The Mare Behind the Gate
The mare behind his gate could have paid my coal bill twice over. I stood there in New York in 1848 with the pigment works' invoice in my hand, trying to understand why the man who owned her could send me home empty. My wife was waiting for that money.
Click the image to view it full size.
I had hauled coal to the works since spring. Three men had started it to make blue pigment for cloth printers. They had signed a certificate at the county clerk's office and sent a duplicate to the secretary of state. The founder had told me, smiling, that they hadn't needed a legislator to grant them a charter. I had liked the sound of that.
For weeks I watched the men heat the vats and fill blue-stained barrels. Then a cloth printer ordered more than they had ever made. I brought another wagon of coal. The printer took the first barrels and failed before paying. When I came back with my bill, the fires were out.
The founder met me at his gate. Behind him, his daughter held hay up to the mare. He said the works had no money left. I asked him to pay me himself. He shook his head. Hadn't he ordered the coal? I had watched him nod when I brought the wagon in.
I went to the county clerk. The founders had paid in all the money they had pledged to the company, and another certificate recording that payment had been filed before I sold them the coal. I took the record and my invoice to a lawyer. My invoice named the works. I wanted the founder's signature on the company papers to count as a promise to me. He had signed no such promise on my bill.
The lawyer said I could pursue what remained of the works. I pictured the cold vats, then the mare eating in the yard. I knew which one would fetch a better price.
I went back to the gate once more. The founder came out with his wife. His daughter stayed beside the mare. I folded my bill and walked home.
My wife opened our coin box. Our son asked when the coal wagon would go out again. I looked at the few coins inside and said, “Tomorrow.”