Chapter 193: For Want of a Bloody Nail
Bert squared his shoulders, then he smoothed his coat with one hand, as if he might still find a crease left there by the last fight he’d been in.
"Albert Thorne."
He gave a small bow toward Whitlock’s corner of the hall. "If I might trouble you with the clarification, sir, my formal name is, of course, a matter of record. However, most of the good citizens here have been gracious enough to know me simply as Bert."
A little laugh moved through the crowd, more out surprise than humor.
Bert drew breath and began to count his points on his fingers. "Whichever direction this town is gracious enough to take first, whether toward the marsh or the harbor, I believe I may safely assure you that either undertaking will proceed considerably more expeditiously once we have iron here with which to work."
He brought up the first finger. "A humble spade will, with sufficient years, sufficient patience, and a sufficient number of unfortunate backs bent over it, eventually produce a ditch of respectable character. But with a good pair of tongs, bellows, and pig iron heated to the appropriate degree, I do believe we could produce that very same ditch in perhaps half the time, and, if I may be so bold, considerably deeper besides."
Then lifted a second finger. "Cut stone and good mortar, laid carefully course by course, would, if I may say so, transform Sawyer’s quays from driftwood and very sincere good intentions into what the sea might actually be obliged to give a moment’s consideration before tearing apart. And, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, the sea has never struck me as particularly respectful of good intentions."
That got his first real laugh, and Bert took it with surprised pleasure.
He raised a third finger. "And beyond either undertaking, there is, if I may put it rather plainly, the most basic necessity of all. A town that cannot cast its own weapons, forge its own hinges, or repair a broken tool without first spending days sailing to Nassau and back is, I fear, a town that must forever remain rather uncomfortably dependent upon the convenience and goodwill of others."
He lowered his hand. "That, I believe, is the whole of it. Though I must apologize, as I appear to have used considerably more words than the matter itself could reasonably be said to deserve, certainly."
Then one more solemn voice rose from deep in the crowd.
"Certainly."
Heads turned, but all they found were more heads and shoulders. James only knew that out there Wesley Thorne had heard enough to pronounce the matter appropriate.
From there, murmurs traveled from the front of the hall and kept going, spilling out toward the plaza as several hundred souls turned the notion over in their minds. Apparently, none of them had thought of it until that very morning.
James watched it and decided, in all his days, he’d never seen an entire town look surprised at the same time.
The odd situation was interrupted by Jim, who walked forth with shining confidence.
"Aye, and I’ll tell ye exactly why this town needs a forge of its own!"
He thumped his fist against his chest. "Léogâne, four years back. Frenchman near twice my size and three times as ugly, callin’ me every name his mother ever taught him over a game of dice he’d already lost fair and square. Drew steel on me, so I drew mine, and mine snapped clean off at the hilt the instant our blades met. Whatever back-alley Frenchman forged the bloody thing put more sand in it than iron!"
He held up both empty hands, looking as though the sword had ought to have apologized by now. "Fought the duel with the stump of the blade and me own bare knuckles, and won it besides. Which ought to tell this whole hall what a man can do with poor tools, and now imagine what this town could do with good ones."
"Last month it was Veracruz, and a Spaniard near seven foot tall!"
"Make up yer mind which harbor ye nearly died in, Jim. Some of us are keepin’ track!"
Jim snickered. "Might’ve been both, been a hard few years."
Another sailor bellowed. "Forget the story, just build the bloody forge before he tells us he beat a whole armada with a broken spoon!"
The laughter was still running through the crowd when a broad-shouldered woman stepped out from Isaiah’s end of the benches. Her forearms had the scars of old burns, and her hands were so thoroughly calloused that no spade or oar could take all the credit.
"Hagar Cole."
She raised both hands so the hall could see them. "Smith by trade, long before I was ever anybody’s property to trade. There’s more than a dozen of us standing in this crowd right now who know a bellows from a bucket, and not one of us has had a forge to prove it since we washed up on this beach."
She let that sit a moment. "I’ve made do with a borrowed anvil and whatever coals I could steal from a cookfire. And I’ll tell ye plain, a cookfire makes a poor forge and an even poorer blacksmith of any woman, no matter how hard she blows on the thing."
That earned a rough laugh of its own, and she let it wash past. More murmurs spread out as citizens and sailors discussed the new information, until one more rose for attention.
It was Black Sam, and his voice came out easily. "I’ll second that, speakin’ as a man whose ship will live or die by decent metalwork. A forge less than a week’s sail away would suit me a sight better than another promise."
Williams put in together. "It also counts for weighting scales and other miscellaneous items."
From there, no more citizens stepped forth. Instead, the crowd broke into a dozen private arguments between people who happened to be standing close enough to disagree.
James let them argue for a while. He watched the town wrestle with itself and found, to his genuine satisfaction, that he liked the sight of it.
He’d spent most of his life being the loudest thing in whatever room he entered. There was gratification about standing back for once and letting several hundred other people do the talking.
Across the hall, he caught Whitlock’s eye, and the man answered with a small nod.
And that was enough.
James raised his voice above the crowd. "Right, then. All three roads have had their say, fair and square, and every one of you has heard enough foolishness to carry you through the season."
That got out a laugh.
"That means you’ve got till the bell rings again to make up your minds. After that, we’ll run the vote!"
He looked out across the plaza for another moment. There was discussions everywhere, along with laughter and raised voices, all of it belonging to a restless little town trying to decide what sort of place it meant to become.
Then James stepped back and let them get on with it.