Kevin slapped the lead mule in the haunch. “Giddap, Mike! Bessie! Up now!” Tom had jumped back onto the scow and the mules drew the towline taut, leaning forward against their harnesses with muscles flexed and ears twitching. Lee watched from the lock wall. Starting a boat from a dead stop was a real strain on the mules, even with a small boat like the scow. For a loaded coal boat, a two-mule team might have to thrust against their harnesses for a minute before they could take a single step. Some captains would bring out two teams to start a loaded boat. If the load was too heavy, the mules could get spavined legs, and then the swelling around their joints was very painful. Lee walked back to open both wickets on the nearest upstream gate, and the swell of water into the lock helped push the stern forward. With the mules pulling steadily, the scow crept out onto the next level of the canal.
They tied up next to the towpath and Kevin unharnessed the mules while Tom set up the feed trough. On one side of it was a folding leg, which he unfolded. On the other was a rope, which he tied to a tree across the towpath. Mules couldn’t knock over this kind of trough. Tom dumped in the contents of the bucket and the mules began feeding half-heartedly. Rejoining his cousins, Lee saw that the hay looked discolored and old.
“Hand me your bucket and I’ll fetch them some corn,” he told Tom. Charlie’s corn-crib was in the side-yard of the lockhouse, and Lee drew half a bucket of dried kernels. He added it to the trough and the mules immediately ate with more enthusiasm. He noticed that the chestnut hair on the backs and hindquarters of the mules was sweat-streaked and dirty, speckled with the debris of budding trees. The harness pads were worn thin and more flies than Lee would have expected circled the mules. “You ever curry that team?” he asked Kevin.
Kevin chuckled and spat a stream onto the towpath. “After every trip…whether they need it or not!” He wiped juice from his lower lip, then continued in a confiding voice. “Mike and Bess are a good team. They don’t call for much special attention.”
“My stomach is calling for a little special attention,” Tom said. He had pulled his knife from its sheath and was using the tip to explore the undersides of his fingernails.
“You speak for us all, my brother,” Kevin said. “Lee, how about you join us for a bite of supper while we rest the mules?”
Lee’s stomach growled at the mention of food. He’d made himself a stack of pancakes for breakfast but overlooked lunch. “I guess I’m hungry enough,” he said.
“Well we have some commendable bean soup we can offer you, courtesy of my faithful Ellie,” Kevin said. “Tom and I were savoring it last night when we both realized that it might benefit from a little added smokiness. Maybe a few slices of smoked beef or pork.”
Tom flipped his knife in the air and caught it by the handle in mid-rotation. “Fresh turtle’d be better still, if you got one. Slice him up and stew him. We got a stove of hot coals going in the galley.”
Lee exhaled in resignation. “I ain’t caught no turtles this year. Hardly even seen one yet. But I got a quarter leg of cured ham in the lockhouse. My mother sent it with me when she heard I might be down at Pennyfield for a week. I’ll take a few cuts and bring ‘em on board.”
“We’ll take care of the libations,” Kevin said.
Lee walked back to the lockhouse and hacked three slices out of the ham leg in the kitchen. He carried a diced plateful back out to the scow. Kevin and Tom had raised hatch number five and were tossing aside the top layer of firewood beneath it to reveal a large wooden barrel, lying on its side. They struggled to raise one end of the barrel a few inches, and Tom pushed a log underneath to keep it tilted. Kevin held a ceramic jug under a tap on the opposite end. He twisted the tap open and a clear liquid flowed from the barrel. When the jug was half full, Kevin shut off the tap and they put the barrel, the cord-wood and the hatch back in place.
“I think you’ll find that Washington County moonshine brings out the flavor in that ham,” Kevin said to Lee. He spat the remainder of his chaw into the canal and gestured for Lee to follow him to the stern cabin. “And Ellie’s bean soup just seems a little lost without it.” The cabin was six feet long and ten feet wide – two feet narrower than the scow – with a square window on each side. Lee ducked his head as he shuffled down the three narrow steps and through the door. The first thing he saw was a coal-burning stove in the right-front corner. Tom was already using a long spoon to stir the contents of a stew pot on the burner. Lee gave him the plate of ham chunks and Tom grunted an acknowledgement as he dumped the ham into the pot. The warmth from the stove permeated the cabin and for Lee was a welcome change from the cool late-afternoon air outside.
To the left of the stove on the forward wall was a freestanding cupboard that held assorted plates, bowls, cups and utensils in its lower shelves and the limited provisions of the Emorys’ kitchen behind its single door. Beans, a few eggs, five or six potatoes, flour, Crisco, coffee, and sugar. Below the window to Lee’s left, two narrow bunks were built into the wall, one above the other. To the immediate left of the entryway, a small drop-leaf table was anchored to the aft wall, its free end projecting into the room. Two wooden stools stood alongside it.
“Welcome to Emory’s house of fine dining,” Kevin said, extending the table to its full length and pushing one of the stools toward Lee with his boot. He retrieved three mismatched tin cups and two glazed-clay bowls from the cupboard and put them on the table. Not finding another bowl, he settled on a small frying pan and put that on the table as well, along with banged-up metal spoons. “With no woman on board, meals are a little less elegant than we like them to be.” He splashed a few fingers of moonshine from the jug into each of the cups. At the stove, Tom ladled overflowing spoonfuls of bean soup into the bowls and frying pan, then ferried them to the table. Kevin collected his cup and the frying pan and sat back on the lower bunk, facing Lee across the table. Tom took the stool to Lee’s right.
Lee salivated as the smell of hot soup rose to his nostrils. He put a spoonful in his mouth and the soup’s heat warmed his whole body. Navy beans, large chunks of softened potatoes, stewed tomatoes that had almost dissolved, and a bit of onion. And Kevin was right that the ham made a difference. He greedily took another spoonful.
Lee watched Kevin tilt his cup back and close his eyes while not swallowing, just letting the raw whiskey massage his lips and trickle into his mouth. Kevin opened his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Now that, cousin, is the taste of money. Thanks to our friends in Washington, D.C.” Tom snorted contemptuously between slurped spoonfuls, then threw back a slug of whiskey without taking his eyes off his bowl.
Lee stared at the three fingers of moonshine in his own cup, and the alcohol vapors made his eyes water. He emulated Kevin, taking a slow sip and holding it in his mouth. The heat was round and almost palpable but the whiskey had very little taste. When he swallowed, it sent a warm kick into his chest that briefly expelled the air from his lungs. He lowered the cup and slurped air as his eyes teared up. “It may be money,” he said, turning back to his soup, “but it sure ain’t legal tender. How much are you hauling?”
“Two barrels for a customer in Georgetown,” Kevin said, digging back into the soup. “Fifty-three gallons each.” He belched and wiped his lips on his hand. “And another barrel to sell by the gallon along the canal. We got customers at a few of the locks and stores. And some fixing to be middlemen, like your friend who got stuck down at the end of this level.”
“You mean the captain on number 41?” Lee said, caught off-guard. “Cy Elgin?”