Glory over Everything: Beyond The Kitchen House(27)

“Well, the fur traders buy them from me and offer these silver pieces as trade for pelts. The Indians wear them, particularly the men. There is a great demand for silver, and these are simple enough to make, but we can hardly keep up.”

“Is it all right if I touch them?” I asked, and with his permission, I rifled through. I slipped a ring on my finger and moved my hand about in the air to better see the sparkle of the silver. “Will you show me how to make these?” I asked eagerly, but when he was slow to answer, I noted in surprise his moist eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said, quickly slipping off the ring.

“No. No. You’ve done nothing wrong. It was the way you spoke just now. It was your excitement, you see. I had a son—you reminded me of him just then,” he explained while using his knuckle to dab at a lone tear. “In answer to your question, yes, you will learn to make the rings, but you must be patient.”

And so I was, dutifully carrying out my chores until a few weeks later, when Mr. Burton called me into his office. He sat at his large rolltop oak desk and had me take a seat across from him before he presented me with a document.

“James, I would like you to read this over and consider it carefully. If you sign, you are agreeing to be my apprentice. While I train you as a silversmith, I will continue to provide you with room and board. You will be with me for seven years, but I am hoping that with your artistic talent you will be established well before then.”

“I don’t need to read this. I will sign it,” I said quickly, and handed back the paper.

“No, young man,” he said, giving it back to me. “You must always read through anything before you sign your name. Your signature is the same as giving your word, and keeping your word is the mark of a man’s character. In the end, it is the most valuable thing a man possesses.”

His words cut deep. He had asked a few times about my past, and each time I led him to believe that I was orphaned, with no living relatives. Not only was I deeply grateful to him for having taken me into his home, I also respected this ethical man and I wanted only to tell him the truth. But I was too afraid. I avoided his eyes when I took the paper from him again and hoped he didn’t see how my hand shook when I signed the document as James Smith.


ALTHOUGH MY DAY still included making deliveries, I now was given the opportunity to assist Nicholas in the back room. Initially, I only worked the bellows for the forge, and though my arms grew tired, I found it fascinating to watch the silver coin melt and harden again after it was poured into molds. But it was when Nicholas reheated the ingots and hammered the silver into shape that the artistry began. He did it with such skill that he made the craft look easy. When he finally relented and helped me craft my first silver spoon, I was unprepared for the physical stamina required. After the ingot was heated, it took both strength and dexterity to secure the malleable silver with tongs and then hammer it flat against the anvil. My arm was already sore when we placed the flattened silver over the mold, and when Nicholas handed me yet another hammer, I rubbed my shoulder. “Doesn’t your arm get tired?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Mine does,” I said, moving my shoulder up and down, expecting Nicholas to suggest I take a break.

But Nicholas was not like my grandmother, who had pampered me. Instead he dismissed my complaint with a grunt and nodded for me to continue until the silver began to take shape.

“Now, you got to use a light touch,” Nicholas said, finally handing over a small hammer required to complete the finishing. Mr. Burton came in just then, and as I tapped away, he asked what I was doing.

“I’m doing the planishing,” I said, quick to use the correct terminology, and when I saw Mr. Burton’s approval, I forgot about my shoulder pain.

My admiration and appreciation for the man had grown each day, and my one objective was now to please him. True, I wanted to learn the craft, but more, I wanted Mr. Burton’s good opinion of me, and because of it, I dedicated myself to learning. Likely because of my artist’s hand and eye, the iron punches, chisels, and saws soon grew as comfortable in my hands as my whittling knife, and when Mr. Burton recognized and congratulated me on each progressive step, I was as pleased with myself as I had ever been.

Would that my transition into the Burton household had been as simple.


DELIA’S MEALS WERE of good quality and served to me in the kitchen, where I always ate alone, which suited me. One day when I saw the table set for three, indicating that I was to sit down with Delia and Ed, I said that I would take my meal to my room.

“Who that boy think he is?” I heard Delia ask her brother as I carried my food down the corridor. “He act high and mighty as that Robert!” she added more quietly. Curious, I stopped outside my door to listen for more.

“Now, Del, the boy white,” Ed answered. “You know they don’ eat with no colored folk.”

“Well, for sure he act white, but he hidin’ something, that much I know. He don’ say nothin’ ’bout where he come from or who his family be. He hidin’ somethin’,” she repeated.

“Del!” Ed said. “Even if that true, that his business.”

“It my business to watch out for this house, and for sure it my business to care for Mr. and Mrs. Burton. I tell you, that boy hidin’ somethin’.”

Her insight terrified me, and from then on I was especially wary when fielding her questions.