Sorry everyone, wasn't physically well enough to write. Much better now, and I have two chapters for you to read. Chapter 60 will be published today as well, have to do things a bit slower than usual though, which is a pain in the... since my brain doesn't agree with my body and doesn't want to slow down.
McCarthy had kept his word. He made John go to bed and smell the food and listen to them eat. John didn't mind and just blocked it out. He was used to being hungry for most of his life, it was a laughable punishment for someone like him.
McCarthy didn't say another word to John and neither did anyone else. They barely talked to each other. Even Horace kept his mouth shut for once, throughout the whole of dinner time. It must have been torture for him too.
After dinner McCarthy disappeared and didn't come back. His wife too just left once she was done cleaning her kitchen. John had wanted to say something to her but couldn't even look at her, for fear she would look away. He didn't know what he wanted to say to her though anyway.
He could hear them do their prayers and talk to each other until late, but neither of them came back to him to pray with him. John tried not to care. Most of the time he didn't believe in a god anyhow and even when he did, he knew he wasn't listening to him or anyone praying for him.
But he liked the idea of someone like McCarthy pray to his god for his brothers, which is why John always answered, he had not, when McCarthy asked him if he had done his prayers yet. McCarthy then would come back into the kitchen, sternly order him out of bed, tell him to kneel down in front of it with folded hands, and then knelt down beside him. The prayer itself meant nothing to John, the idea of a heavenly father watching out over him, all seeing, all hearing, was not an attractive prospect for someone like him, but rather a foreboding one. But McCarthy always ended his prayers with "...and look out for and protect all those who care for this boy, and are close to this boy's heart," which made John think of his little brothers and all his friends even Walls, but especially Jeremiah and Numees, Matunaagd, and Enkoodabooaoo. He didn't like to admit it, but it helped him fall asleep even though it made him sad that his ma had missed out on those prayers, and he was wondering if she had been less unfortunate if she hadn't.
That night sleep did not come easy to him and when it did it was short-lived and upsetting. Sleep did not bring peace that night. Once, he was certain he was awake and could hear a baby cry. He was convinced it was his baby brother Charlie, but then he realised it couldn't be, because he was lying on his bench in McCarthy's kitchen and Charlie was far away, and also not a baby anymore. The crying did not stop though which scared him. He just could not understand why there was a baby crying until he fully woke up and realised it was the cat miaowing outside. She was hungry too, so he let her in and offered her some food from the slop bucket with the food that was meant for the pigs.
The cat licked his fingers clean, and John wondered if it would do him too if McCarthy decided he wasn't worth to be given food to the next day neither.
It wasn't fair. He'd used bad language, but he had more than paid the price for that when Blunt hit him in front of everyone. His shoulder was still somewhat sore from it, even when he had it in his sling and wasn't moving it. And he had not run away, he was going to come back to the shop, he didn't deserve to be beaten for that either. And that slap in the face?! Just because he'd told them the truth. Maybe his choice of words could have been better. He shouldn't have used the F word. All week McCarthy had warned him about the foul words that kept slipping out of his mouth, but no matter how hard he tried, he kept forgetting, he couldn't help it. It's how he talked when he was mad. Why should he change for them? And he didn't regret what he said anyhow. It was the truth was it not? They didn't care. They hadn't wanted him from the beginning. He might as well be a slave.
Up to now they had treated him well though, he had to admit. They fed him and given him new clothes. But then they were good to their pigs too. They'd be no use to them otherwise. McCarthy had said so himself. Nothing was free, he had to work it off, he'd said when he'd told him he'd buy him a warm coat. He'd be no use to him frozen to death, he'd said. He was no use to them with his broken shoulder either, which is why McCarthy kept complaining about his injury taking too long to heal. A one-armed apprentice was no use to him and now he even cost him a day's work.
'And that is why they were angry with him. That is what they cared about. And only that!' John argued angrily in his head.
He figured his days with the carpenter were probably numbered, since now his injury was going to take even longer to heal. Just like the days of the pigs in the barn were numbered as well.
McCarthy would soon enough get rid of him when he realised, he wasn't worth the trouble.
He was going to get rid of the pigs soon and they'd been no trouble at all, McCarthy told them only this morning, on the way to school. Their usefulness was not in being kept around. Apparently, it had been their first time to do this, but it was well worth the little effort it took, McCarthy had explained proudly. He'd asked the butcher to come around next week to help him slaughter the two animals. He'd ask him to come on one of the days during which John wasn't in school. He would need him that day to assist in the barn, the lads as well, McCarthy told him. His experience working on the farms should come in handy, McCarthy suggested.
McCarthy also told them that he would be getting another two piglets next spring again, and then told Horace that it could be his task to get them to their what he called 'finishing weight'. He'd give him a penny for each pound McCarthy suggested. Horace seemed to like that idea. John was wondering if that also meant that Horace would have to be the one helping with the butchering that year but didn't dare to ask in case they thought it was something Horace couldn't do because of his body being all twisted.
He certainly wasn't looking forward to it and would like to avoid it if only he could. It was one thing shooting an animal from the distance that had a fair chance to run away from you, but watching strong men wrestle a squealing pig down to the ground, and then being made catch the blood that was spurting from the terrified animal's throat with a large bowl, because nothing was allowed to go to waste, all the while the pig was still struggling against the men's hold, still trying to run away despite the fatal cut on his throat and despite the men still wrestling with it, was a completely different matter. It was more than unpleasant. It was a stomach-churning affair, and no amount of reminding himself that the pig had been raised for this, and that he was going to like the sausages, beacon and ham, that were going to be made from this poor animal's meat helped him in any way, at the time. It had been his first time and he had been talking to that very pig every day since he'd been on that farm. His experience on the farm had been useful alright. After that day he made a point of not looking into the eyes of any of an animal that was raised to be slaughtered. He still stroked them now and then, and made sure they were okay. It wasn't their fault.
Hungry and upset, John got up to check the door to the pantry, even though he knew already it was locked. He had heard McCarthy tell his wife to lock it when she was finished with her kitchen, and then also heard her do it.
"And bring the key with you," McCarthy had scornfully told her.
John lit the lamp and had a look around for the key, nevertheless. What if this, and not the belt or sweeping the leaves in their backyard was McCarthy's go to punishment from now on? He'd been in trouble with the man over one thing or another almost every day since he came here. There was no doubt in John's mind that he wouldn't be able to live up to McCarthy's standards in the long run. He'd starve. McCarthy wouldn't let it come to that though, John mused. He would probably through him out before that would happen.
He found Mrs McCarthy had put everything edible away into her pantry as she had done every night. Everything bar the slop bucket for the pigs that was. John lifted the board of wood that lay across it as a makeshift lid and scrunched up his nose. Not that long ago he would have been delighted to be able to bring such a feast back to his brothers. It was all edible, all fresh, from the same day, vegetable skins, the ends of carrots, the heels of the bread, the raw fat and rind of the meat she cooked, and Horace's' leftovers from his supper on top. There'd be some cooked oatmeal with dried fruit on the bottom as well. His parents kept telling him to finish eating what was on his plate but never made Horace do it. There were foods Horace point blank refused to eat. McCarthy himself sometimes had leftovers on his plate.
John got himself a spoon from the drawer and tried some. It wasn't that bad, just cold and all mixed up, but it would do if it had to. He wasn't that hungry though, nor did he ever want to be that hungry again, but figured it was better than fearing being send to an orphanage every time he did something wrong.
And before he thought too much about it, he found himself in McCarthy's office stuffing the slingshot and the marshal's bowie knife into Edwards' satchel that contained all of the other things that he owned. He took out his mother's brooch and put it on top of McCarthy's desk. He had no real attachment to it. Her photograph and the jewellery she wore every day and let them play with sometimes, meant a lot more to him. Jeremiah had thought it was worth at least as much as a good horse, so he imagined it should be enough to pay for the warm coat, shoes, and clothes they bought him, and also the three cigars that he swiped from the living room just for the sake of it. He made an effort to leave McCarthy a note and hoped he would be able to figure out what he wrote. He imagined McCarthy was probably glad to be rid of him and hoped the brooch would appease the man enough so he wouldn't send the sheriff after him.
He decided to head for the train station, try to board a train and make his way back to Salesville and from there to Walls' ranch. Somehow. He wasn't giving it too much thought but imagined Walls would help, and should know what had happened to his friends because Delaney sure hadn't been making all that much sense.
Did Delaney say he had heard they had been killed? Or was it just something that people had told him they thought might have happened? Or was he downright lying because he was drunk and offended because John had rejected his offer to come along?
He had been lucky that night. It had been no problem finding the place. There was a full moon and a clear sky, although this also meant that the night's air was crisp and freezing cold. Despite him walking fast and wearing his coat that Mrs McCarthy had bought him, Numees jacket underneath and his new boots, he was frozen to the bone when an hour later, he got to the train station at the other end of town. The weather had suddenly turned. The icy wind was razor sharp.
With nothing to do and his teeth chattering from the cold, having arrived at the train station hours before daylight and before the first train would pass through, John started to worry. The long walk in the icy weather had made him realise how difficult it was going to be to travel this time of year on his own, and how ill prepared exactly he was. He should have stolen a bit of money for a train ticket or at least a bedroll and some blankets instead of the three cigars. What if he didn't manage to get onto the train. What if he was caught mid-way and made to get off. And who was he even going to find at the other end of the journey?
All day long, John had been swaying between feeling distraught and thinking it absurd that his friends could be slain by that miserable mob that had come to Walls' ranch. The thought occurred to him now that if that mob really did manage to kill them, they might have killed Walls and his family too. And then what?
John decided he had been foolish to just launch himself at Delaney before he had told him everything he knew, so he decided to make up for this foolishness by calling in on Delaney at the livery which was conveniently placed beside the train station. He should be able to nick some blankets and a bedroll there too.
He was a little apprehensive of Delaney, but then told himself that he needn't be. He was used to men like Delaney. There'd been plenty of Delaneys all around him growing up in New York. McCarthy's slap had been nothing in comparison to that of Delaney but at least he felt he deserved it, and he could have avoided it too, had he not been so hot headed again. To call someone an English bastard who exclaimed to be of Irish decent in such an enthusiastic manner had been downright stupid and, in this case, also uncalled for. Delaney had given him shelter when Blunt was after him and offered to take him with him and had asked for nothing in return, wasn't that proof enough that he was a decent enough fellow and friend. So what, that the man talked ill about his friends, most drunks said things they didn't mean when they were tanked-up and then regretted it later on when they had sobered up again, John mused. It meant nothing. His mother had done so all the time. So what if he didn't like Quakers and Indians. Lots of people didn't. That alone didn't make him a bad person, did it? Jeremiah had said so himself. Most people are just afraid of that what they don't know, they just need to experience for themselves that people are people no matter what. And anyhow, the opposite was also true. McCarthy didn't seem to mind the Indians all that much and had a friend that was black yet was a colossal arsehole, nevertheless. It meant nothing, he convinced himself successfully.
Frozen, hungry and feeling somewhat nauseous from the fear and nervousness, John knocked on the little one room shack that was attached to the livery and whisper called for Delaney to open up. But Delaney did not answer, and John did not dare to call any louder for fear he could wake up the owner of the livery, whose big house stood next to the sizeable barn. Neither did he dare to even check if the door was unlocked. Friend, or no friend, Delaney was not the kind of man you just sneak up on while asleep.
After several minutes of knocking and calling futilely John decided to shelter in the barn itself until Delaney would make an appearance having to feed the animals first thing in the morning.
As expected, he found it unlocked. but when he had a good look around for a place to sleep, he also noticed that Delaney's own horse was gone. Not knowing what to do next, but too cold to do nothing, and knowing that going back to McCarthy was not an option and neither was staying in the barn to be found by the owner or some other employee, John decided to go back to the little shack in the hope Delaney would return before daybreak and the first train would arrive.
Wrapped up in several heavy horse blankets he had found in the barn and dragged into the shed, one at the time because he still could only use one arm, he waited for the man he had decided was his only friend right now. He didn't intend to fall asleep there but after several hours of nothing happening, did so, all the same.