by Joann Simon
Docked vessels filled the slip waters between the rows of buildings, their bowsprits right up over the sidewalk. The tang of salt in the chill wind masked the scents of tar and the effluvium in the polluted slip waters.
A forest of bare masts formed an ever-present backdrop as they followed the slip to South Street and the wharves jutting out into the East River, skirting barrels and bales and lengths of coiled rope. The area was eerily deserted but for an occasional down-on-his-luck seaman staggering, a bottle of rum in hand, between the wharves and buildings.
Christopher shook his head at the scores of sleek wooden hulls, their proud masts lifting toward the sky, that rested silently at the docks. He turned to Mawson. "All this shipping is laid idle by the war?"
"All of it. A sin. You can see why there ain't much chance of you finding work in one of them importin' houses down the street,"
"At this rate, the ships will rot at their moorings."
"The owners did what they could—shoveled salt in the holds to keep the timbers—but it's a sad sight. Helped build a couple of these beauties myself—that there brig Ezekiel Jones, for one." Mawson lifted his hand and pointed upward. "You see them upended tar barrels the shipowners stuck over the mastheads? We call 'em Mr. Madison's nightcaps. Fittin' tribute, don't you think, to the way this war has put our shippin' to sleep?"
"Fitting indeed."
"You should see the Hudson yards. Every one of the merchantmen put in there is wearin' one o' these little bonnets."
As they continued down South Street, Mawson pointed out the offices of some of the more prosperous firms: flour and grain merchants, textile importers, china and cutlery merchants, the offices of T. H. Smith & Sons, tea merchants, whose selling room, Mawson informed him, was a showplace on the street. Everything was deserted and locked up tight for the holiday.
They left South Street at Wall Street and headed away from the river. The street was a far cry from its skyscrap-ered counterpart of the nineteen seventies. Though even now the heart of the financial district, the buildings—
impressive Federal and Georgian style bank fronts side by side with the unostentatious offices of marine insurance agents—were of a far less lofty scale. There was a dignity to the area, and one could almost detect the scent of money in the air.
Dusk was falling by the time the two made their way back to upper Pearl Street and had their simple evening meal in the dining room of Hester Reed's Boarding House. Christopher noted thankfully that the downstairs rooms of the house—the parlor and the dining room—were a great improvement over the unrelieved dreariness of the bedroom he and Mawson shared. The house was old, and both rooms were warmed by huge old fireplaces that the chilled roomers kept stocked with firewood scavenged from wherever they could find it. Their fires brought a coziness to the winter evenings, shutting out the cold and casting a mellow glow over the threadbare parlor furnishings and the long, battered table and unmatched chairs in the dining room. Old prints and framed needlework decorated the walls, and rag rugs covered the pine floors from which most of the finish had been worn by the boarders' heavy boots. The effect was a welcoming one, and Mawson and Christopher enjoyed the camaraderie that evening as they sat down at the table with six other men. Their chipped china plates, remnants of a fine old service, were piled high with plain yet good and filling victuals. Three of the other boarders were dockworkers like Mawson, lucky enough to have found and held their jobs. One was a stable hand at a bustling establishment on Water Street that catered to the trade of the merchant princes; another was employed in a dry goods shop up on the Bowery; and the last was a shy young man apprenticed to a silversmith. There were two other beds in the house, vacant and available to those looking for a room for a night or two.The dinner conversation ranged over many topics, from the situation on the wharves to the latest brawl down at the Ship's Tavern. The dry goods clerk spoke of a wealthy Bowling Green matron coming into his shop that day and, at a price equal to most working men's three months salary, purchasing an English china service that had been run in through the blockade. The silversmith's apprentice agreed that, yes, they were getting commissions, too, some clientele coming in to buy ready-made ware because good English silver wasn't readily available. But in the next breath the dockworkers spoke of work so scarce they wondered if they would be kept on for their next day's pay.
"But it'll catch up with them," the stableman countered. "These merchant so-and-sos, livin' off their bank accounts. Things the way they are, just you wait to see how soon they'll be drained to nothin—just like the rest of us—
livin' from one day to the next."
The other men nodded, but the heartening thought of the rich brought down to their own level gave them no real consolation from their own worries.
Christopher listened with great interest throughout the meal, but by the time he was draining the dregs of his second mug of ale, the shock of his suddenly and profoundly changed circumstances and the strain of assimilating so many new experiences and information so quickly, were taking their toll. His mind and heart were unable to accept the overwhelming sadness of having been torn from his wife and son. He felt this New York scene would soon vanish, all a very bad dream, and he would wake to find Jessica in his arms, his family united again in their Connecticut home.
The loss was unacceptable; Christopher denied it as another, denying the death of a loved one, might look up from time to time, half expecting that loved one to enter a room. He cocked an ear, hoping for Jessica's familiar voice; waited for the soft pressure of her hand on his shoulder; could almost catch a whiff of that subtle perfume she always wore, the scent of which followed her from room to room. How he loved her! It was as though her very essence had become part of him.He jerked his thoughts back to the roomful of strangers, realizing with a stab of pain that he was back in his own time. . . . Yet no more could he put his twentieth century life out of his thoughts than he could forget to breathe. And that life was Jessica. What was she doing at this moment? How was she taking the morning's events? Was she too feeling a grief too deep even for the release of tears? Would she and the child be able to carry on without him? He had no fears for her financial well-being. In the foresight that he might be swept from her side, he had made financial provisions. But emotionally! Their love had been so very dear, so very deep . . . and still was. What would she tell their friends and her family of his disappearance? That he had just walked out the door and left them? He felt sick at the thought, but what other explanation could she give? She couldn't tell the world the truth. And would she be able to begin a new chapter in her life . . . one that did not include him? Did he want her to? Jessica was young, beautiful, with a child to raise. It would be unnatural for her to spend the rest of her life alone. She deserved to have another man to love her, to share the future with her, to be at her side through the good and the bad in life. But God! Another man and Jessica . . . another man calling her his own, lying in bed beside her! The thought brought a pain that left him without breath.
Many hours passed before he slipped off into a dream-filled sleep; hours during which he laid on his back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, or out the window where the moonlight cast the city scene into a hazy relief.
Why me? he asked himself over and over. Why was I the one fate chose to send on this incomprehensible and painful journey?
Willis Mawson proved to be a good friend. Early the following morning, they left for the Schemner facilities-several large brick warehouses three stories high with dusty, paned windows, fronting up to the crushed shell pavement and worn planking of the unloading area beside the slip waters. By the time they arrived there, Mawson had briefed Christopher thoroughly on what to expect of his employer and what would be expected of him, and frequently during the day he materialized at Christopher's side to offer helpful directions, and advice. It wouldn't do to have the newcomer's inexperience show to the other laborers, all suspicious of a new man on the docks during these hard times, when stead
y work for experienced laborers was almost impossible to find. Christopher did his best to live up to Mawson's expectations. He pulled his weight with the other men, moving and positioning barrels, bales, and crates for the derrick to lift from the hold and the deck onto the dock. No mechanization was there to aid them.
A mule, harnessed to ropes straining over the derrick pulleys, hoisted the cargo into the air. Once on the dock, the cargo was sorted. Cargo to be warehoused was stacked on wooden dollies, wheeled up the ramp to the second story of a brick building facing the slip, and unloaded.
The days were long, with the winter cold numbing a man's fingers and piercing into his bones. Working hours began at the crack of dawn and lasted until darkness, with a break for a noon meal of biscuits, cheese, and a tumbler of New England distilled rum. The fiery liquid was the staple drink of these men, who tossed down another tumblerful in late afternoon, any long-term effects of the alcohol worked off by their muscle-straining labors.
Although his body gradually adjusted, in the first few days Christopher felt the strain, the weariness of sore muscles not used so strenuously since the days of his construction site job in the twentieth century.
Slowly, he got used to working with raw hands chapped by the cold, to never feeling warm despite the layers of clothing on his body, to suffering feet so sore he felt every one of the cobbles he trod in the streets as he and Mawson trudged the mile back to their lodgings each evening to a hearty meal of stew or boiled beef and pork washed down with three fingers of rum or a mug of ale. During and after dinner they talked and compared notes of their days with the other boarders; but usually, exhausted, Christopher and Mawson were asleep in their beds by nine.
Only on Saturday nights, with a day of rest to anticipate, did they stop off at one of the local taverns. Glad for a break at the end of a long week, the crowd was often boisterous, the talk loud. Fistfights broke out occasionally on the street in front. Generally they were amicably settled, the two opponents smacking each other on the back and returning, laughing, to the tavern for another round. The tavernkeeper, an old seaman himself, took it all in stride, barring his doors only to the chronic troublemakers.
And so the days progressed, long and mind-deadening, into late-January, with no break in the work schedule until a blustery afternoon when the force of the freezing winds off the river made unloading impossible.
Instead of returning to their rooms, Mawson took Christopher down to Tontines Coffee House, the popular meeting place of New York businessmen whose interests were connected with the sea. The inclement weather had drawn many to the congenial rooms of the brick structure on the Old Slip, and a brisk hum of conversation greeted the two dockhands as they stepped through the entrance doors into the hallway. There, dozens of notices were posted: announcements of vessels and cargoes for sale, names of arriving and departing coastal and river packets, news of the war. The notices were few, Mawson advised, in comparison to prosperous days. But at Mawson's words, Christopher couldn't stop a thought from flashing through his mind: if only it were possible to post a message here for Jessica; if only there was the remotest chance that she would see it and they would find each other again. But even as he considered the idea, he knew there was no hope. It seemed heartbreakingly obvious that he had left his wife and son in the twentieth century. He turned his attention to the crowded room before him.
Standing in groups or seated at the clutter of tables was a wide mix of men: importers and shipowners in long-tailed morning jackets and tailored overcoats, top hats in hand; agents and brokers just as nattily attired; captains and first mates in pea jackets and caps, dockworkers in rougher, less uniform attire. Many men stood in a group to one side of the room, their conversation especially animated. Christopher and Mawson moved closer to see what was going on. In a moment Mawson jabbed Christopher's ribs. "Sounds like one of the privateers made it in. Let's learn more of this."
"Took advantage of the rough seas last night to slip right through the blockade," they heard one fellow say.
"The Brits were too busy keeping their tubs afloat to pay any mind." The remark was greeted by a burst of laughter.
Mawson tapped the shoulder of a well-dressed gentleman beside him. "What vessel?"
"Night Hawk. One of the Griswold boys' ships. Appropriately named, wouldn't you say?"
Mawson grinned. "Know the vessel. Where'd they put in from? What kind of haul?"
"West Indies. Sugar, rum, coffee. Captured a British merchantman bound for Bermuda on the way up, unburdened her of a nice cargo of English-made goods, then left her to find her own way home." The gentleman chuckled. "Most of her cargo is sold already. Some of the brokers— myself included—were down at the dock at three this morning, soon as a messenger brought word she was in."
"Who's captain?"
"Jonathan Wilkes. That's him up there." He pointed toward a gray-bearded man who was lifting to his lips a shot of brandy poured from a flask that an appreciative listener had pulled from his pocket.
"Heard of 'im," Mawson nodded. "Runs a tight ship. Good man."
"And so buoyed by his success," the gentleman added, "that he is set to head out again as soon as the Night Hawk can be reprovisioned and loaded. I have heard the Griswold want to ship out some of the upstate flour that's been choking up their warehouses."
Christopher had been listening with great interest, and now spoke up. "That might be pressing his luck a bit."
"Or taking fortune by the tail."
"I am not saying I do not admire the man for his courage —this city needs more like him. The sight of all these idle vessels sickens me."
The gentleman eyed him. "As it does anyone whose livelihood is tied up in those ships. What is your interest in the port, sir?"
"Little at the moment. I arrived in New York only a short time ago, and Mawson here was kind enough to find me work up at Schemner's."
"Mawson?" The gentleman asked. "Willis Mawson, would it be?" And at Mawson's nod, "Yes, I know the name. One of the best ship's carpenters in New York before the war shut down the yards at Corlears.
Good to meet you." He extended his hand. "Robert Bayard, broker. Import, export."
Mawson accepted his hand. "Heard of you, too. See you're stayin' alive."
Bayard grinned ruefully. "Barely. Last night's cargo will keep my head above water for the time."
"This here's Christopher Dunlap," Mawson introduced. "Down from Connecticut."
Bayard turned again to Christopher as they shook hands. "Connecticut, eh? Yet I hear a British accent.
What brought you to our fair city in these terrible times?"
"I came to Connecticut from England some years ago, and you might say I arrived in this city seeking new ventures, although I ran into a bit of misfortune from which Mawson very kindly extricated me."
"I am sorry to hear that. . . about your misfortune. Not too serious, I hope."
Both Christopher and Mawson chuckled.
"One of them Five Points girls," Mawson explained, "stripped him of his valuables when he couldn't be held accountable."
"I see." Bayard had difficulty concealing his grin. "One of the lessons to be learned in this city—
generally in an unforgettable fashion. What was your business in Connecticut, Dunlap?"
"Horse breeding, some investments, although I turned all my assets into cash before leaving for New York," Christopher responded, coming as close to the truth as he dared, "which made the theft of my valuables my first night in the city that much more unpleasantly memorable."
Bayard's expression grew serious. "My sympathies."
"You said you had gotten some of the Night Hawk cargo?" Christopher quickly changed the subject. He saw speculation in Bayard's eyes and did not want any further probings into his past.
"A bit, not as much as I would have liked. The bidding, as you can imagine, was steep."
"Not the times to be makin' a quick fortune," Mawson commented.
"Not unless, like the captain h
ere, you have Lady Luck's flag flying from your masthead."
"I imagine," Christopher said thoughtfully, "there are other ways money can be made."
"Yes, if you are referring to the likes of Astor. But his business in furs was established well before the war. He has the funds to buy out and mortgage the failing merchants who have lost their shirts because of the war, but that hardly says a great deal about making it rich without a fortune already behind you."
"No doubt he will make it richer still," Christopher added, "in twenty years, when the property values on this island increase several fold on the titles he bought out for a song."
"What makes you think they'll increase that much?" said Bayard, cocking an eyebrow. "Most of the island above Canal is nothing but farmland. Who would pay exorbitant prices for real estate when there's land to spare for the asking?"
"Someone will. This city will grow, and there is no place to grow but upward."
"Perhaps in many years, but the city is dying at the moment for lack of commerce . . . losing population."
"The war will not last forever."
"No, but the British could prove victorious."
"Doubtful. They have been involved for too many years in a war far closer to their home front, and it has drained them."
"What you say is true, but since the peace in France, they've added a discomforting number of ships to reinforce their blockade."
"I am only speculating."
"Yes," said Bayard. His eyes hadn't left Christopher throughout their conversation. "Well, if I am to make any profit on this cargo I have just purchased, I had best see to its disposition. A pleasure meeting you Mawson, Dunlap.
My card. Do stop by my offices sometime." He shook hands with his new acquaintances. "And I imagine I will see you both here at Tontines again before too long."