by J. F. Collen
Nellie, forgetting her resolve to maintain a restrained and dignified manner in public, threw her arms around her husband and squealed, “The wonder and joy of this adventure never ceases!” The passengers around them smiled, and exchanged knowing glances.
A short coach ride from the Hudson River Line’s 22nd Street pier brought them to the extension of Fifth Avenue in Murray Hill. Nellie bolted out of the carriage and ran to the entrance of the distributing reservoir. The Egyptian Revival style façade encasing the retaining wall contained a stairwell.
Her pace mounting the stairs was so brisk she fairly burst onto the promenade on top of the wall. “I marvel that Papa had a hand in constructing this reservoir, from overseeing the physical labor to participation in design of the whole system. New York City’s water was polluted with the fetid matter of its own sewage systems in the 1840s. The fires and cholera of the 1830s were linked to an inadequate supply of fresh water. This innovative clean water system has fairly eradicated cholera.” Nellie smiled at Obadiah, who listened with interest.
“Since the aqueduct’s completion, The City expanded exponentially. Yet the Croton Aqueduct has kept pace. Through its inventive masonry-enclosed structure, its gravity feed system sends fresh potable water forty-one miles from the Croton River into the heart of New York City, around the clock.”
Nellie continued her narrative, twirling her parasol as they strolled along. “Papa was particularly proud of the novel mixing of hydraulic lime and mortar, creating a material that, once it sets, is impervious to water. That material lines the aqueduct tunnel and forms the walls upon which we now stand.” Nellie shook her head. “My wonder at this edifice continues. We are perched upon the hollow walls of the reservoir’s structure. On top of the world, privileged to view The City laid out before us.”
The pair stopped on the south side of the promenade to observe the busy downtown view. The neighborhoods below teamed with activity.
“Civilization at its finest.” Nellie smiled as she gazed down on the familiar scene.
Strolling arm in arm, they stopped frequently to observe various details of the activity occurring below them. When they reached the west side, the view of a construction site surprised Nellie.
“What new wonder sprouts before us?” asked Nellie.
“A marvelous exhibit is to open in The City,” informed Obadiah. “I read of it in the morning paper.”
“Do advise of the details,” requested Nellie. “I overlooked that story.”
Obadiah smiled. “I do believe you were rather absorbed in the theater review section.” Nellie blushed.
“‘Tis not meant as a chastisement; I acquiesce to your well-established passions,” Obadiah said. “Perhaps you recall the hullabaloo and acclaim of the Crystal Palace in London in 1851?”
“My word, yes! The exhibits at the Crystal Palace spawned many a stimulating conversation with my male kinfolk. My brothers waxed just as eloquently as my father on the industrial wonders displayed at that exposition,” Nellie replied.
“This new building we see growing in front of us shall house the United States’ first Exhibition of the Industries of All Nations. It is modeled on London’s Crystal Palace, but the builders here will employ superior materials; glass and iron formulated with the many innovations and advancements that have improved construction since the building in Hyde Park. Your beloved reservoir promenade provides many a curious onlooker a bird’s-eye view of the project’s progress... which, I am sad to say, is woefully behind schedule.”
“Mercy,” said Nellie. “It certainly shall be magnificent. Look at the enormity of the structure. Observe the stacks of iron bars and many sheets of glass yet to be incorporated. The edifice will be massive—truly a grand palace.”
“Now that we have sufficiently stretched our limbs and enjoyed the visible splendors of our vast metropolis,” Obadiah said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the stairs for their descent back to the street. “Let us make our way to the Twelfth Avenue street car. We have just sufficient time for a leisurely rail ride to the Coney Island ship.”
In anticipation of the next leg of their journey, Nellie sighed with joy for what must have been the hundredth time this trip. Reunited with my first love—the seaside. Merciful heavens! I can still picture my first glimpse of the Coney Island House, though I was a mere five-year-old tot. How utterly I enjoyed every minute of our family’s summer holiday! She clasped her hands in delight. We cap our most remarkable honeymoon excursion with a stay at the seashore. Lord, I thank thee for a beautiful, bountiful, and positively bewitching life. I am truly blessed.
Nellie could not summon the words to communicate her joy to Obadiah. My cup simply spilleth over... especially on this bumpy railcar drawn by horses. She giggled to herself.
The rails ran through a busy market, and more than once the car ground to a halt, narrowly missing pedestrians. Urchins crowded the car at an intersection, begging. Hawking peddlers swarmed too, pestering the passengers to purchase newspapers and flavored shaved ice. The constant stop and start of the car began to tax her energy. Rather than complain, she asked, “Have you verified the departure time of the ferry?”
“‘Tis no longer a ferry trip to a stagecoach,” said Obadiah. “Transportation has much improved since your childhood visits to this island.”
“As I can see from this fine railroad,” Nellie said with a wry smile, as the horses halted yet again. One of the old workhorses pulling the railcar noisily relieved itself in the middle of the tracks, sending a group of pedestrians scattering.
They both laughed, high spirits revived.
“In truth, though, notwithstanding this trolley, the laboriousness of our journey is much improved. We bypass the old ferry, and instead catch a nifty little side-wheeled steamer, departing from one of Manhattan’s fine docks on the East River, and landing on a short pier jutting out into Gravesend Bay. The boat trip, much faster than the half-day ferry and bumpy stagecoach route, costs only fifty cents and requires a mere two-hour sail down the bay.” He winked at his bride as he spoke.
“From there a short carriage ride transports us over the Shell Toll Road you remember from your childhood. We shall arrive in time for tea.” Obadiah patted her hand.
Nellie smiled, but still looked at him expectantly.
“But of course. In answer to your question—yes. I verified the timetable in today’s New-York Tribune,” confirmed Obadiah.
“The joy of our honeymoon trip increases exponentially as we leap from one experience of a lifetime to another,” whispered Nellie. They boarded the steamboat and she rushed to her favorite spot. Soon she felt the water’s spray and the wild wind kiss her face. Obadiah bent down and added his kisses to her upturned cheeks.
“To Coney Island,” she said, turning her face to the sun.
The voice of her mother nagged at her inner ear, ‘Cornelia Rose, you shall ruin your complexion. Retreat from the sun, and take your seat like a proper lady.’ Nellie opened her eyes and looked toward the benches under the protective overhang. She gave a vehement shake of her head. I am a married woman now; I may carry on as I please.
Eventually, she deferred to the propriety and fashion of the times and settled on a sun-sheltered bench. From there, she watched her treasured sprays of salt water and a colony of seagulls scattering before their path. The shipyards of Brooklyn passed behind them as they rounded the tip of Long Island, hugging the shoreline just close enough to view the changing landscape. The terrain grew more rural and the smell of the salt air trumped the fading, less enticing, city smells.
“The name Coney Island is a corruption of the Dutch, Conye Eylant,” Nellie said into Obadiah’s ear, her voice competing with the loud wind. “Conye is Dutch for rabbit. They grazed livestock on all the sandbar islands, not just this one which has become a seaside destination.”
“I do so love you whispering ‘sweet nothings’ into my ear.” Obadiah laughed and pulled her closer. “Just think of me as your buffer ag
ainst stormy seas.”
Nellie drew in a deep breath and held it. The salt air, direct from the sea! She pulled the curtains open wide and stuck her head out on the balcony. Not filtered up the Hudson Valley, but straight from the ocean itself. What a luxury. A suite overlooking the wildness of the sea from the grandest Coney Island resort, for three decadent nights!
“Ready for a stroll along the seaside promenade?” asked Obadiah.
Nellie was ready almost before he completed the question.
“Our poet laureate, Walt Whitman, rhapsodized over these grand vistas,” said Nellie, as the wind swept them across the path by the sea, along with some sand and the salt spray. “He enticed other notable literary figures from the Knickerbocker school to visit here—my acquaintance, the renowned writer and editor, William Cullen Bryant, not to mention my arch nemesis, the humbug Washington Irving.”
Obadiah threw back his head and laughed. “It never ceases to amuse me, your peeve with Washington Irving. He enshrined your beloved Hudson Valley in fame, verily steeped it in legend, yet you never miss an opportunity to excoriate him.”
“Steeped it in stolen legends! He is merely a skillful plagiarizer and adapter of other countries’ folklore, why if I....”
Obadiah stopped her speech with a kiss. “This is why I dared not mention his name during our rapturous journey along that fabled river. Fret not now, we can delve into the latest salt rubbed into the wound of your grudge at another time. Do not let his former appearance here cloud your enjoyment of the breathtaking serenity that surrounds us. Think instead of the famous politicians who have viewed this very seascape: Henry Clay, John Calhoun, the esteemed orator and statesman, Daniel Webster.”
Nellie laughed. “I shall take our repartee one step further; from the sublime Mr. Webster to the ridiculous—P.T. Barnum!”
“Or....” Obadiah grinned. “...from the sublime back to the humbug!” He grabbed Nellie, bestowed a passionate kiss, and then turned her around in his arms and nestled his chin into the side of her neck. Together they faced the sea.
She stood there, sunlight in her eyes, breathing in the marvelous sea air, gazing at the turbulent ocean, happy and content to her core. She sighed.
“What troubles you, my love?” Obadiah whispered into her neck. His breath, so warm it melted her, sent enough chills down her spine to make the whipping wind jealous.
Nellie wheeled around in his arms, to make sure he heard her heartfelt words of love. “Why not a thing! Not a scintilla of the least little thing. I am blissfully content. Happy as a clam.” Obadiah’s response was another long, lingering kiss.
“Mayhap not a clam,” Nellie said, after another blissful moment in his arms. “A clam cannot enjoy the view, and look forward to the evening’s entertainment of dining and dancing in the tented beer garden.”
They shared an intimate laugh and another long passionate kiss.
Chapter 5 – Seems like Old Times
Sing Sing, New York, July 1852
“I shan’t permit myself the luxury of dallying any longer. We depart for the concert and other festivities at West Point in a mere hour’s time. I must undertake the last-minute preparations for our journey,” said Nellie, edging away from Obadiah as he reclined at table after their noon meal.
“How many times must you change your gown in less than a day’s stay?” teased Obadiah.
“The capricious nature of the summer weather is the root of my agitated state. I shall need a full complement of options, for my garb depends upon the chill of the night air, the absence or presence of brilliant sun or drenching rain... and bien sur, of course, the attire of the other ladies. Mercy, my lilac muslin with the tucker of Dresden lace might just be the ticket! Or perhaps my organza with the leg o’ mutton sleeves....” Nellie flew out of the room.
The sail to West Point on her father’s steamship, the Leprechaun, seemed to last just one exhilarating minute to Nellie. At her usual perch on the main deck, she was delighted to encounter both Horace Greeley and William Cullen Bryant.
“We journey to the same destination,” said Nellie with delight. These prominent gentlemen also enthused over the summer entertainment at The United States Military Academy. Obadiah promptly engrossed Greeley, editor of The Tribune and prominent political analyst, in a discussion of local government. Nellie took it upon herself to renew her acquaintance with Mr. Bryant. After all, we were properly introduced during my debutante season. She reveled in the opportunity to discuss contemporary literary works with Bryant, the preeminent romantic poet and current editor of The Post.
“Here we are at World’s End,” announced Nellie to the group.
Obadiah raised his eyebrows. Nellie giggled. “I promulgate the nautical term for this length of the Hudson. As it winds through this deep valley, the river churns roughly in these shadows of the granite Highland Mountains. To a less experienced ship captain than my brother, or on a less yar vessel, this passage can be ‘world ending’.”
“As long as the phrase does not refer to any sentiment you’ve entertained when visiting the Academy,” Obadiah mumbled under his breath.
“My sentiments assume the aspect of a homecoming,” said Zetus Searle, her sister Anastasia’s fiancé, as they disembarked on the quay. “For soon, my love, ‘twill be our home again.”
“Attendance at this Academy was time spent in purgatory. I have nary a fond recollection of this place,” drawled Armistead Long, Agnes’ husband. Agnes glared at him. “True enough, this place graced me with my first encounter of my true love.” Agnes raised an eyebrow at this hasty addition to his thought, but did not say anything. Shifting his feet uneasily, Armistead continued, “Verily, I suppose when I look back upon it I do feel twinges of nostalgia.”
Agnes sniffed and said, “Mayhap now that I have born you a son and fulfilled my duty to carry on your name, my importance in your life has diminished.”
“Never, my love,” protested Armistead. “Blazes, short-sweetenin’, your wellbeing is the very reason I agreed to leave baby Cuthbert at home. I propose I shall dazzle you with a of bit of romance and rekindle that fiery spirit of yours.”
Agnes looked aghast at the impropriety of this conversation within the earshot of her entire family and strode ahead. Armistead hurried after her.
The group smiled sympathetically and walked up the path from the river to the West Point Hotel, following a cart containing their suitcases. Zetus grabbed Obadiah by the elbow, drawing him close. “What are your impressions of the place, old boy?”
Nellie sensed Obadiah’s discomfort at the direct question; she saw his barely perceptible grimace, and slight squirm. “I deduce Obadiah is conducting a recognizance of the locale and harmonizing his impressions with the intelligence he has already gleaned from our conversations,” Nellie answered for him.
Nellie could see that her quick reply had the desired effect; it gave Obadiah time to formulate his answer. He cleared his throat and said, “The scenery, now clad in the verdure of summer, certainly transcends all I have ever seen on this extensive scale.”
Nellie drew herself up in mock horror. “You find it more beautiful than our own Sing Sing grand vistas? On behalf of my native land, I take umbrage!”
Everyone laughed.
“What strikes me is the combination of landscape beauty,” Obadiah continued. “Taken separately, I will concede, one can conjure a higher mountain, a mightier river, a more contoured rock, a more verdant meadow, a leafier forest. The charm lies in the harmony of detail that produces a symbiotic beauty of the highest order.”
‘‘‘‘Tis not a lip or cheek we beauty call... but the joint force and full result of all’,” quoted Nellie.
The entourage laughed. They soon arrived at the reception desk at the hotel. A pleasant scramble ensued while they sorted their room assignments and luggage.
The evening’s events melted together like flavored ices on a hot July day, one blending into the next, sweetened with music, conversation, laughter, and dan
cing.
During the band concert, Obadiah squeezed Nellie’s hand, and whispered, “I do confess, the performance is brilliant, the scenery exceptional. This pageantry provides me with a glimmer into the allure of the place. But I still shake my head in disbelief at the excessive amount of time spent in your flirtations.”
Nellie hung her head, feeling chastised. At that moment Augusta tapped her shoulder and remarked behind her fan, “I see the grand Drum Major still sports the same resplendent uniform, delighting the eye with its precise fit.” Nellie’s mouth popped open at Augusta’s shameless ogling. Mercy, she is a married woman, and a mother to boot! She sighed. Who am I to judge? I must cast my own girlish delights from my thoughts, lest any slight regression cloud this fine excursion.
The merry group concluded the night’s events with the Midnight Serenade boat ride. Several rowboats, manned by white-gloved cadets, followed a boat carrying a ten-piece orchestra. Musicians serenaded the boats as the cadets rowed south, down the Hudson. The crafts drifted back upriver to the strains of Mozart and Strauss. Nellie sat, one glove in her lap, hand trailing in the water at the side of the boat, talking and laughing with the cadet rowers and her sisters.
The boats glided around the base of Storm King Mountain and floated back toward the lower wharf; the grand finale, Weber’s Hunter’s Chorus floating in the air along with them.
“All my favorite things wrapped in one package,” Nellie said. “My dearest family, transcendent music, and the majesty of the Hudson.” Her sisters and their beaus agreed. Nellie smiled at Obadiah.
He frowned back at her.
Nellie’s stomach dropped. Mr. Wright frowns? What strange discordancy!
One of the cadets caught her wet hand in his big white glove and distracted her from her thoughts.
“I was honored to row for you, Ma’am.” The cadet smiled at her. “Your lively conversation and exceptional wit propelled this boat ride into an outstanding evening.”