Young ALEXANDEr
The Blacksmith’s Apprentice
The story of Young Alexander Davidson III
The story of Young Alexander Davidson III
Alexander Davidson II and Sarah Ellis scripted their opening chapters of their familial saga in the fertile soil of Gloucester County, Virginia. Their union bore fruit in the form of three offspring. Their first born, Alexander the III, born on the 31st of January in the year 1743, heralded the dawn of a new generation in Gloucester County. 2nd, Phillip Davidson, graced with life in 1746, and third William Davidson, drawing breath in the environs of Spotsylvania Co. Virginia in 1748, completed the triad of siblings to the Davidson name.
But before, the Davidson lineage became anchored into the hallowed grounds of Virginia, unfurling their hopes with threads of valor, lineage, and the indomitable spirit that could echo across generations. The Davidson saga continues to unfold, guided by the hand of fate. Death, that relentless tempest of fate, unyielding and indifferent, swept through the serene countryside of Gloucester County, leaving in its wake the cold reality of mortality. Alexander Davidson, wedded to his cherished Sarah Ellis in 1742, and met his untimely demise in the wintry clutches of January 1748. The tranquility of their familial haven shattered, leaving Sarah Ellis Davidson to confront the arduous task of navigating the Virginia legal system.
In the dimly lit courthouse chambers of Spotsylvania, Virginia, a solemn covenant unfolded, encapsulated in the weighty prose of a legal bond. "Know all men by these," the document began, a pact was sealed with the signatures and seals of Sarah Davidson, William Ellis (her Uncle), and John Gordon. Bound by the inexorable ties of law, they committed to a financial pledge of one hundred and fifty pounds, a sum reflective of the gravity of their obligations to the Justices of the Peace. The conditions of this solemn undertaking laid bare the intricacies of Sarah Davidson's newfound role as Administratrix. A custodian of the legacy left by Alexander Davidson, she undertook a meticulous inventory of his estate, encompassing every chattel and credit within her purview, while the County Court of Spotsylvania loomed as the arbiter of her fidelity to this duty, with an obligation to present the inventory at their behest.
As the ink dried upon the parchment, the fate of Alexander Davidson's estate, the ledger closed on the tangible remnants, deposited in Spotsylvania County's archives with Alexander Davidson’s legacy, reduced down to pounds and shillings. Each entry, a chapter in the story of a life now archived, and the Will Book stood as the silent witness to the quantifiable remnants of mortality.
However, Alexander Davidson II's story was unfolded again into the meticulous nuances of legal prose. Scribed upon the pages of history in those same austere halls of Spotsylvania County courthouse, the dictates of justice unfolded under the watchful gaze of the esteemed officials, a second pact was written in a script of obligations. It was on the third day of October in the year 1752, where again, William Ellis, is bound by a covenant of two hundred pounds in the current coin of Virginia, acknowledging his commitment before the Justices of the Court.
"Know all men by these presents,…” the declaration resonated, a proclamation sealed in the wax of solemnity. William Ellis, bound to the Gent Justices of Spotsylvania County, embarks on a new responsibility marked by obligation and safeguarding, the guardianship of William Ellis, a mantle shouldered in service to the three Davidson orphans. Alexander Davidson (III), Phillip, and William bereft of their father, and now their mother Sarah, found refuge under the oversight of William Ellis. The condition of the obligation, an additional responsibility, stipulated that William Ellis, along with his heirs, Executors, and Administrators, would dutifully pay the dues of the estate to the young wards until they matured to lawful age.
A vow to save and protect the justices, their heirs, and successors from the tumultuous seas of troubles or damages that might surge around the estate, and became the linchpin of their commitment. Sealed and delivered in the presence of witnesses, a symbol of fidelity imprinted in the wax of the Court's Clerk.
In the burgeoning expanse of the thirteen colonies, a tapestry of humanity was unfolding, woven with threads of white inhabitants. A tableau of life that comprised a staggering one million four hundred and three thousand souls, each entangled in the complexities of colonial existence.
Virginia, considered a jewel in the colonial crown, stood as the dwelling place for one hundred and sixty-eight thousand white denizens. To the south, North Carolina echoed with the footsteps of nearly seventy thousand, while its southern sister, South Carolina, harbored forty thousand souls. In the nascent lands of Georgia, a modest congregation of five thousand marked the limits of settlement. Thus, the expansive terrain south of the Potomac bore witness to the presence of two hundred and eighty-three thousand, each breathing life into the canvas of the New World.
Amidst this intricate colonial medley of humanity, a formidable social hierarchy emerged. Major landowners, wielding both power and prestige, cast a very long shadow over a white populace deprived of land. In the crucible of agrarian societies, a ruling class of landowners ascended, their dominion unchallenged, while a lower class of workers toiled in the shadow of this authoritative caste.
A similar symphony of life played out on the stages of the thirteen colonies, where the possession of land defined one's stature. The introduction of slave labor, a haunting undercurrent in this grand narrative, birthed a paradigm where surplus goods and abundant harvests became the hallmark of the privileged landowners. As the fields stretched into the horizon, the echoes of societal hierarchy reverberated across the vast expanse of colonial America, it was a land alive with promise and shadowed by the complexities of its own creation.
A Blacksmith’s Apprentice
In the heart of Virginia, among the undulating hills, valleys and endless streams, the rhythm of life echoed with the cadence of hammers striking hot iron. Here, William Ellis harbored a vision for his eldest nephew, Alexander Davidson III. At twelve years old, the lad was a curious soul, restlessly exploring a world that seemed perpetually disconnected. In William's discerning eyes, Blacksmithing held the promise of a sustainable livelihood, a future he envisioned for a hard-headed, and hard working young man. Alex was a determined and observant lad, his resolve matched only by his keen perception.
The very fabric of colonial daily life found its cornerstone in iron—a versatile metal that served a myriad of purposes, both grand and mundane. The dwellings, workshops, and barns of the colonists were adorned with an array of iron and steel objects, woven seamlessly into their very existence. From the utilitarian tasks of cooking and eating to the care of livestock, and even for ornamental embellishments, iron played a pivotal role.
Initially, the colonists relied on imports from England, acquiring iron and its products through commerce. The local blacksmiths, in those early days, were primarily tasked with the repair of worn-out or broken tools, rather than crafting new ones. However, the limited iron supplies in England prompted the colonists to seek alternative sources. Their quest led them to the discovery of iron ores in Jamestown, Virginia, heralding a new era as the colonists ventured into the intricate process of smelting to harness the potential of this indispensable metal.
William Ellis was not only a man of foresight, but he had critical connections, and orchestrated an arrangement that would shape Alexander's destiny. The blueprint unfolded with the precision of a master plan. An apprenticeship, a gateway to knowledge and mastery, awaited the inquisitive lad. William Ellis secured an agreement with a Master Blacksmith, a man known and trusted, employed by William Bridges, a figure well-acquainted with the Ellis family.
The pact stipulated seven years of servitude, a commitment where room, board, and a modest stipend at the journey's end were the currency of the apprentice's toil. The Master Blacksmith, under the employment of William Bridges, pledged not only to nurture Alexander's craft but also to ensure the continuity of his education. As the apprenticeship unfurled, knowledge would be the lad's companion, and at its culmination, Alexander Davidson would ascend to the coveted status of a journeyman, free to wield his skills wherever destiny beckoned.
The roots of this arrangement began deep into the soil of Virginia's Northern Neck, where the Ellis and Bridges had carved their family names as among some earliest landowners. The court documents whispered of ancestral connections, tracing back to Hercules Bridges and his brothers, Francis and Anthony, laying the foundation in the soil before the 1630s.
The Scots-Irish were a close-knit community, and not very fond of the Crown, given their long-standing history, even more so, knowing their extended family members had fought and died on the fields of Culloden in ’46. Before that, during the Jacobite rising of 1715, the Clan Chattan remained loyal to the cause of an independent Scotland. Lachlan Mackintosh led eight hundred clansmen including Davidsons, in support of the rebellions. After some initial success, they were defeated at the Battle of Preston in 1715. Many clansmen who were taken prisoners were transported to America including the two uncles of Alexander Davidson II, William and Andrew Davidson.
Alexander Davidson I did not emerge unscathed from the tumult of the Battle of Preston; his fate remains shrouded in the uncertainties of war. Whether he met his end on the battlefield or succumbed to the rigors of British captivity is a chapter lost to history. Among those captured, the specter of execution for treason loomed, but the exact circumstances surrounding Alexander I’s demise remain elusive.
In the aftermath, Alexander I’s siblings William and Andrew, despite the shadows of impending doom, managed to evade the executioner's hand. Instead, they found themselves prisoners bound for the Tower of London. Miraculously, fortune favored them, steering them clear of the grim fate that awaited some of their comrades.
Their narrative took an unexpected turn, fate, in its capricious dance, orchestrated a different destiny. William and Andrew, plucked from the clutches of potential doom, embarked on a journey across the Atlantic. Their passage to a new life unfolded aboard the Jacobite prisoner ship Friendship of Belfast in the year 1717. Their destination: America, where they would find themselves indentured servants, bound by fate to Mordecai Moore and Francis Bullock. As indentured servants they submitted to seven years service, or, as it may probably happen, that some of the persons so transported as aforesaid by themselves or by friends, may purchase or otherwise obtain their freedoms from their respective Masters or Owners. William Davidson became an indentured servant to Mordecai Moore, a fellow Scotsman, while Andrew serves his seven years to Francis Bullock, also a Scotsman, both ended up in Gloucester County, Virginia
As the wheels of time turned with a seamless harmony, guided by the shared history of the Ellis and Bridges families. In 1754, William Ellis and William Bridges, architects of Alexander III’s fate, forged an alliance where the lad's apprenticeship found its anchor in the rhythm of a Blacksmith's hammer.
Yet, the landscape of Virginia, filled with the echoes of ironworks and the clanging of hammers, was bearing the burdens of the ever encroaching tendrils of imperial decrees. In 1750, the British Parliament, in its pursuit of Mercantilism, enacted the Iron Act, a legislative shackle that sought to curtail the production of finished iron goods in the colonies. Loyalty to the Crown or adherence to parliamentary regulations became the unspoken currency, yet the vast wilderness of the colonies offered a refuge from prying eyes.
In this, William Ellis orchestrated a future for Alexander Davidson that transcended the legislative shadows. The anvil's song, the rhythmic beating of iron, and the promise of a journeyman's freedom awaited the young apprentice in the forge of life, far removed from the watchful gaze of imperial scrutiny.
In the waning years of the 18th century, the landscape of Virginia, a symphony of industry was orchestrated by none other than Thomas Jefferson himself. By 1770, the meticulous list-keeper tallied eight ironworks scattered across the expanse of Virginia, each a testament to the burgeoning industrial heartbeat of the colony. In their rhythmic cadence of bellows and the clang of molten metal, these forges birthed an annual yield of 4,400 tons of pig iron and over 900 tons of bar iron.
Iron flowed like a river, a Virginian journeyman blacksmith emerged as a figure of both skill and necessity. In the bustling foundries of larger cities, these artisans earned a modest 40-50 cents per day, a testament to the value of their craft in the urban crucible. Yet, the rural blacksmiths, known colloquially as "Artificers," faced a different reality. In the quiet hamlets where cash was scarce and towns were but distant echoes, bartering became the currency of survival.
As backcountry artificers, these rural blacksmiths transcended the narrow confines of their trade. They metamorphosed into gunsmiths, farriers, coppersmiths, and millwrights, their skills expanding to meet the diverse needs of a frontier society. Their workshops, perched on the edge of civilization, became sanctuaries where metal ailments were remedied, and tools found new life under the skilled hands of these artisans. The blacksmith, a veritable metal surgeon of the frontier, became indispensable to the locals. From the mundane to the essential, the blacksmith mended the broken tools and farm implements that sustained daily life. Iron nails, horseshoes, hooks, axes, bear traps — each bore the mark of the blacksmith's transformative touch. The frontier depended on these artisans not only for repairs but also for the creation of new tools that would carve a semblance of civilization out of the rugged wilderness.
Beyond the anvil and hammer, the blacksmith had a role beyond his craft. He was an indelible social actor, a member of the trade community whose perspective transcended the boundaries of mere craftsmanship. The patronage of the blacksmith, an intrinsic facet of frontier life, marked a regular interaction within the community. His daily life, intricately woven into the fabric of the settlement, bore witness to the dynamic interplay of technological adaptation and labor-as-practice.
In their daily existence, the blacksmith emerged not merely as a producer of goods but as a specific social actor. He consumed, produced, and colonized, his forge was not merely a workshop but a center around which the community's daily life revolved. In the silent dance of the anvil's song, the blacksmith became an artisan and an integral cog in the intricate machinery of frontier existence.
For Alexander Davidson, the apprentice, a pact was drawn up, inked in the crucible of the forge, a legal contract, a covenant, binding the young apprentice and master craftsman. This document, solemnly sworn and signed before the watchful eyes of the courts, etched its significance in the annals of a deed book.
Young Alexander willingly stepped into the world of the blacksmith's craft. As an apprentice he was committed not only to honing his skills but to safeguarding trade secrets, a sacred trust shared between master and apprentice. The apprentice's world was one of constraints, where seeking permission, a humble "by your leave," preceded every venture beyond the master's domain. Yet, it was more than a mere code of conduct. The apprentice, in his solemn commitment, pledged to abstain from the dark pits of intemperance — idleness, gaming, peevishness, quarreling, fighting, horse racing, lying, swearing, stealing, and swindling. A litany of vices, an oath to uphold the sanctity of the craft, where character stood side by side with skill.
Crucially, the apprentice, in a pact that seemed steeped in sacrifice, agreed to toil without monetary recompense for the entirety of the contracted term. The contract, a document that held the future in its scripted clauses, delineated the master's responsibilities as well. Alexander, while in his pursuit of mastery, was also under the watchful eye of the master’s wife. It was not to be a solitary journey, for the missus of the Blacksmith was a silent guardian of Alex’s education, ensuring that his evenings were dedicated not only to the forge but also to the pursuit of knowledge. Math, reading, and writing became the companions to the rhythmic clangor of the anvil, forging a path to a more rounded mastery.
In the early hours of the first day, Uncle William Ellis, came to Alexander, “You'll be working with a master blacksmith and his journeymen, as their apprentice,” Uncle William, his words carrying the weight of an uncharted destiny. “They won’t be easy on you, … Respect is very important to men like these. Remember, you are not their friends! You are to address him as Master, and never, … never by his name, understand?!”
“Yes, sir Uncle William.” Alex responded
“It’s a solid future for you, no community anywhere can function without a smithy.” Uncle William sternly pointed out.
The mantle of an indentured servant now adorned Alexander, a badge of commitment to a craft that held the pulse of every settlement. The master and his journeymen both saw potential in the lad, a prospect that shimmered with possibilities.
Uncle William, with a sagacity that bespoke years of experience “Always pay attention to what they say and always do it quickly, work hard, stay focused,” he counseled. Uncle William wasn’t just scolding him, but laying the foundation of being a good apprentice that would also reflect upon William’s reputation as well.
“You should know you will start by doing little things, like sweep up the floor, pump the bellows, get the charcoal, all the while, you will be learning all the tasks when he starts the actual build.”
Guided by his uncle's hand, Alexander stepped into the realm of the Master Blacksmith, his name was Jacob Shaw Mackintosh. “His smitty’s shop, is a cathedral of clanging metal and searing heat, embraced them!”
Jacob, a formidable figure, exuded an intimidating aura that momentarily gripped the young apprentice. Yet, as Alexander looked into the blacksmith's eyes, he discerned a kindness and a glimmer of light that dispelled the initial trepidation.
With a massive right hand, Jacob extended a handshake, bridging the gap between the seasoned artisan and the timid boy. A silent understanding passed between them as they ventured inside the shop, the anvil's echo welcoming them to a world where the art of forging met the crucible of history.
Uncle William shared Alexander's lineage with Jacob Mackintosh. “Alexander’s grandfather, Alexander the first, was killed at the Battle of Preston in 1715 of the Jacobite Uprising, during the 1st rebellion,” he recounted, weaving threads of familial valor. "His father, Alexander Davidson the 2nd, had come to the new world with his brothers around 1724 as indentured servants. After completing his servitude, he married Sarah Ellis, my younger sister, right here in Spotsylvania County.” In this way, William’s was reminding Jacob and his journeyman of his fondness for the young lad and he planned to always stay close, if ever needed.
The Scots-Irish were a close-knit community, and not very fond of the Crown, given their long-standing history, even more so, knowing their extended family members had fought and died on the fields of Culloden in ’46. Before that, during the Jacobite rising of 1715, the Clan Chattan remained loyal to the cause of an independent Scotland. Lachlan Mackintosh led eight hundred clansmen including Davidsons, in support of the rebellions. After some initial success, they were defeated at the Battle of Preston in 1715. Many clansmen who were taken prisoners were transported to America including the two uncles of Alexander Davidson II.
The Ellis family was an important family in this community, and Alex could plainly see that people respected his Uncle William. The Ellis and Bridges families had been established in the Northern Neck of Virginia as some of the very first land owners. Court documents show an early presence of the Ellis and Bridges men in the Northern Neck of Virginia in Westmoreland County, between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers, that can be traced back to Hercules Bridges and his two brothers Francis and Anthony, before the 1640s,
With a thick Scottish accent, Jacob Mackintosh told young Alexander, “Iron may seem tae be a simple metal tae some, but whit they dinnae ken, in its nature, are many mysteries.” The brawny blacksmith had enormous shoulders, long reddish-brown hair, and embodied every simple virtue as he was proud to remind others, “"I owed nae money tae nae man, I pray on Sundays, and earn an honest livin' by the sweat o' ma brow.”
The forge, a realm of heat and alchemy, became the focus in which Alexander's heritage merged with the glowing steel. As the bellows breathed life into the flames, the young apprentice embarked on a journey that transcended the clangor of the anvil — a journey into the heart of craftsmanship, lineage, and the forging of a destiny yet to unfold. The Blacksmith's shop always stood as a bastion of craftsmanship. Within the workshop, it held the symphony of creation, dominated by a large fireplace known as the forge. The forge was built in front of a wall, and the anvil was at the center of the workshop. Nestled beside the forge were the bellows, an accordion-like apparatus that breathed life into the flames, drawing air in through a valve and exhaling it through a small cylinder, stoking the fire's hunger with each rhythmic breath. Charcoal, the alchemist's fuel, crackled and danced in the forge's glow. The workshop was intentionally kept poorly lit, so when the smith worked on metal they could judge the temperature of hot metal by its glow. It was also necessary to keep the workshop tidy, clearing all waste metal, small burrs, and slivers. The scrap metal was usually melted, purified, and used again. The upkeep of the workshop is usually done by the apprentice, while the smith master would concentrate on the metal-working.
Surrounding this caldron of mythical creations, were the tools of the smith's trade, poised for the craftsman's touch. A barrel of water stood sentinel, ready to quench the molten metal, and at the heart of it all, the anvil, an unwavering companion to the rhythmic dance of the hammer.
With the formalities concluded, the Master turned his attention to the fledgling apprentice, Alexander. A peculiar sentiment lingered in the air, the Master, a seasoned artisan, conveyed to the young novice the profound essence of their shared calling.
“Alexander, as strange as it may sound to ye, any braw blacksmith worth his anvil would affirm—there's a divine harmony in this craft," the Master began, his eyes reflecting the flickering dance of the forge's flames. "Ya, young apprentice, are like an instrument o' God, shapin' the maist unyieldin' substance tae yer will. It's aboot understandin' the union o' fire and metal, bendin' it tae yer command.”
As the Master spoke, his words resonated with a reverence for the age-old art of blacksmithing. The forge held the transformative power to turn raw ores into both mighty weapons and humble tools. The Master's eyes, alight with the passion of his craft, hinted at the sacred nature of their work.
“There's a touch of the Almighty in being a smith,” he declared, the flames casting shadows on his face. ““Tamin' the fire, turnin' earthly materials intae magic or forgin' instruments o' peace. It's a gift fae God, a misterie tae be unraveled. As ye labor at the anvil, I'll reveal tae ye the secrets o' discernin' the grain in the metal—a near-magical sensation, controllin' every movement wi' skill and purpose.”
With a nod of assurance, the Master imparted not just knowledge but a glimpse into the sacred choreography between man, fire, and metal, a dance orchestrated by the divine hands of the Almighty.
Peering into the fiery depths of the forge, the Master continued, “ "Whin a smith picks up a tull, he wonders whae made it, ... under whit conditions, ... whit message that lies in the techniques and expertise, we may niver fully ken. But in the futur, Ah want ye tae hae that same respect in yer ain wark. 'Tis no for gratification, but for yerself, ... sae that yer wark micht spake through thae same techniques, communicatin' it's purpose!"
The youthful and susceptible Alexander found something he hadn’t ever experienced in his young difficult life. Hope and enduring inspiration and eternal gratitude for the benevolence bestowed upon him by his Uncle William.
Quoting Genesis 4:22, the Master mused, “Zillah gave berth tae Tubal-cain, the first blaksmith o every instrument o bronze and iron. Each day, like him, … like the Auld Anes afore the days o Noah, we wirk, we re-spark that auld craft, it is a gift frae God Himself tae mankind.”
In the flickering glow of the forge, the legacies of blacksmithing unfolded, like a timeless dance of fire and metal, bridging the past with the present and forging a future yet unknown.
The Master turned and locked eyes with Alex, delivering a straightforward piece of gloomy wisdom, "A blacksmith can gang onywhaur an' mak a livin', but a Constable can aye gang fur the deid bodies. Unnerstaun?"
“Yes sir!” Alex replied, but still not quite sure what to make of it.
He continued. “Life is like a blaksmith, it batters ye till yer hardened an' keen enough tae scylce through ony opposition in life.”
The master’s eyes widened, like balls of fire, “Whit's mair, ye're a Davidson! an' ye should ken aboot the tale o' Hal' O'Wynd!"
“Who?”
“Gie yer Scot’ish Historie a guid learnin', lad! And dinnae, ...never, …ever, forget it!" He scolded Alexander harshly.
The blacksmith’s wife Hannah told Jacob later: "Dinnae bide till the lad grows up afore ye start tae treat him as an equal. A guid dose o' confidence, and words o' cheer an' counsel... let him ken ye trust him in mony ways, helps tae mak' a man o' him lang afore he's a man in either heicht or years."
New Chapter
That evening, after supper, young Alexander approached the Missus, eager for a deviation from the usual book-learnin’ lessons. He asked if she knew of the tale of Hal O'Wynd.
She responded “"Weel noo laddie, that's a tale rooted in a barbaric era, whaur the sacredness o' life received no acknowledgement!”
During a brutal era, Scottish nobles fiercely vied for control of the feeble Scottish monarchy, and clans were willing to obliterate each other for dominance in the central Highlands. There was a conflict at Perth likely stemming from a feud between Clan Cameron and Clan Chattan, formidable highland confederacies. The MacKintosh chief, leading Clan Chattan, which the Davidsons were an important part of, initiated the strife by attacking and defeating the Camerons at Drumlui. The feud escalated, culminating in 1370, at the Battle of Invernahavon, where the MacPhersons, Davidsons, and MacIntoshes confronted the returning warriors of Clan Cameron. A dispute arose among the Clan Chattan between the Macphersons and Davidsons over who should have command of the right wing of their force, which was the post of honor. The Mackintosh chief favored the Davidsons and as a result the Macphersons withdrew in disgust. Thus with the loss of the Macphersons, Mackintosh's force together with the Davidsons was numerically inferior and was totally defeated by the Camerons.
The absence of law in Scotland allowed the strong to oppress the weak, turning the entire kingdom into a den of thieves, rampant with unpunished crimes. Weariness from the continuing feud between the Davidsons and Camerons permeated over all involved, prompting the intervention from King Robert III. In a self-serving resolution, the king devised a unique solution: each clan, Chattan and Camerons, would send 30 of their best warriors into a battle-to-the-death at North Inch in Perth in1396 . A grandstand was erected for the king and other dignitaries, turning the event into a spectacle, reflecting the king's penchant for prioritizing his interests.
The combatants, stripped to their saffron-colored undershirts, armed with swords, targes, bows, arrows, knives, and battle-axes, faced off in a fierce contest. The atmosphere was charged with tension as the trumpets sounded, bagpipes wailed, and insults hurled, culminating in a tumultuous clash. The battle's ferocity, with swords gleaming and blood flowing, resembled a chaotic tableau of death and honor.
The struggle was intense, akin to butchers slaughtering cattle in a slaughterhouse. The fight paused intermittently, allowing the wounded to rest and regroup for the next round.
Rumors swirled that the pipers, driven by rage, abandoned their pipes to engage in a deadly skirmish. One account even suggested that, in his dying moments, a mortally wounded Clan Chattan piper played the clan anthem. As the hours passed, only one of the Camerons remained, outnumbered by the severely wounded Clan Chattan representatives. Surrendering, he tossed his sword aside and fled across the field and jumped into the River Tay.
A blacksmith of Perth, however, played a crucial role in Clan Davidson's victory, when questioned about the reason for his relentless fight, he reputedly responded, “I fecht fur ma ain haun.” That phrase became a part of Scottish lore, and Clan Chattan, true to their word, honored their promise to the smith, who departed for the North with his fellow Davidson survivors.
Next Chapter
As the contracted time ebbed away, the young apprentice would be metamorphosed into a journeyman, unshackled and free to ply his trade wherever the winds of destiny carried him. Yet, the journeyman's initiation into the wider world often began with bartering services — a currency of necessity in exchange for sustenance, goods, or other indispensable services.
In this hard world of apprenticeship, where molten metal met the aspirations of the young, the journeyman's journey commenced. With every swing of the hammer and every calculated step, young Alexander Davidson navigated the path laid out by the pact forged between master and apprentice, a journey that would define not only his skill but the very essence of the man he would become.
His day unfolded before the sun graced the horizon, a symphony of labor and fire. As the Master and Journeymen savored their morning repast, the apprentice delved into his tasks. Cleaning the forges, breaking charcoal, sweeping the floor strewn with tools and iron scraps – a prelude to the forging dance that awaited.
Amidst the morning chores, Alexander's sustenance was meager, remnants from the Master's table or the generosity of the Journeymen. However, today the Master's wife Hannah, a matronly figure, who always imparted some wisdom with each meal – a slight reminder of Scottish sacred heritage, and the lineage of tradesmen tracing back to Tubal-cain, the forger of ancient renown as instructed by the Master. But today, today was different, she stuffed two extra large biscuits into his lunch pouch and gave him a smile and a wink! The swift repast skipped, only anticipation lingered for Alexander and the day’s tasks that awaited.
As Alexander descended down the hill to the shop, the blacksmith's sanctum awaited. Compact, dim, and ablaze with the heat of creation, it housed a raised brick hearth, a forge fed by relentless bellows, and the cacophony of hammer on anvil. Today, the air crackled with a different energy, a tension that hung between the Master and his Journeyman, and a third Journeyman who had just arrived earlier this morning.
Approaching, Alexander caught fragments of an unfiltered discourse – not the decorous dialogue reserved for church but a raw symphony of discontent. Today was different. The two Journeymen were engaged in heated debate about the Crown’s latest taxes, the Tories, and the suffocating Iron Act. The echo of their voices blending with the rhythmic clinking and clanking within the shop. Laying on the bench Alexander saw a printed pamphlet brought by the second Journeyman, its title read “Rights of the British Colonies Asserted and Proved.”
The first Journeyman's voice cut through, “British restrictions will choke the life out of blacksmiths everywhere!”
The Iron Act which now prohibited the erection of new steel furnaces, new mills for slitting or rolling iron, and plating forges with tilt hammers. It was an attempt to prohibit blacksmiths in the colonies from producing finished iron goods. The Iron Act was part of a policy regulating Mercantilism in the colonies. Of course, the farther one can distance themselves into the hills, from the larger cities and towns the less scrutiny there is and loyalty to the Crown rules or Parliament regulations. Locals depended on Blacksmiths for repairing all their broken tools and farm implements. From iron nails, horseshoes, hooks, axes, bear traps, to tool repairs, such as hoes, saws, augers, and other metal parts needed on the frontier. The blacksmith was also, indelibly, a social actor. As a member of the trade community, the blacksmith provides a unique perspective from which to examine processes of technological adaptation. The need to patronize the blacksmith, minimally for repair services, was a regular occurrence within the frontier setting. The dynamics of the blacksmith place him as a specific social actor, who consumes products and produces products, colonizes and is colonized, and maintains daily life for the community and whose daily life is centered on the community.
The second Journeyman followed up the first comment by swearing, “By God's bloody nails! These acts suffocate our livelihood, not just us but the whole damn settlement!”
The Master intervened with a swift reprimand, “ Yae!, ye dinnae swear by God's bluid! … and nae on ma laund, aniewey!”
In the midst of dissent, the Master disclosed a new threat. “Hooweiver, 'at's nae the waurs o' it... Hae ye no heard o' this new law? General Thomas Gage wants aw his troops in America tae be hoosed!"
The new revelation hung in the air, a cloud of uncertainty and unrest settling over the blacksmith's forge, where the orchestrated ballet of hammer and anvil found itself entwined with the discord of the world of unrest and beyond.
The Master spoke with a measured tone, “ "In times o' war, troops find shelter in makeshift arrangements, but if they were tae bide in America permanently, sic provisions wad be mair than impractical!”
Clearly agitated, the second Journeyman added, "Under this new act, all across the colonies, we'd be obligated to provide housing and supplies for British soldiers and their dreaded German Hussar mercenaries, even way out here!,… on the outskirts of Williamsburg!"
First Journeyman inquired, "Can you jus’ imagine handin’ over your home to the redcoats?"
Second Journeyman countered sharply, "No way in bloody hell would I let those bastards live within a mile of my family or my daughters, the vile, ugly jackanapes!"
Alexander had now fully entered the space of their private discussion, catching the Master's attention. The Master continued, “As Ah unnerstaun it, this new law disnae alloo sodjers tae be housed in private hooses. Hooiver, it demans that colonists chip in tae pay fur guid buildins tae lodge the sodjers, wit extra taxation.”
Alex thought it odd that no one paid any attention to him as he took his place at the bellows behind the Master's forge. But then the second Journeyman breaks protocol, asking the young apprentice what he thought on the matter.
Alex cooley responded “Me?, … I fecht fur ma ain haun.”
Upon hearing this the Master immediately stopped what he was doing, and looked over at Alex, and gave his young apprentice a proud nod of approval.
The Journeymen pumped their own, and Alex began working the paired bellows to heat up the forge. Little sparks jumped from the fire like fleas, occasionally landing on the Master's boots. Lost in the excitement, he forgot to tend to the fire, and soon it roared.
The second Journeyman couldn't restrain himself any longer and cursed, "By God's wounds, by God's blood, by Jesus Christ!, by the eternal God!, .. God confound me body and soul..."
“No more! haud yer wheesht! … an’ gie it a rest!” bellowed the Master.
Then the Master snapped, “Alexander! Damn it, laddie! Ye're wastin' gowf!”
At that all banter quickly ceased as everyone turned their attention to Alex. The Master, a good man, had assured his uncle that he would learn the trade, but at this moment, his temper was directed at Alex, making him feel like hiding from their gaze.
All Alex had done so far was sweep and clean, and now the Master was taking over, pumping his own bellows and sending Alex to haul in more charcoal, water for the slack-tub, and bars of iron that weighed half as much as he did. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to use a tool other than a broom.
Returning with more charcoal, he carefully broke it into the size lumps the Master preferred. The charcoal still retained the shape of the branches and logs, often as sturdy as the original. He used an ax to break it up, a task he disliked more than anything else, as it covered him in fine black dust from head to toe.
Upon his return, the Master was heating two large pieces of wrought iron in his forge, with the first Journeyman doing the same in his. The pieces were as big as Alex's arm and likely weighed 5 to 10 pounds each. Both smiths vigorously pumped their bellows, and the Master nodded to Alex to put the charcoal in both forges, then instructed, “Get more!” as he attentively watched the heat soak into the iron.
“More CHARCOAL?!” Judging the Master’s mood, he wisely refrained from saying another word. Instead, and scurried out to break up some more, less careful this time. The other Journeymen caught their sense of urgency, cutting through that big bar with a long-handled chisel and a sledge. They cut iron bars like you'd chop a twig with an ax! The Master is clearly orchestrating something grand, so Alex hurries even more. When he returns, there are more pieces of iron in the forges, and the Journeymen have the third forge blazing, having even secured their OWN charcoal! The small shop seems ablaze, hot, with almost bonfire-sized flames—this, just after the Master admonished Alex about wasting fuel!
The Master nods at Alex, indicating to take over at the bellows. The pieces of iron in his forge are now white hot, and little sparks occasionally rise from the fire as the iron starts to burn. All the Journeymen cease their tasks, gathering around the Master's anvil. He and the first Journeyman pull out the white-hot metal, stacking it on the anvil. Suddenly, a rapid succession, a cadence of the banging echoes through the shop as the Journeyman hits the massive piece with sledges, creating a shower of white sparks. The Master starts tapping the piece with a smaller hand hammer, and the Journeyman each striking the piece exactly where the Master hit, within a second of each other! The two lumps meld into one! Alex has seen the Master and Journeymen forge weld, but nothing as grand as this!
Now the hefty welded lump returns to the fire, and the Master simply utters, “Hotter!" as the Journeymen bring two more white-hot lumps to the anvil. This time, the Master delivers the blow that guides the following forceful strokes. White sparks fill the shop again. The sledges are colossal, appearing as large as half an anvil! You marvel at how the Journeymen avoid colliding as the sledges seem to fall immediately after one another. The second lump is now welded and returned to the Journeyman’s forge. Meanwhile, Alex keeps pumping the bellows.
The pieces are pulled from the forges and hammered some more. “It’s scarfing!” yells one of the Journeymen to Alex. While this is happening, the other Journeyman has been hammering smaller pieces, and those are placed back in the fire too. The Master sends Alex out again for more charcoal, instructing with urgency, "Don't stoop to break it up!"
Upon Alex’s return, everyone is in a rush for more charcoal, proclaiming, "Don't want to lose the heat." Alex ponders if the fires of hell could be any hotter than this place!
Suddenly, Alex is bumped out of the way; the pieces are at welding heat. The two massive pieces are brought out of the forges, stacked on top of each other, and bam, bam, bam, bam! And bam, bam, bam, bam again as the enormous sledges strike! The white-hot lump is starting to dwarf the Master's anvil! As the pounding continues, the Master declares, “More heat!”—something you've NEVER heard when there was no iron in the fire.
Now, the two Journeymen hold the piece, while seemingly trying to punch holes with square-handled punches, striking them with the pointed end of their sledgehammers. They then turn the piece over and repeat the process. Finally, they insert two long bars into the holes and lift the piece back into the forge. They've fashioned handles! As Alex pumps the bellows, the Master empties what's left of the charcoal on top of the piece and says, “Pump faster!” Exhaustion sets in, and Alex loses his focus and wonders what time it is. It feels like he’s been at it all day, and the Master yells “Faster!" once again.
From the outset, everything, including all the weapons, that emerged from the Master’s forge are crafted on anvils. The fire roars, now too intense to gaze into. When the piece reaches welding heat, the two Journeymen with the bars lift it, but, … instead of placing it on the anvil, they set it on the ground. Swiftly, a broom sweeps across the white-hot surface, removing flakes of burnt iron, and another conical piece is set on, hammered from two sides simultaneously. Alexander murmurs to himself in amazement, “They are making an anvil!”
He had heard how the Blacksmith had always declared, “Anvils are the root of Western Civilization.” Young Alexander had always looked at hand-forged anvils as sculptures, singular works of art crafted by the ancient masters of old.
The anvil is still white-hot when it returns to the forge, and one of the Journeymen dumps an extra load of charcoal on top while Alex instinctively pumps the bellows. They had never done THAT before! He was always the one who had to get the charcoal.
Moments later, the anvil is pulled back out of the fire, and the Master signals, waving at Alex to stop pumping. Another thin piece is brought out of the other forge and laid on the new white-hot anvil. This time, smaller sledges are used, and a tool one of the Journeymen calls a “flatter” glides across the surface as one of the men strikes it lightly.
Now, the bars known as porters — “porter bars,” as Alexander would later learn — are inserted into the anvil. It is lifted back onto the Master's anvil and set face down. One Journeyman holds a square punch with a handle as the Master pounds it nearly through the underside of the anvil. Then they step back as the anvil is lifted and set face up on the floor. The punch aligns with a dark, cool spot on the face of the anvil, and it is driven through. The anvil is now below a yellow heat as the Master and the head Journeyman each hammer on the sides and edges, cleaning up nicks and dings from the heavy sledges.
With idle hands, Alexander saunters over, leaning on the Master's anvil. It's as hot as if it had just been pulled from the fire. The two Journeymen are clearing a path at the back door. The new anvil still glows a bright orange, though the point of the horn and some corners appear to be cooling.
Following the Master's direction, two Journeymen lift the anvil with the porter bars and head out the door. Alexander wonders, “Why are they going outside with a red-hot anvil?”
They shuffle down the creek bank to the grist mill next door and wade into the pond below the great wheel with the anvil. Then, they set it on a stone under the water falling off the wheel, and great clouds of steam start to rise from the pond and wheel. The Journeymen step back, and with a yell, they jump into the cold water for an impromptu swim. It's then, that Alex notices that the Master, and the other Journeymen are soaked with sweat. The day had started as a cool late April morning. Then you realize that the sun is low, and it's cooling off. Where had the day gone?
The first Journeyman's years of journey from a young apprentice is now, and he wanted an anvil. With his time spent, he could have had his whole kit of Journeyman's tools, but instead, he wanted it all in one lump. Alexander guessed it to be approximately 80 pounds, 5 inches wide, by 25 inches long, and about 14 inches tall.
As Alexander strolls back up to the shop to clean up, he finds himself walking alongside the Master. Unexpectedly, the Master volunteers a statement that catches him off guard.
With heavy emphasis he says, “
"Dinnae forget what ye hae seen this day. Ye may ne'er witness the likes again in yer lifetime. That's probably the first anvil made in this pairt o' the county and the last yin I mak! The writin' on the wahl' is tellin' me that if word o' what we did the day gets oot, some may want tae come an' burn doon my shop altogether!” Then the Master adds, “Noo, gang an' tak' the rest o' the day and gang for a swim if ye want!"
But before, the Davidson lineage became anchored into the hallowed grounds of Virginia, unfurling their hopes with threads of valor, lineage, and the indomitable spirit that could echo across generations. The Davidson saga continues to unfold, guided by the hand of fate. Death, that relentless tempest of fate, unyielding and indifferent, swept through the serene countryside of Gloucester County, leaving in its wake the cold reality of mortality. Alexander Davidson, wedded to his cherished Sarah Ellis in 1742, and met his untimely demise in the wintry clutches of January 1748. The tranquility of their familial haven shattered, leaving Sarah Ellis Davidson to confront the arduous task of navigating the Virginia legal system.
In the dimly lit courthouse chambers of Spotsylvania, Virginia, a solemn covenant unfolded, encapsulated in the weighty prose of a legal bond. "Know all men by these," the document began, a pact was sealed with the signatures and seals of Sarah Davidson, William Ellis (her Uncle), and John Gordon. Bound by the inexorable ties of law, they committed to a financial pledge of one hundred and fifty pounds, a sum reflective of the gravity of their obligations to the Justices of the Peace. The conditions of this solemn undertaking laid bare the intricacies of Sarah Davidson's newfound role as Administratrix. A custodian of the legacy left by Alexander Davidson, she undertook a meticulous inventory of his estate, encompassing every chattel and credit within her purview, while the County Court of Spotsylvania loomed as the arbiter of her fidelity to this duty, with an obligation to present the inventory at their behest.
As the ink dried upon the parchment, the fate of Alexander Davidson's estate, the ledger closed on the tangible remnants, deposited in Spotsylvania County's archives with Alexander Davidson’s legacy, reduced down to pounds and shillings. Each entry, a chapter in the story of a life now archived, and the Will Book stood as the silent witness to the quantifiable remnants of mortality.
However, Alexander Davidson II's story was unfolded again into the meticulous nuances of legal prose. Scribed upon the pages of history in those same austere halls of Spotsylvania County courthouse, the dictates of justice unfolded under the watchful gaze of the esteemed officials, a second pact was written in a script of obligations. It was on the third day of October in the year 1752, where again, William Ellis, is bound by a covenant of two hundred pounds in the current coin of Virginia, acknowledging his commitment before the Justices of the Court.
"Know all men by these presents,…” the declaration resonated, a proclamation sealed in the wax of solemnity. William Ellis, bound to the Gent Justices of Spotsylvania County, embarks on a new responsibility marked by obligation and safeguarding, the guardianship of William Ellis, a mantle shouldered in service to the three Davidson orphans. Alexander Davidson (III), Phillip, and William bereft of their father, and now their mother Sarah, found refuge under the oversight of William Ellis. The condition of the obligation, an additional responsibility, stipulated that William Ellis, along with his heirs, Executors, and Administrators, would dutifully pay the dues of the estate to the young wards until they matured to lawful age.
A vow to save and protect the justices, their heirs, and successors from the tumultuous seas of troubles or damages that might surge around the estate, and became the linchpin of their commitment. Sealed and delivered in the presence of witnesses, a symbol of fidelity imprinted in the wax of the Court's Clerk.
In the burgeoning expanse of the thirteen colonies, a tapestry of humanity was unfolding, woven with threads of white inhabitants. A tableau of life that comprised a staggering one million four hundred and three thousand souls, each entangled in the complexities of colonial existence.
Virginia, considered a jewel in the colonial crown, stood as the dwelling place for one hundred and sixty-eight thousand white denizens. To the south, North Carolina echoed with the footsteps of nearly seventy thousand, while its southern sister, South Carolina, harbored forty thousand souls. In the nascent lands of Georgia, a modest congregation of five thousand marked the limits of settlement. Thus, the expansive terrain south of the Potomac bore witness to the presence of two hundred and eighty-three thousand, each breathing life into the canvas of the New World.
Amidst this intricate colonial medley of humanity, a formidable social hierarchy emerged. Major landowners, wielding both power and prestige, cast a very long shadow over a white populace deprived of land. In the crucible of agrarian societies, a ruling class of landowners ascended, their dominion unchallenged, while a lower class of workers toiled in the shadow of this authoritative caste.
A similar symphony of life played out on the stages of the thirteen colonies, where the possession of land defined one's stature. The introduction of slave labor, a haunting undercurrent in this grand narrative, birthed a paradigm where surplus goods and abundant harvests became the hallmark of the privileged landowners. As the fields stretched into the horizon, the echoes of societal hierarchy reverberated across the vast expanse of colonial America, it was a land alive with promise and shadowed by the complexities of its own creation.
A Blacksmith’s Apprentice
In the heart of Virginia, among the undulating hills, valleys and endless streams, the rhythm of life echoed with the cadence of hammers striking hot iron. Here, William Ellis harbored a vision for his eldest nephew, Alexander Davidson III. At twelve years old, the lad was a curious soul, restlessly exploring a world that seemed perpetually disconnected. In William's discerning eyes, Blacksmithing held the promise of a sustainable livelihood, a future he envisioned for a hard-headed, and hard working young man. Alex was a determined and observant lad, his resolve matched only by his keen perception.
The very fabric of colonial daily life found its cornerstone in iron—a versatile metal that served a myriad of purposes, both grand and mundane. The dwellings, workshops, and barns of the colonists were adorned with an array of iron and steel objects, woven seamlessly into their very existence. From the utilitarian tasks of cooking and eating to the care of livestock, and even for ornamental embellishments, iron played a pivotal role.
Initially, the colonists relied on imports from England, acquiring iron and its products through commerce. The local blacksmiths, in those early days, were primarily tasked with the repair of worn-out or broken tools, rather than crafting new ones. However, the limited iron supplies in England prompted the colonists to seek alternative sources. Their quest led them to the discovery of iron ores in Jamestown, Virginia, heralding a new era as the colonists ventured into the intricate process of smelting to harness the potential of this indispensable metal.
William Ellis was not only a man of foresight, but he had critical connections, and orchestrated an arrangement that would shape Alexander's destiny. The blueprint unfolded with the precision of a master plan. An apprenticeship, a gateway to knowledge and mastery, awaited the inquisitive lad. William Ellis secured an agreement with a Master Blacksmith, a man known and trusted, employed by William Bridges, a figure well-acquainted with the Ellis family.
The pact stipulated seven years of servitude, a commitment where room, board, and a modest stipend at the journey's end were the currency of the apprentice's toil. The Master Blacksmith, under the employment of William Bridges, pledged not only to nurture Alexander's craft but also to ensure the continuity of his education. As the apprenticeship unfurled, knowledge would be the lad's companion, and at its culmination, Alexander Davidson would ascend to the coveted status of a journeyman, free to wield his skills wherever destiny beckoned.
The roots of this arrangement began deep into the soil of Virginia's Northern Neck, where the Ellis and Bridges had carved their family names as among some earliest landowners. The court documents whispered of ancestral connections, tracing back to Hercules Bridges and his brothers, Francis and Anthony, laying the foundation in the soil before the 1630s.
The Scots-Irish were a close-knit community, and not very fond of the Crown, given their long-standing history, even more so, knowing their extended family members had fought and died on the fields of Culloden in ’46. Before that, during the Jacobite rising of 1715, the Clan Chattan remained loyal to the cause of an independent Scotland. Lachlan Mackintosh led eight hundred clansmen including Davidsons, in support of the rebellions. After some initial success, they were defeated at the Battle of Preston in 1715. Many clansmen who were taken prisoners were transported to America including the two uncles of Alexander Davidson II, William and Andrew Davidson.
Alexander Davidson I did not emerge unscathed from the tumult of the Battle of Preston; his fate remains shrouded in the uncertainties of war. Whether he met his end on the battlefield or succumbed to the rigors of British captivity is a chapter lost to history. Among those captured, the specter of execution for treason loomed, but the exact circumstances surrounding Alexander I’s demise remain elusive.
In the aftermath, Alexander I’s siblings William and Andrew, despite the shadows of impending doom, managed to evade the executioner's hand. Instead, they found themselves prisoners bound for the Tower of London. Miraculously, fortune favored them, steering them clear of the grim fate that awaited some of their comrades.
Their narrative took an unexpected turn, fate, in its capricious dance, orchestrated a different destiny. William and Andrew, plucked from the clutches of potential doom, embarked on a journey across the Atlantic. Their passage to a new life unfolded aboard the Jacobite prisoner ship Friendship of Belfast in the year 1717. Their destination: America, where they would find themselves indentured servants, bound by fate to Mordecai Moore and Francis Bullock. As indentured servants they submitted to seven years service, or, as it may probably happen, that some of the persons so transported as aforesaid by themselves or by friends, may purchase or otherwise obtain their freedoms from their respective Masters or Owners. William Davidson became an indentured servant to Mordecai Moore, a fellow Scotsman, while Andrew serves his seven years to Francis Bullock, also a Scotsman, both ended up in Gloucester County, Virginia
As the wheels of time turned with a seamless harmony, guided by the shared history of the Ellis and Bridges families. In 1754, William Ellis and William Bridges, architects of Alexander III’s fate, forged an alliance where the lad's apprenticeship found its anchor in the rhythm of a Blacksmith's hammer.
Yet, the landscape of Virginia, filled with the echoes of ironworks and the clanging of hammers, was bearing the burdens of the ever encroaching tendrils of imperial decrees. In 1750, the British Parliament, in its pursuit of Mercantilism, enacted the Iron Act, a legislative shackle that sought to curtail the production of finished iron goods in the colonies. Loyalty to the Crown or adherence to parliamentary regulations became the unspoken currency, yet the vast wilderness of the colonies offered a refuge from prying eyes.
In this, William Ellis orchestrated a future for Alexander Davidson that transcended the legislative shadows. The anvil's song, the rhythmic beating of iron, and the promise of a journeyman's freedom awaited the young apprentice in the forge of life, far removed from the watchful gaze of imperial scrutiny.
In the waning years of the 18th century, the landscape of Virginia, a symphony of industry was orchestrated by none other than Thomas Jefferson himself. By 1770, the meticulous list-keeper tallied eight ironworks scattered across the expanse of Virginia, each a testament to the burgeoning industrial heartbeat of the colony. In their rhythmic cadence of bellows and the clang of molten metal, these forges birthed an annual yield of 4,400 tons of pig iron and over 900 tons of bar iron.
Iron flowed like a river, a Virginian journeyman blacksmith emerged as a figure of both skill and necessity. In the bustling foundries of larger cities, these artisans earned a modest 40-50 cents per day, a testament to the value of their craft in the urban crucible. Yet, the rural blacksmiths, known colloquially as "Artificers," faced a different reality. In the quiet hamlets where cash was scarce and towns were but distant echoes, bartering became the currency of survival.
As backcountry artificers, these rural blacksmiths transcended the narrow confines of their trade. They metamorphosed into gunsmiths, farriers, coppersmiths, and millwrights, their skills expanding to meet the diverse needs of a frontier society. Their workshops, perched on the edge of civilization, became sanctuaries where metal ailments were remedied, and tools found new life under the skilled hands of these artisans. The blacksmith, a veritable metal surgeon of the frontier, became indispensable to the locals. From the mundane to the essential, the blacksmith mended the broken tools and farm implements that sustained daily life. Iron nails, horseshoes, hooks, axes, bear traps — each bore the mark of the blacksmith's transformative touch. The frontier depended on these artisans not only for repairs but also for the creation of new tools that would carve a semblance of civilization out of the rugged wilderness.
Beyond the anvil and hammer, the blacksmith had a role beyond his craft. He was an indelible social actor, a member of the trade community whose perspective transcended the boundaries of mere craftsmanship. The patronage of the blacksmith, an intrinsic facet of frontier life, marked a regular interaction within the community. His daily life, intricately woven into the fabric of the settlement, bore witness to the dynamic interplay of technological adaptation and labor-as-practice.
In their daily existence, the blacksmith emerged not merely as a producer of goods but as a specific social actor. He consumed, produced, and colonized, his forge was not merely a workshop but a center around which the community's daily life revolved. In the silent dance of the anvil's song, the blacksmith became an artisan and an integral cog in the intricate machinery of frontier existence.
For Alexander Davidson, the apprentice, a pact was drawn up, inked in the crucible of the forge, a legal contract, a covenant, binding the young apprentice and master craftsman. This document, solemnly sworn and signed before the watchful eyes of the courts, etched its significance in the annals of a deed book.
Young Alexander willingly stepped into the world of the blacksmith's craft. As an apprentice he was committed not only to honing his skills but to safeguarding trade secrets, a sacred trust shared between master and apprentice. The apprentice's world was one of constraints, where seeking permission, a humble "by your leave," preceded every venture beyond the master's domain. Yet, it was more than a mere code of conduct. The apprentice, in his solemn commitment, pledged to abstain from the dark pits of intemperance — idleness, gaming, peevishness, quarreling, fighting, horse racing, lying, swearing, stealing, and swindling. A litany of vices, an oath to uphold the sanctity of the craft, where character stood side by side with skill.
Crucially, the apprentice, in a pact that seemed steeped in sacrifice, agreed to toil without monetary recompense for the entirety of the contracted term. The contract, a document that held the future in its scripted clauses, delineated the master's responsibilities as well. Alexander, while in his pursuit of mastery, was also under the watchful eye of the master’s wife. It was not to be a solitary journey, for the missus of the Blacksmith was a silent guardian of Alex’s education, ensuring that his evenings were dedicated not only to the forge but also to the pursuit of knowledge. Math, reading, and writing became the companions to the rhythmic clangor of the anvil, forging a path to a more rounded mastery.
In the early hours of the first day, Uncle William Ellis, came to Alexander, “You'll be working with a master blacksmith and his journeymen, as their apprentice,” Uncle William, his words carrying the weight of an uncharted destiny. “They won’t be easy on you, … Respect is very important to men like these. Remember, you are not their friends! You are to address him as Master, and never, … never by his name, understand?!”
“Yes, sir Uncle William.” Alex responded
“It’s a solid future for you, no community anywhere can function without a smithy.” Uncle William sternly pointed out.
The mantle of an indentured servant now adorned Alexander, a badge of commitment to a craft that held the pulse of every settlement. The master and his journeymen both saw potential in the lad, a prospect that shimmered with possibilities.
Uncle William, with a sagacity that bespoke years of experience “Always pay attention to what they say and always do it quickly, work hard, stay focused,” he counseled. Uncle William wasn’t just scolding him, but laying the foundation of being a good apprentice that would also reflect upon William’s reputation as well.
“You should know you will start by doing little things, like sweep up the floor, pump the bellows, get the charcoal, all the while, you will be learning all the tasks when he starts the actual build.”
Guided by his uncle's hand, Alexander stepped into the realm of the Master Blacksmith, his name was Jacob Shaw Mackintosh. “His smitty’s shop, is a cathedral of clanging metal and searing heat, embraced them!”
Jacob, a formidable figure, exuded an intimidating aura that momentarily gripped the young apprentice. Yet, as Alexander looked into the blacksmith's eyes, he discerned a kindness and a glimmer of light that dispelled the initial trepidation.
With a massive right hand, Jacob extended a handshake, bridging the gap between the seasoned artisan and the timid boy. A silent understanding passed between them as they ventured inside the shop, the anvil's echo welcoming them to a world where the art of forging met the crucible of history.
Uncle William shared Alexander's lineage with Jacob Mackintosh. “Alexander’s grandfather, Alexander the first, was killed at the Battle of Preston in 1715 of the Jacobite Uprising, during the 1st rebellion,” he recounted, weaving threads of familial valor. "His father, Alexander Davidson the 2nd, had come to the new world with his brothers around 1724 as indentured servants. After completing his servitude, he married Sarah Ellis, my younger sister, right here in Spotsylvania County.” In this way, William’s was reminding Jacob and his journeyman of his fondness for the young lad and he planned to always stay close, if ever needed.
The Scots-Irish were a close-knit community, and not very fond of the Crown, given their long-standing history, even more so, knowing their extended family members had fought and died on the fields of Culloden in ’46. Before that, during the Jacobite rising of 1715, the Clan Chattan remained loyal to the cause of an independent Scotland. Lachlan Mackintosh led eight hundred clansmen including Davidsons, in support of the rebellions. After some initial success, they were defeated at the Battle of Preston in 1715. Many clansmen who were taken prisoners were transported to America including the two uncles of Alexander Davidson II.
The Ellis family was an important family in this community, and Alex could plainly see that people respected his Uncle William. The Ellis and Bridges families had been established in the Northern Neck of Virginia as some of the very first land owners. Court documents show an early presence of the Ellis and Bridges men in the Northern Neck of Virginia in Westmoreland County, between the Potomac and Rappahannock Rivers, that can be traced back to Hercules Bridges and his two brothers Francis and Anthony, before the 1640s,
With a thick Scottish accent, Jacob Mackintosh told young Alexander, “Iron may seem tae be a simple metal tae some, but whit they dinnae ken, in its nature, are many mysteries.” The brawny blacksmith had enormous shoulders, long reddish-brown hair, and embodied every simple virtue as he was proud to remind others, “"I owed nae money tae nae man, I pray on Sundays, and earn an honest livin' by the sweat o' ma brow.”
The forge, a realm of heat and alchemy, became the focus in which Alexander's heritage merged with the glowing steel. As the bellows breathed life into the flames, the young apprentice embarked on a journey that transcended the clangor of the anvil — a journey into the heart of craftsmanship, lineage, and the forging of a destiny yet to unfold. The Blacksmith's shop always stood as a bastion of craftsmanship. Within the workshop, it held the symphony of creation, dominated by a large fireplace known as the forge. The forge was built in front of a wall, and the anvil was at the center of the workshop. Nestled beside the forge were the bellows, an accordion-like apparatus that breathed life into the flames, drawing air in through a valve and exhaling it through a small cylinder, stoking the fire's hunger with each rhythmic breath. Charcoal, the alchemist's fuel, crackled and danced in the forge's glow. The workshop was intentionally kept poorly lit, so when the smith worked on metal they could judge the temperature of hot metal by its glow. It was also necessary to keep the workshop tidy, clearing all waste metal, small burrs, and slivers. The scrap metal was usually melted, purified, and used again. The upkeep of the workshop is usually done by the apprentice, while the smith master would concentrate on the metal-working.
Surrounding this caldron of mythical creations, were the tools of the smith's trade, poised for the craftsman's touch. A barrel of water stood sentinel, ready to quench the molten metal, and at the heart of it all, the anvil, an unwavering companion to the rhythmic dance of the hammer.
With the formalities concluded, the Master turned his attention to the fledgling apprentice, Alexander. A peculiar sentiment lingered in the air, the Master, a seasoned artisan, conveyed to the young novice the profound essence of their shared calling.
“Alexander, as strange as it may sound to ye, any braw blacksmith worth his anvil would affirm—there's a divine harmony in this craft," the Master began, his eyes reflecting the flickering dance of the forge's flames. "Ya, young apprentice, are like an instrument o' God, shapin' the maist unyieldin' substance tae yer will. It's aboot understandin' the union o' fire and metal, bendin' it tae yer command.”
As the Master spoke, his words resonated with a reverence for the age-old art of blacksmithing. The forge held the transformative power to turn raw ores into both mighty weapons and humble tools. The Master's eyes, alight with the passion of his craft, hinted at the sacred nature of their work.
“There's a touch of the Almighty in being a smith,” he declared, the flames casting shadows on his face. ““Tamin' the fire, turnin' earthly materials intae magic or forgin' instruments o' peace. It's a gift fae God, a misterie tae be unraveled. As ye labor at the anvil, I'll reveal tae ye the secrets o' discernin' the grain in the metal—a near-magical sensation, controllin' every movement wi' skill and purpose.”
With a nod of assurance, the Master imparted not just knowledge but a glimpse into the sacred choreography between man, fire, and metal, a dance orchestrated by the divine hands of the Almighty.
Peering into the fiery depths of the forge, the Master continued, “ "Whin a smith picks up a tull, he wonders whae made it, ... under whit conditions, ... whit message that lies in the techniques and expertise, we may niver fully ken. But in the futur, Ah want ye tae hae that same respect in yer ain wark. 'Tis no for gratification, but for yerself, ... sae that yer wark micht spake through thae same techniques, communicatin' it's purpose!"
The youthful and susceptible Alexander found something he hadn’t ever experienced in his young difficult life. Hope and enduring inspiration and eternal gratitude for the benevolence bestowed upon him by his Uncle William.
Quoting Genesis 4:22, the Master mused, “Zillah gave berth tae Tubal-cain, the first blaksmith o every instrument o bronze and iron. Each day, like him, … like the Auld Anes afore the days o Noah, we wirk, we re-spark that auld craft, it is a gift frae God Himself tae mankind.”
In the flickering glow of the forge, the legacies of blacksmithing unfolded, like a timeless dance of fire and metal, bridging the past with the present and forging a future yet unknown.
The Master turned and locked eyes with Alex, delivering a straightforward piece of gloomy wisdom, "A blacksmith can gang onywhaur an' mak a livin', but a Constable can aye gang fur the deid bodies. Unnerstaun?"
“Yes sir!” Alex replied, but still not quite sure what to make of it.
He continued. “Life is like a blaksmith, it batters ye till yer hardened an' keen enough tae scylce through ony opposition in life.”
The master’s eyes widened, like balls of fire, “Whit's mair, ye're a Davidson! an' ye should ken aboot the tale o' Hal' O'Wynd!"
“Who?”
“Gie yer Scot’ish Historie a guid learnin', lad! And dinnae, ...never, …ever, forget it!" He scolded Alexander harshly.
The blacksmith’s wife Hannah told Jacob later: "Dinnae bide till the lad grows up afore ye start tae treat him as an equal. A guid dose o' confidence, and words o' cheer an' counsel... let him ken ye trust him in mony ways, helps tae mak' a man o' him lang afore he's a man in either heicht or years."
New Chapter
That evening, after supper, young Alexander approached the Missus, eager for a deviation from the usual book-learnin’ lessons. He asked if she knew of the tale of Hal O'Wynd.
She responded “"Weel noo laddie, that's a tale rooted in a barbaric era, whaur the sacredness o' life received no acknowledgement!”
During a brutal era, Scottish nobles fiercely vied for control of the feeble Scottish monarchy, and clans were willing to obliterate each other for dominance in the central Highlands. There was a conflict at Perth likely stemming from a feud between Clan Cameron and Clan Chattan, formidable highland confederacies. The MacKintosh chief, leading Clan Chattan, which the Davidsons were an important part of, initiated the strife by attacking and defeating the Camerons at Drumlui. The feud escalated, culminating in 1370, at the Battle of Invernahavon, where the MacPhersons, Davidsons, and MacIntoshes confronted the returning warriors of Clan Cameron. A dispute arose among the Clan Chattan between the Macphersons and Davidsons over who should have command of the right wing of their force, which was the post of honor. The Mackintosh chief favored the Davidsons and as a result the Macphersons withdrew in disgust. Thus with the loss of the Macphersons, Mackintosh's force together with the Davidsons was numerically inferior and was totally defeated by the Camerons.
The absence of law in Scotland allowed the strong to oppress the weak, turning the entire kingdom into a den of thieves, rampant with unpunished crimes. Weariness from the continuing feud between the Davidsons and Camerons permeated over all involved, prompting the intervention from King Robert III. In a self-serving resolution, the king devised a unique solution: each clan, Chattan and Camerons, would send 30 of their best warriors into a battle-to-the-death at North Inch in Perth in1396 . A grandstand was erected for the king and other dignitaries, turning the event into a spectacle, reflecting the king's penchant for prioritizing his interests.
The combatants, stripped to their saffron-colored undershirts, armed with swords, targes, bows, arrows, knives, and battle-axes, faced off in a fierce contest. The atmosphere was charged with tension as the trumpets sounded, bagpipes wailed, and insults hurled, culminating in a tumultuous clash. The battle's ferocity, with swords gleaming and blood flowing, resembled a chaotic tableau of death and honor.
The struggle was intense, akin to butchers slaughtering cattle in a slaughterhouse. The fight paused intermittently, allowing the wounded to rest and regroup for the next round.
Rumors swirled that the pipers, driven by rage, abandoned their pipes to engage in a deadly skirmish. One account even suggested that, in his dying moments, a mortally wounded Clan Chattan piper played the clan anthem. As the hours passed, only one of the Camerons remained, outnumbered by the severely wounded Clan Chattan representatives. Surrendering, he tossed his sword aside and fled across the field and jumped into the River Tay.
A blacksmith of Perth, however, played a crucial role in Clan Davidson's victory, when questioned about the reason for his relentless fight, he reputedly responded, “I fecht fur ma ain haun.” That phrase became a part of Scottish lore, and Clan Chattan, true to their word, honored their promise to the smith, who departed for the North with his fellow Davidson survivors.
Next Chapter
As the contracted time ebbed away, the young apprentice would be metamorphosed into a journeyman, unshackled and free to ply his trade wherever the winds of destiny carried him. Yet, the journeyman's initiation into the wider world often began with bartering services — a currency of necessity in exchange for sustenance, goods, or other indispensable services.
In this hard world of apprenticeship, where molten metal met the aspirations of the young, the journeyman's journey commenced. With every swing of the hammer and every calculated step, young Alexander Davidson navigated the path laid out by the pact forged between master and apprentice, a journey that would define not only his skill but the very essence of the man he would become.
His day unfolded before the sun graced the horizon, a symphony of labor and fire. As the Master and Journeymen savored their morning repast, the apprentice delved into his tasks. Cleaning the forges, breaking charcoal, sweeping the floor strewn with tools and iron scraps – a prelude to the forging dance that awaited.
Amidst the morning chores, Alexander's sustenance was meager, remnants from the Master's table or the generosity of the Journeymen. However, today the Master's wife Hannah, a matronly figure, who always imparted some wisdom with each meal – a slight reminder of Scottish sacred heritage, and the lineage of tradesmen tracing back to Tubal-cain, the forger of ancient renown as instructed by the Master. But today, today was different, she stuffed two extra large biscuits into his lunch pouch and gave him a smile and a wink! The swift repast skipped, only anticipation lingered for Alexander and the day’s tasks that awaited.
As Alexander descended down the hill to the shop, the blacksmith's sanctum awaited. Compact, dim, and ablaze with the heat of creation, it housed a raised brick hearth, a forge fed by relentless bellows, and the cacophony of hammer on anvil. Today, the air crackled with a different energy, a tension that hung between the Master and his Journeyman, and a third Journeyman who had just arrived earlier this morning.
Approaching, Alexander caught fragments of an unfiltered discourse – not the decorous dialogue reserved for church but a raw symphony of discontent. Today was different. The two Journeymen were engaged in heated debate about the Crown’s latest taxes, the Tories, and the suffocating Iron Act. The echo of their voices blending with the rhythmic clinking and clanking within the shop. Laying on the bench Alexander saw a printed pamphlet brought by the second Journeyman, its title read “Rights of the British Colonies Asserted and Proved.”
The first Journeyman's voice cut through, “British restrictions will choke the life out of blacksmiths everywhere!”
The Iron Act which now prohibited the erection of new steel furnaces, new mills for slitting or rolling iron, and plating forges with tilt hammers. It was an attempt to prohibit blacksmiths in the colonies from producing finished iron goods. The Iron Act was part of a policy regulating Mercantilism in the colonies. Of course, the farther one can distance themselves into the hills, from the larger cities and towns the less scrutiny there is and loyalty to the Crown rules or Parliament regulations. Locals depended on Blacksmiths for repairing all their broken tools and farm implements. From iron nails, horseshoes, hooks, axes, bear traps, to tool repairs, such as hoes, saws, augers, and other metal parts needed on the frontier. The blacksmith was also, indelibly, a social actor. As a member of the trade community, the blacksmith provides a unique perspective from which to examine processes of technological adaptation. The need to patronize the blacksmith, minimally for repair services, was a regular occurrence within the frontier setting. The dynamics of the blacksmith place him as a specific social actor, who consumes products and produces products, colonizes and is colonized, and maintains daily life for the community and whose daily life is centered on the community.
The second Journeyman followed up the first comment by swearing, “By God's bloody nails! These acts suffocate our livelihood, not just us but the whole damn settlement!”
The Master intervened with a swift reprimand, “ Yae!, ye dinnae swear by God's bluid! … and nae on ma laund, aniewey!”
In the midst of dissent, the Master disclosed a new threat. “Hooweiver, 'at's nae the waurs o' it... Hae ye no heard o' this new law? General Thomas Gage wants aw his troops in America tae be hoosed!"
The new revelation hung in the air, a cloud of uncertainty and unrest settling over the blacksmith's forge, where the orchestrated ballet of hammer and anvil found itself entwined with the discord of the world of unrest and beyond.
The Master spoke with a measured tone, “ "In times o' war, troops find shelter in makeshift arrangements, but if they were tae bide in America permanently, sic provisions wad be mair than impractical!”
Clearly agitated, the second Journeyman added, "Under this new act, all across the colonies, we'd be obligated to provide housing and supplies for British soldiers and their dreaded German Hussar mercenaries, even way out here!,… on the outskirts of Williamsburg!"
First Journeyman inquired, "Can you jus’ imagine handin’ over your home to the redcoats?"
Second Journeyman countered sharply, "No way in bloody hell would I let those bastards live within a mile of my family or my daughters, the vile, ugly jackanapes!"
Alexander had now fully entered the space of their private discussion, catching the Master's attention. The Master continued, “As Ah unnerstaun it, this new law disnae alloo sodjers tae be housed in private hooses. Hooiver, it demans that colonists chip in tae pay fur guid buildins tae lodge the sodjers, wit extra taxation.”
Alex thought it odd that no one paid any attention to him as he took his place at the bellows behind the Master's forge. But then the second Journeyman breaks protocol, asking the young apprentice what he thought on the matter.
Alex cooley responded “Me?, … I fecht fur ma ain haun.”
Upon hearing this the Master immediately stopped what he was doing, and looked over at Alex, and gave his young apprentice a proud nod of approval.
The Journeymen pumped their own, and Alex began working the paired bellows to heat up the forge. Little sparks jumped from the fire like fleas, occasionally landing on the Master's boots. Lost in the excitement, he forgot to tend to the fire, and soon it roared.
The second Journeyman couldn't restrain himself any longer and cursed, "By God's wounds, by God's blood, by Jesus Christ!, by the eternal God!, .. God confound me body and soul..."
“No more! haud yer wheesht! … an’ gie it a rest!” bellowed the Master.
Then the Master snapped, “Alexander! Damn it, laddie! Ye're wastin' gowf!”
At that all banter quickly ceased as everyone turned their attention to Alex. The Master, a good man, had assured his uncle that he would learn the trade, but at this moment, his temper was directed at Alex, making him feel like hiding from their gaze.
All Alex had done so far was sweep and clean, and now the Master was taking over, pumping his own bellows and sending Alex to haul in more charcoal, water for the slack-tub, and bars of iron that weighed half as much as he did. He wondered if he would ever be allowed to use a tool other than a broom.
Returning with more charcoal, he carefully broke it into the size lumps the Master preferred. The charcoal still retained the shape of the branches and logs, often as sturdy as the original. He used an ax to break it up, a task he disliked more than anything else, as it covered him in fine black dust from head to toe.
Upon his return, the Master was heating two large pieces of wrought iron in his forge, with the first Journeyman doing the same in his. The pieces were as big as Alex's arm and likely weighed 5 to 10 pounds each. Both smiths vigorously pumped their bellows, and the Master nodded to Alex to put the charcoal in both forges, then instructed, “Get more!” as he attentively watched the heat soak into the iron.
“More CHARCOAL?!” Judging the Master’s mood, he wisely refrained from saying another word. Instead, and scurried out to break up some more, less careful this time. The other Journeymen caught their sense of urgency, cutting through that big bar with a long-handled chisel and a sledge. They cut iron bars like you'd chop a twig with an ax! The Master is clearly orchestrating something grand, so Alex hurries even more. When he returns, there are more pieces of iron in the forges, and the Journeymen have the third forge blazing, having even secured their OWN charcoal! The small shop seems ablaze, hot, with almost bonfire-sized flames—this, just after the Master admonished Alex about wasting fuel!
The Master nods at Alex, indicating to take over at the bellows. The pieces of iron in his forge are now white hot, and little sparks occasionally rise from the fire as the iron starts to burn. All the Journeymen cease their tasks, gathering around the Master's anvil. He and the first Journeyman pull out the white-hot metal, stacking it on the anvil. Suddenly, a rapid succession, a cadence of the banging echoes through the shop as the Journeyman hits the massive piece with sledges, creating a shower of white sparks. The Master starts tapping the piece with a smaller hand hammer, and the Journeyman each striking the piece exactly where the Master hit, within a second of each other! The two lumps meld into one! Alex has seen the Master and Journeymen forge weld, but nothing as grand as this!
Now the hefty welded lump returns to the fire, and the Master simply utters, “Hotter!" as the Journeymen bring two more white-hot lumps to the anvil. This time, the Master delivers the blow that guides the following forceful strokes. White sparks fill the shop again. The sledges are colossal, appearing as large as half an anvil! You marvel at how the Journeymen avoid colliding as the sledges seem to fall immediately after one another. The second lump is now welded and returned to the Journeyman’s forge. Meanwhile, Alex keeps pumping the bellows.
The pieces are pulled from the forges and hammered some more. “It’s scarfing!” yells one of the Journeymen to Alex. While this is happening, the other Journeyman has been hammering smaller pieces, and those are placed back in the fire too. The Master sends Alex out again for more charcoal, instructing with urgency, "Don't stoop to break it up!"
Upon Alex’s return, everyone is in a rush for more charcoal, proclaiming, "Don't want to lose the heat." Alex ponders if the fires of hell could be any hotter than this place!
Suddenly, Alex is bumped out of the way; the pieces are at welding heat. The two massive pieces are brought out of the forges, stacked on top of each other, and bam, bam, bam, bam! And bam, bam, bam, bam again as the enormous sledges strike! The white-hot lump is starting to dwarf the Master's anvil! As the pounding continues, the Master declares, “More heat!”—something you've NEVER heard when there was no iron in the fire.
Now, the two Journeymen hold the piece, while seemingly trying to punch holes with square-handled punches, striking them with the pointed end of their sledgehammers. They then turn the piece over and repeat the process. Finally, they insert two long bars into the holes and lift the piece back into the forge. They've fashioned handles! As Alex pumps the bellows, the Master empties what's left of the charcoal on top of the piece and says, “Pump faster!” Exhaustion sets in, and Alex loses his focus and wonders what time it is. It feels like he’s been at it all day, and the Master yells “Faster!" once again.
From the outset, everything, including all the weapons, that emerged from the Master’s forge are crafted on anvils. The fire roars, now too intense to gaze into. When the piece reaches welding heat, the two Journeymen with the bars lift it, but, … instead of placing it on the anvil, they set it on the ground. Swiftly, a broom sweeps across the white-hot surface, removing flakes of burnt iron, and another conical piece is set on, hammered from two sides simultaneously. Alexander murmurs to himself in amazement, “They are making an anvil!”
He had heard how the Blacksmith had always declared, “Anvils are the root of Western Civilization.” Young Alexander had always looked at hand-forged anvils as sculptures, singular works of art crafted by the ancient masters of old.
The anvil is still white-hot when it returns to the forge, and one of the Journeymen dumps an extra load of charcoal on top while Alex instinctively pumps the bellows. They had never done THAT before! He was always the one who had to get the charcoal.
Moments later, the anvil is pulled back out of the fire, and the Master signals, waving at Alex to stop pumping. Another thin piece is brought out of the other forge and laid on the new white-hot anvil. This time, smaller sledges are used, and a tool one of the Journeymen calls a “flatter” glides across the surface as one of the men strikes it lightly.
Now, the bars known as porters — “porter bars,” as Alexander would later learn — are inserted into the anvil. It is lifted back onto the Master's anvil and set face down. One Journeyman holds a square punch with a handle as the Master pounds it nearly through the underside of the anvil. Then they step back as the anvil is lifted and set face up on the floor. The punch aligns with a dark, cool spot on the face of the anvil, and it is driven through. The anvil is now below a yellow heat as the Master and the head Journeyman each hammer on the sides and edges, cleaning up nicks and dings from the heavy sledges.
With idle hands, Alexander saunters over, leaning on the Master's anvil. It's as hot as if it had just been pulled from the fire. The two Journeymen are clearing a path at the back door. The new anvil still glows a bright orange, though the point of the horn and some corners appear to be cooling.
Following the Master's direction, two Journeymen lift the anvil with the porter bars and head out the door. Alexander wonders, “Why are they going outside with a red-hot anvil?”
They shuffle down the creek bank to the grist mill next door and wade into the pond below the great wheel with the anvil. Then, they set it on a stone under the water falling off the wheel, and great clouds of steam start to rise from the pond and wheel. The Journeymen step back, and with a yell, they jump into the cold water for an impromptu swim. It's then, that Alex notices that the Master, and the other Journeymen are soaked with sweat. The day had started as a cool late April morning. Then you realize that the sun is low, and it's cooling off. Where had the day gone?
The first Journeyman's years of journey from a young apprentice is now, and he wanted an anvil. With his time spent, he could have had his whole kit of Journeyman's tools, but instead, he wanted it all in one lump. Alexander guessed it to be approximately 80 pounds, 5 inches wide, by 25 inches long, and about 14 inches tall.
As Alexander strolls back up to the shop to clean up, he finds himself walking alongside the Master. Unexpectedly, the Master volunteers a statement that catches him off guard.
With heavy emphasis he says, “
"Dinnae forget what ye hae seen this day. Ye may ne'er witness the likes again in yer lifetime. That's probably the first anvil made in this pairt o' the county and the last yin I mak! The writin' on the wahl' is tellin' me that if word o' what we did the day gets oot, some may want tae come an' burn doon my shop altogether!” Then the Master adds, “Noo, gang an' tak' the rest o' the day and gang for a swim if ye want!"
