one snowbound morning in Fürth when Tante Hedwig had been especially peeved. “Get back to work yourself, Wittold, you lazy man!” she’d demanded, and Uncle Wittold did so, but not before dispensing a piece of advice that made the work go easier and faster both, advice no one asked for and no one thanked him for, except in taking it, advice that Will Williams, fugitive from Europe, suspected arsonist and foreman, repeated now for the benefit of his crew:
“Remember, to squat saves the back, men—bend at the knees, not the waist!”
The crunch of metal blades was dull. Their shovels had not yet rung against the cobbles, but the
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