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"No choice, Sam."
The logging boss nodded gloomily. "At least we've managed to get some wood alcohol out of the sawdust and chips," he said.
"Doc Coleman'll be glad. Needs it for disinfectant." Someday they might get enough to use as motor fuel.
"We could do more if Leaton could send us someone who could do real repairs on the metalwork," Macy said. "That's one of the big things holding us up, sending broken parts back to the island. That and the fact that only a few of us have even a faint idea of what we're doing. God, some of these people, they can't lift a sandwich without putting their backs out-and making charcoal is dangerous. Get airing the pile just a little wrong, and it can explode, not just spoil the load."
Cofflin chuckled. "You think you've got problems that way," he said. "You should hear Leaton." His face grew serious. "Now let's settle this little matter."
They stepped into one of the big cabins. The floor and the fireplace at one end were local rock, hastily shaped and then cemented together. Light came from windows cut through the logs, but it was a little gloomy inside nonetheless. The pothooks and andirons that held a black iron cauldron over the low flames were a hundred and eighty years old, and had spent the last couple of generations in a museum, but they were still functional. Two figures sat at a table made of a single great plank, holding hands. They stood defiantly as Chief Cofflin walked in. He peered.
"Why, I thought… Sam, you can build a house, you can run a lumber camp, but you can't send a message to save your life. I thought you said it was Ed Smith who'd gotten her pregnant."
"That's Fred Smith. I swear, Jared, I said Fred."
Edward Smith was this boy's father, in his fifties, married with three children. Jared Cofflin had come over from Nantucket ready to kick some molesting butt, full of righteous anger.
Cofflin sighed. Another thing that was hard to get used to, not being able to call up and settle details over the phone. Radios were precious, used for emergencies, batteries even more so-though Sam was talking about hooking a car alternator up to the waterwheel here once they had time to get the necessary gearing done back at Seahaven.
"Let's sit down and talk this over, why don't we?" Cofflin said.
Nice girl, he thought. Black hair in a ponytail, blue eyes, scrubbed outdoors look. The kid had a scraggly begi
"Fred Smith, Tiffany Penderton?" Cofflin asked.
The camp cook brought them four mugs of hot liquid from a smaller pot over the fire. It was sassafras tea, deep red and a little astringent despite the honey added to sweeten it. Sure as hell isn't coffee. Still, having a cup of something in your hand helped to break the ice.
"Son, there's been a misunderstanding here," Cofflin said. The boy's hand tightened on the girl's. "The report reached me secondhand, and I heard it as Ed Smith being the man responsible."
Tiffany giggled, looking much younger. Her companion went blank for a second, and then said: "Dad?" After a moment he went on: "Sir, when I heard you were coming, and we were supposed to drop everything and meet you, I thought that Tiffany's parents had, um…"
"Got to me, yes, I know, son."
The tension around the table dissolved into laughter. "All right. Now, I understand you two are willing to do the right thing?"
They nodded. "Yeah. We've been pla
"That long?" Cofflin said dryly. "Well, it's breaking out all over, isn't it?" They looked at him as if he were an alien being, or a different order of creature at least. "Mrs. Cofflin is expecting as well."
Polite bafflement this time, and perhaps slight horror. Well, it must seem u
"Remember, taking care of a baby is a lot of work-on top of everything else you have to do."
"I'm not afraid of work," the boy said.
"Isn't, at that," Macy amplified. "Good hand, learned as fast as any of us. Tiffany's a dab eye for edible greenery, too."
As if on cue, the cook came back with four bowls and a platter of thick-cut bread. There wasn't any butter, but the bread was still hot from the oven, and there were mushrooms and some sort of chunky root in the venison stew. "Pity you don't have much time to hunt," he said. "Some people back on the island would kill for this." Wild mustard leaves and chives, too, he decided.
He went on: "Well, do you want a church wedding back in town, or what?"
"No, sir," Smith said earnestly. "We really like it here, and our parents, well, ah, actually Tiffany's parents, well…"
"I understand," he said. The Pendertons were coofs, and pretty well-to-do at that. Ed Smith had been a garage mechanic, before the Event. "When do you want the ceremony?"
He certainly rated as better than a justice of the peace, all things considered. As long as it was performed in public and duly witnessed, they weren't being technical about weddings.
"Tonight, Chief?" Tiffany Penderton said quietly.
"Why not?"
He ate another spoonful of the venison stew. You could probably get sick of this-he'd gotten tired of lobster lately- but it was a very pleasant change. The deer on Nantucket would be killed out soon. When they had time, maybe they could send some more hunting parties ashore…
Time, he thought, smiling at the youngsters. Time was he'd have thought the pregnancy a sign of trouble to come, and the kids far too young; plus they'd probably never have been thrown together enough to meet. Not everything about the Event had been a disaster.
"I wish Ms. Stoddard-I mean, Ms. Cofflin-could be here," Tiffany said wistfully. "It was a lot of fun, being in the Scouts with her teaching us things."
Not everything, by any ma
Cofflin looked around at the tone in his voice, and waited while he controlled his breathing.
"Chief, there's an Indian up the track-just where we were cutting those black walnut. He's just standing there, keeps putting his hand up empty and talking Indian at us."
Cofflin and Sam Macy looked at each other. "Solve one problem…" Macy began.
"… get another," Cofflin replied. "I'd better go take a look."
"There!" Swindapa whispered close to her ear. "There, see?"
Marian Alston bent slowly and peered through the thorny scrub, squinting. It was a gray day, low cloud scudding by overhead like cavalry of the sky, with an occasional spatter of rain; the air was so moist it would have been fog, if the wind hadn't been at twenty knots from the south. A flicker of brown ears… a deer, its lips and tongue cropping delicately at the new growth.
No harm there… but beyond this thicket was the rolling surface of one of Angelica Brand's new grainfields. Shoots of wheat ran bluish-green over what had been thicket and moorland a few short months ago, rippling nearly calf-high in the wind. Except for some near the edge of the cleared zone, eaten down to the roots. There were a thousand deer on Nantucket, or had been when the island was covered in scrub and moorland. They had to go, now that it was to be farmland once more. Fencing was out of the question this year at least, and couldn't be deer-proof anyway.
Besides, I crave red meat, Alston thought. Hunting was useful recreation, in the intervals between taking the Eagle out, training, overseeing the militia, getting the fishing fleet built and maintained. She enjoyed it; Swindapa gloried in it.