The Lift and Fall of the Ax

The service came to a close much earlier than usual. Horatio Biddle’s sermon ended with a “thirdly” rather than a “tenthly.” At every crash from the burial ground, Horatio flinched and the face of his wife grew darker. When he quavered, “We will forego the final hymn,” there was a slamming shut of hymnbooks and a rush for the door.

The noonday sun shone brightly down on the green hillside, on the scattered tombstones and the pale stump of the chestnut tree. It shone on the strange spectacle of Josiah Gideon savagely at work in the welter of fallen branches, and on the men and women flooding out of the church to watch the lift and fall of his ax. It shone on the woman who came last, picking her way slowly among the gravestones, Julia Gideon.

Ingeborg Biddle followed, too, in an equal state of dismay. Her husband strode ahead of her, trying to persuade himself that it had been Josiah Gideon who had committed the original offense by desecrating the resting place of Deacon Sweetser. “Sir,” he shouted at Josiah, “may I ask what you think you are doing?”

Josiah gave him a burning glance, steadied a thick bough under his foot, lifted the ax, and brought it whistling down.

“Church property,” cried Horatio. “I command you, sir, to desist.”

Josiah did not desist. Crash went his ax, and crash again.

Courageously, Horatio Biddle took a step forward, as though to wrest the ax from the madman’s hands, but when Josiah turned toward him with the ax held high, Horatio thought better of it and withdrew. Ingeborg withdrew also. As she stumbled away, she stared straight into the faces of her friends for sympathy, but Elfrida Poole looked down, and Ella Viles simpered, and Abigail Whittey blew her nose. Only Julia Gideon gave Ingeborg a direct and troubled glance.

Thirty-seven men and women of the congregation remained in a silent circle around the prostrate tree, watching the powerful lift and crashing fall of Josiah Gideon’s ax. If any precise recorder had been on hand to note down the names, his list would have looked like this:

Arthur Wall, pharmacist

Frank Wheeler, attorney, and Martha Wheeler

George Blood, farmer, and his wife, Pearl

Elfrida Poole, widow, mistress of the pianoforte

Samuel Bigelow, judge of the district court, and Lydia Bigelow, arranger of noonings, fairs, and bake sales for the benefit of the parish

Phineas Wilder, postmaster, and Wilhelmina Wilder

Jarvis Brown, attorney, and Eliza Brown

David Kibbee, dairy farmer and selectman

Potter Viles, merchant, his wife, Joan, and daughter, Ella

The Misses Dorothea and Margaret Rochester

Miss Abigail Whittey, widow

Jedediah Eaton, professor of Latin at Harvard College

Samuel Brooks, retired clergyman

Joseph Hunt, farmer, and Eugenia Hunt, painter of artistic lamp shades

David Monroe, farmer, and his widowed mother, Alice

Jonas Todd, banker, and Dorothea Todd

Theodore Wilbur, district schoolmaster

Charles Holland, farmer, and Annie Holland

Artemus Grout, sheriff, and Eleanora Grout

Reuben Mills, farmer, and Dora Mills

Miss Cynthia Smith, spinster

Douglas Pease, merchant

Richard Doll, resident, Nashoba Home Farm

Gradually, the crowd thinned and dispersed, until no one was left but Josiah, savagely rending branches from the trunk of the tree. But within the hour, Ted Wilbur was back with an armful of tools, and by evening the whole town of Nashoba echoed with the crashing of axes and the wheezing of crosscut saws.

Women and children had come, too, and now, following the sturdy example of Lydia Bigelow, they were stumbling in the tumbled chaos of the shattered tree, hauling away the heavy boughs and dragging them into piles.

Julia Gideon was not among them. Julia was at home, watching from the window of the sitting room, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry. The gathering of carts and buggies and the cheerful confusion were exhilarating, but at the same time she was profoundly distressed by her husband’s fury. No matter how righteous it was, no matter how justified, where would it lead him? Unable to watch any longer or listen to the buzzing of the saws and the chopping whack of the axes, Julia withdrew to the kitchen and made noises of her own, thumping bowls on the table and clashing her bread pans.

At another window, James kept his own vigil. When Isabelle said, “James, would you like to lie down?” he shook his head violently. Resigned, she left him and joined her mother in the kitchen. The fire in the stove had gone out. Isabelle lifted the lid of the firebox, dropped in a bundle of kindling, and set it alight.

James remained alone at his window, watching the turmoil across the road. In anguish, he thought of the use he could make of the hooks on his arms if only he could be out there with the others. His strong arms quivered in their eagerness to grasp and haul away the heaviest of the severed branches.

When Isabelle heard a knock on the door, she ran to throw it open for Eben Flint. There was no need to speak. Eben looked at her soberly and went at once to James. Eagerly, James turned from the window and lifted his hooked hands. Eben understood him at once, but he only gripped James by the shoulder and left the house with a whetstone in one hand and an ax in the other. Soon he was over the wall and hard at work with the others, slashing at the limbs of the fallen tree.

From the top of the burial ground, high on the knoll beside the church, the tall stone of Deacon Sweetser looked serenely down.