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back. “They also called him ‘Trout Harris.’ Back then the land teemed with ducks and geese, deer, elk, wolves, bear. And the fish, ah…” He sighed with pleasure. “People talk about the good fishing now, but back then you could almost walk across the creeks on their backs—trout, whitefish, smallmouth bass, even a few Atlantic salmon in Mud Creek.”
    They all stood quietly for a moment, savoring the memory of better times. Then finally Benjamin looked up at the sky. “Well, living off the land nowadays ain’t what it used to be. We don’t get enough wheat and corn in this season, it’s gonna be a lean winter.”
    Harris nodded again, then pulled at his lower lip as he looked at Benjamin. “Ever thought about hiring help?”
    Benjamin looked surprised.
    “Spring’s coming hard on us now. You’ll be wanting to plant within the month.” He stopped, watching Benjamin for a reaction.
    He nodded gravely, keenly aware of the implications of what Harris was saying.
    “You had some money left over from the sale of the farm, Pa,” Nathan said. “I know we’ve been saving it, but we do need to get more land cleared.”
    “Know a family a mile or so south of town,” Harris went on. “Name of Smith. They’ve got two boys who hire out doing farm work. I’ve used them before. Been right pleased with their work.”
    Benjamin leaned down and plucked off the stem of a dried weed. For several moments he chewed on it silently, looking once again out across the small area they had cleared, then at the stands of trees and brush yet waiting for them. Finally, he turned. “Maybe you’re right, Martin. Tell me how to find these boys. I’ll go on down there tomorrow and have a talk with them.”

Chapter Two
    By the second decade of the nineteenth century, Palmyra Village, lying near the western edge of Palmyra Township about twenty miles south of Lake Ontario, had grown from a primitive frontier outpost to a prosperous, bustling town of nearly three thousand people. Much of the growth could be directly attributed to the Erie Canal. Governor De-Witt Clinton’s “big ditch”—considered to be America’s greatest engineering feat—ran just two blocks north of Main Street and paralleled the entire length of the village. The full three hundred sixty-three miles of the canal had finally been opened just eighteen months before the Steeds had arrived in Palmyra Township. Twenty-eight feet wide at the bottom, forty at the waterline, and carrying four feet of water, the canal represented a project as prodigious as any Egyptian pyramid. But with its completion one could travel from Lake Erie to the Atlantic Ocean without leaving the waterway. The time it took to transport goods from Buffalo to New York City was reduced from twenty days to six, and the cost dropped from a hundred dollars a ton to eight.
    Joshua Steed loved the dock area along the canal. So instead of going on to Main Street, he would always turn left just after crossing the waterway and drive along Canal Street. It was a world of its own, sharply separated in many ways from the village life which lay just one block south. There was a constant stream of barges moving both upstream and down. The mule and horse teams plodding slowly along the canal banks kept the boats moving at a steady pace of four miles per hour—as good as any stagecoach on the rough, muddy roads of the time. Surprisingly, the barges were a splash of color meant to assault the eye. Most carried passengers as well as freight, and their captains painted the topsides with the gaudiest shades of reds, greens, and yellows imaginable to attract business.
    Most villagers looked down on the canal boatmen, or “canawlers,” as they were called, with the utmost disdain and not a little fear. Smoking a tobacco strong enough to choke a goat, driving their animals with language not even found in the barrooms of America, unashamedly fraternizing with the sluttish, hard-looking women who slept with