I tried different cotton bales along the wharf, each time calling for him and straining my eyes for that jaunty walk, those gold earrings.… Many times I ran after someone as he strode away, calling “Uncle! Uncle!” only to find a stranger’s face staring back at me once he turned about.
Where was Uncle? Had he forgotten I was coming?
Toward evening I found myself back in front of the Hope (or very near to her, considering she was moored six deep). I pulled the letter from the parish authorities out of my handkerchief. It was crumpled, water-stained, the wax seal still intact. On the front was written “Isaac Smythe, New Orleans, United States.”
I studied the passersby and waited until a kindly-looking gentleman came my way. I approached him, holding out my letter. “Please, sir, I’m an orphan child. Do you know where I can find my uncle?”
But he shoved past me, his boot treading on the toe of my brogan as he mumbled something about wharf-rat urchins and filthy smells.
The next chap frowned, and his nose crinkled as if he were disgusted by my stink, but he took my letter and gave it a glance. The hair beneath his hat shone silver in the waning light. “He is your uncle?” He spoke with a slight brogue.
“Yes. Isaac Smythe’s his name, and he was to meet me here. He’s a sailor.”
“May I?” the man asked, his gloved hand poised over the green wax seal.
I nodded, wondering if I was violating the law by letting someone not in authority break the seal.
“Hmm,” he said. “All it says here is that Isaac Smythe’s last known address was in New Orleans, and that he is hereby given custody of his nephew, one Philip Arthur Higgins.”
I blinked. “That’s all it says?”
“I’m afraid so.” He handed the letter back to me. “Tell me, you didn’t by any chance arrive on the Hope this afternoon out of Baltimore, I suppose?”
“Yes.” Tears burned my eyes. For all these weeks I’d assumed that the important letter with the green wax seal acknowledged Uncle’s desire for the custody of his nephew. But it contained nothing of the sort. Doesn’t Uncle know I’m here? Did the parish authorities just send me away to be rid of me, not knowing where Uncle was? Am I to try to find him in this great, frightening city?
The man was saying, “Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for my nephew who was aboard, about your age. Paddy O’Brien. Did you know him?”
“I—I don’t know. A good many lads died aboard the ship—more’n ten, I should think.”
The man frowned and, without another word, stepped aboard one of the ships and disappeared in the direction of the Hope. By this time it was dark enough that whale-oil lanterns were being lighted all along the waterfront. The bustle of the wharf had slowed. I swallowed my hunger and settled beside one of the cotton bales. My lip quivered. I was adrift in this foreign city, with no one who cared whether I lived or died.
A while later I watched as the kind man with the brogue meandered his way back across the ships and deposited himself once again on the wharf. His face now shadowed with dusk, he looked about, saw me curled in my nook, nodded, then turned and strode away. I watched as he disappeared into the crowd.
I was dreaming of roast beef with gravy when someone shook me awake.
It was the man again.
“Would you like to come home with me?” he asked. “The purser of the Hope says my nephew died,” his voice choked, “and, well, it seems to me that, well … Would you?”
Had he spread mutton and chops before me and said I was the long-lost son of King George, I couldn’t have been more surprised. My chest swelled. My throat thickened. I found my voice, quavery with relief. “Yes, please. You’re quite kind, Mr. uh—”
“Gallagher.”
“—Mr. Gallagher, sir. The kindest fellow I’ve ever known.”
He took my hand then, helped me to my feet, and off we went into the big city.
“Why, bless me,” Mrs. Gallagher said, putting down her sewing and rising from a chair by the window. “If he don’t blow away in the first stiff breeze, it’ll be a miracle.”
And though I’d never seen her before in my life, and though I was dirty and no doubt as smelly as the water-filled ditches that lined the narrow streets, she kissed both my cheeks and wrapped her ample arms about me as if I were her own beloved nephew, Paddy O’Brien, who’d died at sea and was eaten by sharks. She smelled of rose water and talc, and, like Mr. Gallagher, she’d a crown of silver hair and a kindly look. “You poor, poor lad. Mr. Gallagher told me. Such a hardship.” And so saying, she released me, her eyes moistened, and she turned away to dab her tears.
Mr. Gallagher put a hand on my shoulder. “His name’s Philip. Philip Arthur Higgins, isn’t that right, lad?” He looked at me. “He says he’s twelve.”
For a while no one said anything. Then, fearing perhaps that Mrs. Gallagher had changed her mind, especially as I was so dirty, I said, “I’ll do anything, ma’am. I’ll clean, I’ll work sharp, I’ll run errands—”
But Mrs. Gallagher was turning back around, hushing me. “My, my, my, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later. My heart alive! Where are my manners? First things first. Let’s get you scrubbed clean and dressed proper. And I’m sure you’re hungry as if it were the last day of Lent. Mr. Gallagher, fetch some water on to boil while I see to dinner.…”
And off Mr. Gallagher whisked me, to a copper tub set in front of the fireplace, where steam presently curled to the ceiling, where bubbles slopped over the rim, and where I soon slipped my body into the hot water, gasping, for it smarted. Once I was scrubbed clean and decently covered with bubbles, Mrs. Gallagher brought a tray of food—ham, bread, eggs, and potatoes. Then the two of them left me alone as I ate the most glorious meal of my life, never having known before that food could taste so scrumptious.
If ever there were two angels on earth, they were Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher.
My new clothes smelled of soap. I was allowed to keep a candle burning all night. They tsked and shook their heads when I told them the story of my life. “Such a shame,” they said, their foreheads creased with sympathy.
I gladly went to work in their chemist’s shop on Rue du Dauphine in the French Quarter. The shop was below and the living quarters above, and so it was a cozy arrangement. Every day (except for the Sabbath, of course, when we attended Mass), I ground powders with a mortar and pestle as my body grew strong (owing to Mrs. Gallagher’s fine and generous cooking). I labeled bottles and made deliveries. I even learned to help customers, for Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher said that I was a polite and pleasant-looking lad, and therefore well suited for customer service. After a while, I knew enough to be able to compound simple prescriptions.
Mrs. Gallagher doted upon me, calling me her “little English boy.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Gallagher tried to locate my uncle, but no one seemed to have heard of a Mr. Isaac Smythe, a sailor by trade.
Months passed, and though all should’ve been well, though to complain would’ve made me an ungrateful wretch, still, as I lay awake at night, covers kicked off in the New Orleans summer, a part of me was unsettled. Where on this vast planet was my only living relative, the only family left to me? For wherever Uncle was, that’s where I longed to be.
I leaned across the counter and handed the customer his parcel. “Stir half a teaspoonful of the wine of antimony into a tumbler of flaxseed tea,” I told him. “Drink it often. Should loosen the congestion straightaway.”
The customer thanked me, paid his bill, and left the shop to the jangle of bells.
Mr. Gallagher had been standing beside the scales, deciphering a prescription. Now he removed his spectacles and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. The day was hot as scorched gruel. Flies buzzed, landing on soaps, bins of dried herbs, and bottles filled with vinegar, wine of tar, and iodine. “Philip? A moment, please, if you will.”
I put the coins in the till, then stood beside him, expecting him to give me a prescription to fill, a powder to weigh, or
a delivery to make.
Instead, he replaced his spectacles and said, “Mrs. Gallagher and I have noticed you’ve been downcast of late.” I must’ve flushed a brilliant red and looked dreadfully guilty, for he hastened to add, “No, no, don’t misunderstand me, lad. We’ve no complaints, certainly; we love you like a son, indeed we do.” He smiled and patted my shoulder. “And you’ve a home with us so long as you need it or want it, you know that.”
“Thank you,” I replied, wondering where this was leading. “You’ve been quite generous. You saved my life, surely, you and Mrs. Gallagher both.” Though I’d lived with them for months, though they’d invited me more than once to call them by their Christian names, Sean and Mary, (Mrs. Gallagher had even asked me at times to address her as “Mother”), still I’d never been able to call them anything other than Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher. Anything else seemed odd, as if I’d be telling a lie. “I’m forever in your debt, Mr. Gallagher. When my uncle finds me, or when I find him, I’m sure he’ll pay you for your troubles. He’s quite well-off.”
“Uh, no need for that. You’ve repaid us tenfold just by being here. Don’t know how we got along without you before. Well, my point is, we’ve given it a lot of thought, Mrs. Gallagher and I; you’re a bright lad, and it seems to us that a lad such as yourself needs some proper schooling—”
I gasped. My eyes flew open. My knees went a bit shaky. “School!”
He mistook my reaction, saying quickly, “It won’t be so bad, really, and you’ll still get to work in the shop after school, and I’m certain you’ll make friends. You’ll learn sums and multiplication, and, well, a sharp lad like yourself really should have a proper education so he can move up in the world—”
But he could say no more, for I’d flung my arms about him. “Oh yes!” I cried, jumping up and down, knocking his spectacles loose. “Yes, yes, yes!” And presently we were both laughing so hard that it took us a few moments to realize the bells had jangled and we’d another customer in the shop.
It was a deliciously happy moment. The kind which one remembers sorrowfully once life has returned to misery. Like a bright light one sees above as one lies below, mired in a horrible, blood-soaked pit.
Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher enrolled me in Catholic school. They gave me a crisp new catechism as well. Mrs. Gallagher kissed me each morning before sending me off, saying I must tell her all about my day the moment I returned. When I wasn’t working in the shop, I did my schoolwork. I learned French, Greek, and Latin. I learned my arithmetic tables, geometry, grammar, and geography. I became known as a keen scholar. Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher were quite proud.
During all this time, Mr. Gallagher and I continued searching for my uncle. I even spent six months’ allowance on an advertisement in the Orleans Gazette. For weeks afterward, every time the shop bells jangled I rushed to see who it was, crestfallen when it was not my uncle. Eventually Mr. Gallagher took me aside.
“Philip, you’d rather not hear this, I suppose, but it’s time you faced the possibility that something has happened to your relative.” I must’ve looked as woebegone as I felt, for he murmured sympathetically and wrapped an arm about my shoulder. He smelled of sulfur and aloe. “You must look to your future, lad. Leave the past where it belongs.”
For a while I said nothing, hardly able to realize that all my dreams of Uncle, of having a family to call my own, were simply that. Dreams. Nothing more. I picked a thread off my apron. “Do—do you think he was lost at sea? Drowned? And maybe that’s why he can’t find me?”
Mr. Gallagher squeezed my shoulder, and I knew he hesitated to answer. “Perhaps” was all he said.
A pain wrenched my heart, as horrible as the day my mother had died and left me an orphan. “But Uncle was family. My family. He was all I had.”
Mr. Gallagher looked sympathetic. “Yes, lad. I know.”
After that, the days, weeks, and months were a blur. I threw myself into my studies and my work at the chemist’s shop, trying to fill the empty hole inside me.
Then, one day, everything changed. Nearly two years had passed from the time I’d first arrived in New Orleans. I was fourteen and a half years of age and still, as Mr. Gallagher liked to say, “hardly bigger than a turnip.”
I was on my way to make a delivery of pills to a patron at a hotel located on the city side of the wharf. Walking along the banquette, I happened to glance through the doorway of a tavern. A man was sitting at a table, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper, a rattan cane by his side. He was dressed in a black silk frock coat, with a tall black beaver hat resting jauntily upon his curly head. A gold watch hung from the fob on his waistcoat. He was a fine, handsome man, wealthy-looking, swarthy, with small gold earrings.
I knew him immediately.
He was my uncle.
For a moment, I stood rooted.
Then I cried “Uncle!” and rushed inside.
His face registered surprise. He scowled and drew back, saying, “What the devil is the matter with you? Get away from me.”
“It’s me, Uncle. It’s me—Philip Arthur Higgins. Only I’ve grown up now.”
“The deuce you are. I’d know my own nephew should I run across him.”
“But it is me. You came to visit me at the Magford workhouse when I was ill, when I’d injured my hand. You’ve custody of me now. I came to New Orleans to find—”
Uncle held up a hand, stopping me. “Hold on there, lad. Quiet now.” He looked me up and down and turned me about, all the while puffing on his cigar, the smoke billowing from him as from a coal fire. “I declare,” he finally said with a half grin. “Never thought to see you again. You’ve grown and put meat on your bones, I’d say.”
I grinned so wide my cheeks smarted.
Uncle clapped me on the back, barked with laughter, then snapped his fingers and hollered to the tavern keeper, “A beer for my nephew!” Then, to me: “Why, it’s grand to see you again, Philip. Grand indeed.”
Over the next hour, I sat and sipped my beer and answered his questions about where I’d been and what had happened to me, and what I’d learned both at the Catholic school and at the chemist’s. I discovered that the reason we’d been unable to locate him was because his name was actually Isaac Towne; he’d given the parish authorities a false name because, as he said with a wink, he didn’t like the cut of their jib. He was captain of his own ship now, and had done quite well for himself.
“I’m leaving on a voyage come early next week. I’ll be needing a surgeon’s mate. Would you fancy the job, Philip, lad? Your knowledge of pills and plasters will come in handy.”
I felt my eyes widen. My heart skipped a beat or two.
A voyage with Uncle! Even in my wildest dreams … “Yes, of course!”
“Then it’s arranged. I’ll make it my business to rig you out.”
“I’ll—I’ll have to tell Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Naturally.”
We agreed to meet the following morning at the crack of dawn, no later, whereupon I’d begin my duties. I shook Uncle’s strong hand, then skipped down the banquette to complete my delivery, a shiny silver dollar Uncle had given me tucked in the pocket of my waistcoat.
I’d thought telling them would be easy.
Just a simple Oh, by the way …
But that evening at supper I picked at my food, my appetite blown away as if caught in a hurricane and drowned in a whirlpool.
“Philip,” inquired Mrs. Gallagher, her forehead creased, “is something the matter? I’ve cooked your favorite—corned beef and cabbage—and you’ve hardly touched it, my dear. A mouse eats more than you.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Heard the tick of the mantel clock. And though I was staring at my plate, I knew Mr. Gallagher had set down his fork and was studying me. Today he smelled sweetly of yellow jessamine. (Just before supper, he’d mixed the flower petals with black snakeroot and other herbs for Mademoiselle Dupré, who suffered from headaches and restlessness at night.)
“Philip?�
�� he asked after I’d said nothing.
I looked at them miserably. They’d been so kind.…
“I—I found my uncle.”
Mrs. Gallagher gasped. “How wonderful for you, my dear!”
Mr. Gallagher said nothing, but still looked at me, as if knowing there was more to the story.
“He’s captain of his own ship now, done quite well for himself.”
“Why, bless me, that’s delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Gallagher. “Isn’t that delightful, dear?”
I said, “He’s off early next week on another voyage.”
“Is he now? Well, again, that’s wonderful.” Mrs. Gallagher laid her hand atop Mr. Gallagher’s. “Don’t you think that’s wonderful news, dear?”
Mr. Gallagher sighed deeply. “And?”
“He’s hired me as the surgeon’s mate. I’ve agreed. I start come morning.”
There followed a long silence. I stared at my plate again. At the corned beef, no longer steaming. The cabbage, beginning to dry at the edges. Outside a dog barked, small and yippy. From next door, I heard the clink of silverware and someone laughing.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Gallagher finally said.
“Never mind your supper, then,” said Mr. Gallagher. “You’d best hurry along and pack your things.”
I gladly escaped to my room, relieved that the hard part was over.
In the morning I stood by the door, canvas bag propped against my leg.
“Oh blessed Mother Mary, look after my little English boy,” whispered Mrs. Gallagher as she kissed both my cheeks. She smelled, as always, of rose water and talc.
“Come, Mrs. Gallagher, don’t cry,” I said, my throat tightening. “I’ll come back someday, I will.”
“But what do we know of him, this uncle of yours?” asked Mr. Gallagher, cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief.
I shrugged, wishing I didn’t have to hurt them so, wishing I didn’t have to say goodbye, as goodbyes could be, I was learning, very hard indeed. But I’d done a lot of thinking during the night. My bags were packed and I’d a vessel to board and an important position as surgeon’s mate. “I don’t know. But he’s my uncle. He’s family.”
Voyage of Midnight Page 2