THE WATER AND THE WINE

“I wonder what the woman will be like?”  Matthew Allison asked himself, as he glanced down at the empty carriage seat.

“She’ll probably be fat and stupid like all the rest,” he answered himself as he eyed the round rumps of the pacing bay team he was driving.  He was thinking of the two strangers he expected to meet at the stage station later that afternoon.

The high wheeled surrey rolled smoothly along over the narrow, dirt road and the handsome, middle aged man was enjoying the ride and the passing panorama of wooded hills, grassy meadows and scattered farmhouses.  He sat tall and straight in the bright, June sunshine anticipating the arrival of the man and wife who were coming down from Canada.  He had hired the man by letter and all knew about him was that his name was John Gray and he claimed to be an expert horseman.

Allison had been a successful farmer for many years, but lately he had been doing big business in the sale of horses and mules to the boat crews of the newly-completed Ohio and Erie canal that bordered two sides of his fertile, river-bottom farm.  Being an enterprising man, he felt the Canadian could be of great value to him for the Canallers would buy all the good horses and mules that he could provide.

Allison had not lifted one shovel-full of dirt in digging the canal but he had turned a wheelbarrow of dollars his way since it went into operation.  His monthly profit on timber, flour and whiskey had increased.  Flour prices had jumped ten cents on the barrel and whiskey consumption had spiraled.  Allison was smug in the knowledge that he was a very rich man and the envy of many of his less fortunate neighbors.  He owned the flour mill, the distillery and a sawmill in addition to the largest farm in the Licking river valley.  Neither the flour mill nor the distillery demanded his attention, for the miller, Banner Douglas and the distiller, Mike McCurdy were reliable men skilled in their individual trades.

Allison’s farm lay along the north bank of the river and his pretentious home was less than 15 miles from Newark, a town of which Mike McCurdy said “is fast outgrowin’ it’s britches, since the canal boats are runnin’.”

The saw mill was presently inoperative and the last big timber stand had been felled and cribbed down the canal to Chillicothe.  The sawyers had left Allison’s employ to work as mule drivers on the canal, having been induced to do so by the promise of better and regular pay.  Two others had followed the towpath to Portsmouth to be dock hands on the Ohio river.

As Allison came to the end of the 13 mile drive from his home to the stage station on the National Road, he tied his team to the pole hitching rack in front of the old inn and went inside to inquire when the Columbus stage was due.  He found he had some time to wait so he ordered feed for the team and a meal for himself.  He glanced at the calendar above the pigeon hole desk and noted the date was correct.  It was June 14, 1832.