Spite
The Battle of Yorktown finally brought an end to the seven-year-long American Revolutionary War. Although the Treaty of Paris would not be signed until 1783, for all intents and purposes, peace was restored on the North American continent, and the United States won its independence from Great Britain. Cornelius Van Tienhoven, whose forebears had settled in New Amsterdam in the early 1600s before eventually relocating to New England nearly a century later, managed to survive the war unscathed and go home to Massachusetts.
In less than six months, the fifteen-year-old returning warrior married the seventeen-year-old widow of a well-to-do farmer who lost his life during the Battle of Paulus Hook. To his credit, Cornelius was an industrious fellow. He used a good portion of the money he acquired from his wife to build a sawmill. He then took the profits he made from selling lumber and expanded his business. This became the pattern of his life. More profits were made; more money was either used to grow the business or to purchase additional timberland. By the time the former patriot turned twenty, he was a far wealthier man than his wife's first husband had been.
"All I needed was that first step up," he often bragged. "Once I had a decent sum of cash to start a business, there was no stopping me."
There is little doubt that, in addition to being a hard worker, Cornelius was also a man of vision. He saw that in the years to come, not only would New England's maritime industry grow, but also more and more people would leave behind the old world to settle in the new. These newcomers, looking to better their lives in America, would need homes. More businesses would then spring up, and they, too, would need buildings to house them. All this new construction would require lumber.
"I could become one of the richest men in America," he told Charity, his wife.
"I thought you already were," she replied. "You're certainly the richest man in these parts."
"That's true. But one can never have too much money or too much land. Since I built that second mill, my men have been cutting down twice as many trees as before. I'll need to purchase more woodlands if I want to meet the future demand for lumber."
Cornelius looked down at a surveyor's map of his property. On the east, it bordered a river. Beyond that river was farmland. To the north and south, there were more farms. Pastureland was useless to a lumberman. His eyes went to the left side of the map. Just west of his property boundary, there were three hundred acres of woodlands that belonged to Mordecai Enright, a blacksmith by trade.
"That acreage ought to keep me in wood for the time being," he decided. "Meanwhile, I'll look for larger parcels of land up north."
"Do you think Mordecai will be willing to sell to you?" Charity asked. "Why not? What does a blacksmith need with so much land?"
"It's not that. It's just that, well, he has always been a rather cantankerous sort of fellow. My late husband butted heads with him on more than one occasion."
"He may be a grumpy old man, but I'm sure he's willing to listen when it comes to money."
"Don't be so sure."
Ignoring his wife's well-meant advice, Cornelius visited the blacksmith shop three days later to talk business. He found Mordecai, face covered with dirt and sweat, hammering a horseshoe at his anvil.
"How can I help you?" the smith asked, stone-faced.
"My name is Cornelius Van Tienhoven," he began by introducing himself.
"I know who you are. I asked what you wanted."
Charity was right. The man was a bit of a curmudgeon at that.
"I'm interested in buying your three hundred acres of woodland."
"No," Mordecai answered brusquely, not even bothering to take his eyes off the horseshoe and look at his neighbor's face.
"You haven't even heard my offer yet."
"Don't need to," the smithy replied tersely and then added, "that land is not for sale."
"Why not?"
"Because I own it, and I aim to keep what belongs to me."
"I'm not asking you to give it to me. I'm willing to pay you a generous sum for it."
"I already told you, no."
"Why are you being so stubborn? What use is that land to you? You're not married. You don't have any children. What will you do with it?"
"I was married once. She died giving birth to my son. My boy was killed at the Battle of Brandywine."
"I'm sorry to hear that, but ...."
"Are you?" Mordecai barked, stopping his work to face his caller for the first time.
"Have I done or said something to upset you?"
"My boy is dead and buried somewhere in Pennsylvania. Yet you survived the war without a scratch. You came home, married a rich widow and set yourself up in business. Now, you come here in your fancy carriage and want to buy my land. Well, I ain't interested in selling it, especially to the likes of you."
"Have it your way, then," Cornelius answered, trying to hold on to the reins of his temper.
With Mordecai's three hundred acres of woodland unavailable to him, he purchased nine hundred acres in the neighboring county. It took nearly half his savings, and he would have to pay more to have the cut trees transported to his sawmills, but it would eventually prove to be a wise move. He would triple his investment within two years.
* * *
When George Washington was reelected president in 1792, Cornelius Van Tienhoven, then twenty-six years old, expanded his business even further and added another lumber mill, this one further north in what was to become the state of Maine in 1820. With dependable men overseeing the day-to-day operations at the three mills, he was able to temporarily devote more time to his family. Charity had recently given birth to the couple's only child, Isaac. The proud father commemorated the occasion by tearing down the old homestead and erecting a huge manor house in its place.
"I have big plans for that boy," Cornelius announced when the toddler took his first steps. "Unlike me, he's going to be well-educated. I'm going to send him to Oxford when the time comes."
"Why England?" his wife complained. "What's wrong with Harvard?"
"Nothing. But it will do him good to see what the world is like beyond our shores."
Charity, who doted on her long-awaited child, hoped that her husband would change his mind since she could not bear to be parted from her son for any length of time.
Although he was delighted at having an heir to his continually expanding empire and growing fortune, not long after his son said his first words, Cornelius was once again consumed by his business interests. In addition to his lumber company, which required the purchase of more and more land rich in cedar, maple, white pine, spruce and oak timber, he invested heavily in New England's growing textile industry. He also purchased a substantial number of shares in a shipbuilding operation and financed several whaling vessels.
As he had once predicted, many Europeans were coming to America. Rather than cry for the government to curtail immigration like those of his countrymen who feared losing their jobs to the newcomers, Cornelius welcomed these immigrants with open arms. They were not only a cheap source of labor, but they also contributed to the growth of the region. The expanding population also presented a new opportunity for the already-wealthy businessman to make even more money: he would purchase woodlands, remove all the trees for his lumber business and then sell the cleared land to the immigrants at a substantial profit.
Yet despite all his successes, from time to time, he still thought of what he considered his one failure: to purchase Mordecai Enright's three hundred acres of woodland. He had made a second and third offer to buy the property, both of which were turned down.
I can't understand why he won't sell! he thought, angry at the old man's continued obstinacy. It's not as though he uses it. Hell! He doesn't even live on it. He stays in that little house in the village, next to his blacksmith shop. I honestly believe he's only holding on to the property just to spite me. It's not my fault his son was killed, and I survived.
But it was more than the loss of his only child that Mordecai resented. His had been a hard life, and he had little to show for it. He went to work at an early age and spent long hours at a physically demanding job. Cornelius, on the other hand, despite coming from a humble background, became one of the earliest millionaires in America.
"All because he married a rich widow!" the blacksmith grumbled. "And now he practically owns half the state! Well, he's not getting his hands on my land. It may only amount to three hundred acres, but they're mine. And I intend to hold on to them."
* * *
Once Isaac Van Tienhoven learned to read and write, his father let his son accompany him to his office once or twice a week. Charity took it as a good sign. If her husband was getting the boy involved in the business at such an early age, perhaps he would not send him off to England to be educated after all.
"And what did you learn today?" the mother asked one evening when the men in her life sat down at the dinner table after a day at the office.
"I learned there are some words that only grown-up men are allowed to say," he replied.
"Oh?"
"I'm afraid I lost my temper," Cornelius admitted to his wife. "I uttered a few profanities, and this one immediately repeated them."
"He called the blacksmith a mean old ...," Isaac began to explain, but his father quickly silenced him before he could complete the sentence.
"What did I tell you?" he reprimanded the lad. "Little boys don't use those words."
"Sorry, Daddy."
"And what has Mr. Enright done now that he deserves your wrath?" Charity asked.
"I was showing our landholdings to Isaac on a map, and he asked about those three hundred acres to the west. You know that's a touchy subject for me."
"Why are you still so keen to get your hands on his land? Last year, you bought more than two thousand acres of timberland. Why concern yourself with his measly three hundred?"
"It's the principle of the thing," her husband replied. "He doesn't use it. It's just sitting there. Yet he refuses to sell it to me."
"He resents your success."
"It's not just that. He also resents the fact that I came back from the war, and his son didn't."
"Life is full of disappointments," Charity said, thinking about the death of her first husband. "We must all learn to live with them."
"That's easier said than done," her husband declared stubbornly. "Every time I pass by those woods on my way to town, it reminds me that that mean, spiteful old ...."
"Now, now!" his wife cautioned. "You mustn't get so upset. Why don't we change the subject?"
Thus, Mordecai Enright and his three hundred acres were temporarily forgotten about—at least by Charity and her son—but they were never completely out of her husband's thoughts. As he had told her, every time he passed that parcel of land, the owner's refusal to sell to him stuck in his craw.
* * *
Unlike modern times, when people go to their primary care physicians or their local pharmacist to get their annual flu and pneumonia shots, in the early 1800s, there was no preventative vaccination for such diseases. All too often, sickness would run rampant through a community, killing some while sparing others. One year, Charity suffered from a severe cough and chest pain and was diagnosed with pleurisy. Isaac caught it from her, but, as usual, her husband was the lucky one and remained in good health. Thankfully, both mother and child recovered. However, there were several deaths in town, adults and children alike. The elderly were most at risk. This included Mordecai Enright, who was nearing his seventieth year.
As the blacksmith lay in his bed, exhausted from lack of sleep caused by his nagging cough, he received a surprise visitor: Cornelius Van Tienhoven.
"What are you doing here?" the sick old man demanded to know. "Have you come to gloat at my poor health?"
"Not at all. I know how serious this illness is. My wife and son recently suffered from it."
"I'm glad to hear they're feeling better—for their sakes."
Cornelius's lips pursed at the implied insult, but he held his tongue.
"So, why are you here?" Mordecai repeated after a spasm of coughing left him feeling weak and tired.
"I want to help you. You're getting up there in years."
"I don't need you to tell me that."
"There's no reason for you to continue working. You ought to spend whatever time is left to you in comfort."
The old man closed his eyes, desperately trying to fight off another coughing spell.
"No!" he cried. "How many times must I tell you? No. No. NO! My land is not for sale."
"Damn it, man! Face facts. You may not live out the week. Why do you insist on refusing my offers?"
"You will never understand. Except for the tools of my trade, that land is all that I own. This house, where I've lived all my life, doesn't belong to me. I must pay rent for it, first to my older brother who inherited it when our father died, and now to my nephew. You, on the other hand, can buy whatever your heart desires ...."
"Except for your three hundred acres," Cornelius said, interrupting Mordecai's reply.
"Yes. Except for my three hundred acres."
"But, damn it, what good are they to you? I'll pay you a fair price. With the money, you can buy things that you've denied yourself for years."
After several minutes of an excruciatingly painful coughing spell, Mordecai lay his head on his pillow, face gleaming with sweat and red with fever, and managed to utter through clenched teeth, "For the last time, no."
"Have it your way, then," Cornelius cried, feeling not an ounce of sympathy for the dying man. "You don't have any heirs to leave that land to. Once you die, I will buy it from the state—and I'll probably get it at a much cheaper price than I was willing to pay you."
"Get out of here!" Mordecai managed to yell, despite the agonizing pain in his chest. "Let me die in peace."
A triumphant smile spread across the millionaire's face as he watched his nemesis struggle to breathe.
"I'll let you die. But before you do, know that I'll get the better of you in the end."
Another severe coughing spell prevented the blacksmith from delivering a parting salvo.
* * *
When word of Mordecai Enright's death came to Cornelius two days later, the satisfaction he felt was dimmed by disappointment at not having bested his enemy while the old man was still alive.
How I would like to have seen the look on his face when my men start taking down his trees! the lumber magnate thought wistfully.
Thinking back on the animosity that had developed between the two men over the years, Cornelius realized what a colossal waste of time it had all been. If the blacksmith had only sold him those three hundred acres when he first offered to buy them, all those bad feelings would never have taken root. Like the hundreds of other landowners he bought property from, Mordecai would have ceased to matter to him once the deal was finalized.
I doubt I would have remembered his name or face afterward.
Instead, he had let the man be a thorn in his side for years. Charity was right. He did not really need that parcel of land. He had bought, cleared and sold thousands of acres, turning their timber into valuable lumber with his mills. It was not even a matter of principle, as he had so often contended. Where was the morality or ethics in wanting to acquire another man's most precious possession when it would not necessarily benefit him?
No, he desperately wanted those three hundred acres simply because he could not have them. Like a spoiled child, he wanted to get his way, and Old Man Enright had not given it to him.
Spite. Pique. Malice. Whatever you call it, it amounted to the same thing. The blacksmith kept his three hundred acres until the day he died, not because he planned to use them himself but because he did not want Cornelius Van Tienhoven to have them. And why not? Because he was envious of the young man's success.
Well, old man, I got the better of you in the end!
Or so he thought.
No sooner was Mordecai placed in a pine box and stored away until the ground thawed in the spring and he could be properly buried than Cornelius inquired about purchasing the dead man's land.
"I'm afraid Mr. Enright was not the owner of that property," the town clerk informed him.
"What?" the millionaire shouted, unable to believe what the clerk had told him. "There must be some mistake in the records. He owned three hundred acres of woodland that bordered my property on the west."
"He did own them, once."
"He sold them to someone else? The audacity of that old ...!" He stopped short of using profanity and then asked, "Who owns them now?"
"Mr. Enright didn't exactly sell them. A month before he died, he gave the land to the church."
"Gave?"
"Donated, if you prefer. He deeded the property to Holy Trinity with the condition that they use all three hundred acres as a burial ground."
Cornelius was stunned.
Who gives away land? he wondered. Only a mean, spiteful old bastard! That's who!
Determined to benefit from his enemy's death in whatever way he could, Van Tienhoven paid a call on the minister and offered to clear the land, free of charge.
"I'll have my men cut down every tree and haul them away, at no cost to the church."
"I appreciate your generous offer," Father Dunstan replied, "but I can't accept it."
"Why not? Surely, you can't build a graveyard on heavily wooded property!"
"No. But Mr. Enright specified that the trees were to be cut down and given to the townspeople to use as firewood."
"All that valuable timber is to be burned as fuel? It's ... it's ... downright sinful!"
"Nevertheless, it was Mr. Enright's land. Those trees belonged to him, and he had every right to do with them what he wanted."
* * *
Spite, the petty ill will that causes one to annoy or thwart the plans of another, can be a powerful motivator. Mordecai Enright unnecessarily deprived himself of a more comfortable life by spitefully refusing to sell his land to a man he envied and hated. It was also spite that made Cornelius Van Tienhoven purchase a large family plot in the newly created church graveyard.
"It's a small victory," he declared, looking down at the simple wooden cross that marked the blacksmith's grave, "but a victory nonetheless. You, Mordecai Enright, will spend eternity in a box made of pine from one of my lumber mills; and although I may not have gotten all of your three hundred acres, I and my family will forever rest in peace in the quarter of an acre of yours I was finally able to get my hands on."
This story was inspired by the legend of Spite Cemetery in Reading, Vermont. It is said that in 1808, millowner Levi Bailey wanted to purchase land from his neighbor, David Hapgood. However, Hapgood donated his land to the town of Reading for use as a cemetery.
For my 300th birthday, Salem surprised me with a headstone (for use when my time finally comes). What a thoughtful idea!
