Now it was seven years later, Henry’s apprenticeship with a struggling saw shop had run its course, and he was determined to beat his former countrymen at their own game. Arriving at his spare lodgings, Henry dumped the coal onto a tarp next to the clay furnace he’d built the week before, swept back a shock of thick brown hair, and considered the week ahead of him, replete with the kind of tasks that sent most young men into despondency and retreat: Fire up the furnace, temper the plate, cut the teeth, grind the taper, and hammer-tension and set the toothline, followed by sharpening to joint. Then he would mill the fasteners, cut the handle to rough form and rasp an elegant contour to the final shape, lacquer them, then bolt the handle onto a finished saw. He had the next five days to make twelve of them, because he was no longer just an apprentice who had surpassed his former masters—he was hungry, and had to eat.

The week flew by in a series of 16, 18, 20-hour work days, a blur of metal ringing in his ears, rasping wood and screeching files. Then it was Saturday. He paused to take stock of the sheer audacity of what he had accomplished, his malnourished body humming along on pure adrenaline, a pint of beer, a crust of bread, and a stout supply of black Jamaican coffee—his only luxury. Henry loaded his product into the wheelbarrow, and without missing a beat shrugged on his cleanest dirty shirt, buffed his brass shoe buckles, and off he went, carting his dozen handsaws while dodging the horse droppings through the downtown cobblestoned streets of Philadelphia, the purported city of brotherly love: a pre-Civil War cacophony of fishmongers flinging the day’s catch from cart to ice-packed shelves for passersby to inspect, the ringing staccato of blacksmith hammers and coopers stretching metal bands over barrel staves, their product bound for the whiskey-making trade in faraway Kentucky, peddlers and tinsmiths jostling their carts beside him, plowing their own goods through the competitive fray of the boulevards. Saturday mornings in 1840 Philadelphia presented a chaotic, noisy, and entrepreneurial dance of 19th century cutthroat competition, back in a time when communication traveled at the speed of a horse and street disputes were settled through bare-knuckled combat.

The young sawmaker found his destination in a tall, three-story structure on the south side of Market Street: Bowlby & Weaver’s Hardware Store. Henry flagged down a boy and tossed him a penny to watch his cart before slicking back his hair and mounting the steps two at a time, his mind racing. Old Billy Weaver was a cranky old fart who’d scoffed at Lindley, Johnson & Whitcraft’s saw manufactory not 18 months ago where Henry had apprenticed. Billy had strolled into the shop like he owned the place, all but sneering at their product line. Henry watched out the corner of his eye while tensioning a sawplate with mixed success, realizing immediately that Billy was right: American saws couldn’t compete against those made by their erstwhile masters across the pond, and were forced as most fledgling American sawmakers were to import British steel—and their second-class metal at that. Which is exactly why Henry took it upon himself to master the art of tempering. He frowned, unsure whether to reveal his secret to the hardware stores upon which he had set his sights, Billy Weaver’s in particular. All the best carpenters and furniture makers in town bought their wares from that tough old coot, who was always muttering “Quality sells, dammit. Quality sells. . . .” Henry allowed himself a tight grin. No. He had something else in mind altogether to set that old codger straight.

Sudden memories flashed through his mind highlighting the journey he had undertaken to this very moment. A bead of sweat formed between his shoulder blades and trickled down the small of his back, sending a shiver up his spine. Young Henry shook his head, inhaling deeply. Worry--always an unexpected gut punch. He willed the momentary self-doubt away, knowing perfectly damned well what he had made, and what his saws were worth. That two-word phrase—quality sells—had become the young sawmaker’s mantra, getting him through that tough initial period when he parted ways with LJ&W. It had taken him one entire week alone to build the clay oven in the sparse patch of dirt behind the slum where he lived, his thin frame laboring on watered-down beer and lentil soup he’d warm up on an alcohol burner.

The basic materials were the easiest to source: Because LJ&W was too poor of a business to pay him in wages due, they had been more than generous with quartersawn beech and apple, the brass rod he’d need for milling fasteners, mild steel for sawbacks and second-rate plate blanks from England that he'd have to re-temper. That alone was the real trick many sawmakers never figured out--how to change imperfect metal into something that outperformed other saws: first came the heat treat in the oven, followed by a rapid quench at just the right moment. Then grinding, scrubbing, cleaning, tensioning--and finally . . . a sawplate. The hours Henry spent in his backyard saw manufactory quickly blurred into days, days into a week, then another, and another. By his fourth week he had the tasks worked out, a rhythm established--and a stack of 12 saws ready for Old Billy's scowling review.

His mind now back in the space where he wanted it, Henry grinned and pushed open the heavy oak-framed door to Bowlby & Weaver’s, a cheery brass bell announcing his entrance with a sharp clang. A wiry old man in his 50’s with a beaked nose and a fringe of white hair hanging over his ears and collar popped over the counter, reminding Henry of a rooster spotting a fat grub in a manure pile.

“You!” the old man barked in a nasal, Yankee accent Henry found pushy, abrupt. Americans were always in such a hurry. Then he grinned. And now I’m one of them, he thought, and his grin broadened.

“Sir!” Henry popped back smartly, remembering his old Eaton schoolmaster. His left hand found the corner edge of the stout oak countertop running the length of the store.

“Well, I ain’t got all day, boy! You here to look at another saw? Maybe buy one this time?”

“Yes, Sir!” Henry glanced at the boy watching his wheelbarrow outside, then returned his gaze to a gleaming row of the most prominent saw works on the wall above Billy Weaver's bald head: Groves & Sons, Spear & Jackson, Garlick & Sons. His eyes widened and he hitched in a breath. “Only your best, Sir, if you please! An eight-point crosscut should fit the bill quite nicely."

The old man plucked one down and marched around the counter, thumbing the plate with a resounding twang. Henry took the saw in his calloused hands. “Two dollars, young man, for this fine Spear & Jackson. And not a cent less. You’ll find none finer—Sheffield Steel that is!”

Henry flexed the saw, finding the tension where he knew it had a loose spot in the plate from his earlier visit a week before.

Old Billy squinted at him. “Well? Oh, never mind—a youngster like you can’t afford that kind of saw anyway, what was I thinking?” He reached out to grab it back.

Turning away, Henry held the saw up to the light, eyed the countertop on his left, then with a flash of his arm whacked the plate over the hard corner edge. The ringing sound of poorly tempered metal snapped in the air like a crack in the Liberty Bell, and the toe half of the plate clattered onto the floor.

Billy Weaver's eyes popped open and he sputtered a string of obscenities. “What in God’s name did you just do! What the hell, boy!”

Download 'Adversity and Triumph: The Steely Resolve of Henry Disston'

"I don't give a good goddam what the hell your name is, boy--."

Henry waved at the lad outside to cart in his wheelbarrow, in which Henry had crafted a beautiful saw till the week before, each plate of the dozen handsaws nestled in kerfs cut perfectly square into quartersawn and ammonia-fumed white oak, finished in garnet shellac. Old Billy stopped swearing in mid-sentence, and arched an eyebrow at the saw till and a dozen gleaming, apple-handled handsaws.

Henry plucked one out of the till, flexed the plate, and thumbed it hard in the center. Spring steel sang in the air. “Mr. Weaver, Sir," Henry said, handing over the saw. "May I suggest you snap one of mine over that countertop? If you can?”

Not a half hour later, Old Billy wound up buying the entire lot that day from young Henry Disston. And in the days and the weeks that followed, so did every other hardware store throughout Philadelphia.

Because quality sells.

Vic Tesolin, Lee Valley/Veritas Lead Technical Advisor and author, The Minimalist Woodworker

"The most critical cut I make when breaking out lumber for any project is the crosscut. My Bad Axe D8 sings through anything I put in front of it and tracks dead-straight. I have used many panel saws but this one has a bit of magic built in it."

--Visit Vic's blog,
'the Minimalist Woodworker.'

 

 

 

 

"My God. Mark. Why-oh-why did you not make panel saws before now? Mark, I am telling you that I nearly was sent into ecstasy. This saw tracks a line like it’s on rails. It cuts with such ease that I did a double take . . . did I pick up the oak or the poplar? It inspires such confidence, and I don’t dread long crosscuts anymore, or feel i have to spend a whole lot of time warming up and “holding my mouth just right” . . . you know that feeling. It was just simply too easy. You’ve really, really outdone yourself."

Jim Burton
Sr. Lecturer, Drawing & Painting
College of Visual Art and Design
University of North Texas

 

Here's what Richard Spry of Orepass: Woodworking for Sanity blogged as one of our earliest users shortly we released the the D8 in August:

"Wow! Grabbing an Oak board, a line was struck and with saw in hand I sliced off a few inches, next I found a piece of Cherry, that too became smaller, leaning against the wall some Sapele left over from my tool chest, then Walnut. Looking around I noticed a longer piece of Oak and “don’t tell anyone” ripped it in half with my new crosscut! At 9PPI I anticipated a rougher cut, but was surprised with a relatively clean cut, the saw started easily and the cuts were quick and smooth. Mark Harrell obviously put a little magic in the saw sharpening. I’m very impressed with the saw and know that it will give years of great service."

(Read Richard's full review here). 

"Mark--I've been using your D8 hand saw for about a month, and you've hit a homer! It cuts as good as it looks, which is high praise. I've never used a big saw that starts as easily as the D8. It tracks like a dream and cuts like a daemon--thanks for developing such a great tool.."

Byron Williams
Hamilton, MT

 

 

 

 

 

"My Bad Axe Custom Made D8 cuts through hardwood nearly as fast and smooth as I can empty my 1911! (That’s very fast and very smooth)!"

--Bob Hickock, Oct 2017