by Joann Simon
"Ayuh." Mawson winked.
It was midsummer, and news of the war was not good. The New York papers carried headlines and front-page articles of General Ross and his British troops landing in Maryland; of his destroying the American resistance at Bladensburg. The Americans were not adequately prepared, and the British continued their rampage, marching on to Washington to torch the town, setting fire to the Capitol and White House and any other structures that happened to be in their way.
News of the conflagration in Washington reached New York August twenty-fifth, riders arriving at the Gazette offices, their lathered and exhausted mounts barely standing beneath them. When the headlines broke, the citizens of New York went into a panic. New York could only be
next. More armaments went up at the Williams and Clinton fortifications. Alarmed citizens readied personal arse-nals of rifles and pistols, some so outdated they would prove worthless in an actual confrontation. For days the atmosphere in the city was like a stick of dynamite ready to go off. Yet the panic was brief, for the British stayed to the south. General Ross was killed attempting to take Baltimore, and the British offensive lost its momentum.
There was some good news that summer, too, coming in from the northern front—news reaching New York days after the actual event, the messengers getting to the city on horseback or riverboat. Brown and Scott took Fort Erie, holding the British at the Canadian border, and later the Americans were victorious at the Battle of Champlain.
Knowing the outcome, Chrisopher went through that summer feeling far removed from the anxieties of his fellow New Yorkers. He was yet too immersed in his own dilemma to be actively aroused by what was going on around him.
Only as the leaves began to turn crimson and gold, the blue skies darkening with flocks of wildfowl winging south, did Christopher begin to come alive again slowly. Life forces both within him and without pushed him forward, told him he must continue though everything he had ever wanted was left behind. He could not waste the rest of his life in an orgy of self-pity.
The vein of self-preservation ingrained in those who are meant to be survivors turned his thoughts toward a seed of an idea that had lain dormant in his mind for nine months —an idea of how he might make some money for himself, even in these troubled times. He had no guarantees it would work, but the gamble was one he felt fairly safe in taking.
He knew that though the Treaty of Ghent would be signed December twenty-fourth, news of the peace would not reach New York until February. By early spring shipping in and out of New York would be booming again. Suddenly the imported goods that had been so scarce and had brought such high prices during the war would be a glut on the market.
The bottom would fall out, and those holding high-priced inventories would be forced to sell at a loss.
His plan was to anticipate the market fall, to contract sales of imported goods to local merchants for spring delivery at price levels well below those other importers would dare to meet. Then he would sit back and wait, and when shipping resumed and the market fell, as he knew it would, he would buy in, fulfill his contracts and still walk away with a profit.
It was not his intention to make a killing; only to make sufficient profit to get himself off the docks and to bankroll himself in some more lucrative enterprise within the shipping trade. He liked the business—it was something he could sink his teeth into—and he had already picked up a great deal of knowledge from listening and talking to merchants and brokers at Tontines. He and Mawson had run into Robert Bayard several times again and Christopher knew Bayard would be a valuable contact if he was to bring his plan to fruition.
Christopher spent the next several weeks with pen and paper, outlining his idea, calculating costs and profit mar-gins. After dinner in the evenings, tired as he was, he'd sit at one of the parlor tables working at his figures.
Mawson was a silent observer, until finally, one night, curiosity got the better of him and he came to look over Christopher's shoulder.
"What you up to now, man? Don't work you hard enough at the docks?"
"Just a little scheme I have, Mawson."
"First you said anything to me 'bout it."
"I will explain all to you in due course. At the moment it is just speculation."
Mawson rubbed his fingers through his thick brown hair and yawned. "Well, I'm up to bed, and I'd advise you the same. Sun'll be up early as ever in the mornin'."
"I will be upstairs shortly. I am almost finished here."
"Ayuh. Hester'll start chargin' you for the extra lamp oil soon."
In mid-November Christopher took a few hours off from Schemners. He needed names and addresses of prospective buyers, and only a man with Robert Bayard's connections could provide those for him.
As he entered that man's office, Bayard greeted him jovially. "Well, this is a surprise, Dunlap. What brings you to my humble place of business on a working day?"
Christopher returned the man's firm handshake. "I have a little proposition I wish to discuss with you, Bayard, and I am also needful of your valued advice."
"You flatter me. Have a seat. Can I offer you tea, or Madeira?"
"Madeira?" Christopher's brows lifted.
Bayard grinned. "I reserved a case for myself from the last privateer haul."
"Such an unwonted luxury cannot be refused."
Bayard poured two glasses and handed one to Christopher. "So tell me what is on your mind. I admit you have sparked my curiosity."
"I am considering a business enterprise." Christopher began cautiously outlining his idea, omitting any reference to his foreknowledge of future events. As he spoke, he saw growing skepticism on Bayard's face but the man listened politely. "Obviously," Christopher continued, "I have no intention of doing anything to compete with you or I would not be here asking your assistance. All I am asking from you is a list of contacts—not your customers, but assuredly you know the names of others presently on the sales logs of your competitors. Names, addresses. I will carry it forth from there.
You will in no way be involved, your name never mentioned."
Bayard shook his head. "I do not understand, Dunlap, how you feel you can possibly come out of this alive. There is a war going on. I have enough difficulty procuring imported goods at top dollar. What makes you think you can sell short, let alone below other importers' levels, and find the goods to cover it? You have discovered some secret cache hidden away from the rest of us?" The last was meant to be a joke, but Christopher didn't smile.
"It is a deep seated feeling I have. This war cannot go on much longer. It is at an impasse. The British are tired.
They have been fighting steadily on different fronts for the past ten years. This country is suffering economically, seeing the foolhardiness of the stiff-necked pride that got us involved in this altercation. We have already sent a party of negotiators to Europe. I feel the end is in sight."
"We have discussed this before, and I agree as to the direction of events, but the war could drag on for another six months . . . a year. You would be a ruined man."
Christopher nodded. "It is a definite possibility, but the risks are all mine. I would stand responsible for any losses incurred. However, should there be a profit, I would intend to cut you in for a percentage in return for this favor I am asking."
Bayard chuckled. "Profits? You really are optimistic. In your shoes I would be more concerned about getting out alive with the shirt still on my back."
"I choose to look at the bright side."
"What kind of percentage?"
"Shall we say ten percent?"
"Ten percent." Bayard fingered his chin, glanced out the window as he took a sip of Madeira. "As you said, there is no risk to me."
"None at all. Only the opportunity for some unexpected income."
Bayard turned back to Christopher. "In all good conscience, as your friend, Dunlap, I have to tell you that I think you are a fool to even consider the idea. The odds are not in your favor—in fact, they are quite
against you. I do not want to be in a position of someday looking back and saying I did not warn you quite strenuously."
"Your advice does not go unheeded, Bayard."
"Yet you exude such confidence, you almost make me believe that what you predict will come to pass and you will come out the winner."
Bayard put down his glass, leaned his arms on the desk. "All right, I will throw in with you. It will take me a day or two to complete a list of possible contacts."
"I did not expect you to have it at your fingertips." Christopher smiled. "I appreciate this, Bayard, and in the meantime I will draw up a written agreement on your ten percent."
"No need for that. As unwise as I think your present course, I believe you are a man of honor. I will take your word as a gentleman that should the unlikely occur, I will get my cut. Shall we shake on it?"
"My pleasure." Christopher took the other man's hand across the desk. "And, again, my thanks. I do not think . . .
I sincerely hope . . . you will not regret this day.”
CHAPTER 7
Six months later Robert Bayard had occasion to look back on that November day and the decision he'd made with considerable pleasure. Incredible though it was, Dunlap's predictions had hit right on the nose. Bayard pondered whether the man had a sixth sense; but he didn't question the means, only delighted in the end as the notes began fattening his bank account.”
Christopher, although he had never doubted he would have some success, was amazed at the extent of his profits. He had been able to write up far more advance sales than he had anticipated. Most of his buyers had thought him a consummate fool to sell at such low levels, but they were more than willing to cash in on his lack of business acumen.
The paperwork had been far more than Christopher could handle alone in the evenings, and he had hired a young man as clerk to write the delivery orders and invoices he had prepared the evening before. He and Maw-son remained at Hester's Boarding House through the middle of March, both still putting in full days at Schem-ners. As the shipyards at Corlear's began opening up again, however, Mawson moved back to his shipbuilding profession, and it wasn't long after that Christopher felt sure enough of his own finances to go off on his own as well. Mawson had long since been let in on Christopher's plans and was extremely helpful, through his contacts on the wharves, in finding Christopher warehouse space. On the ground floor of the leased warehouse facilities, Christopher opened a small office.
The long winter months had given him time to decide precisely what he wanted to do. Beginning with local routes
—the coastal Connecticut towns and those along the Hudson—he was going to start his own shipping business, C. D.
Enterprises, providing his coastal New England customers with New York-imported merchandise and bringing their local goods back for sale in New York. He'd already leased a small schooner, but his eventual plans went beyond leasing vessels. He wanted his own small fleet and, using Mawson's shipbuilding expertise, had hopes of beginning contstruction on an oceangoer in the not-too-distant future.
When Christopher approached him, Mawson had reacted with typical Yankee caution.
"Admire what you've done, Dunlap. Wouldn't have thought to take such a gamble myself, but sure you're not bitin'
off more'n you can chew?"
"I plan to go carefully. As you know, I will be taking the schooner up the coast in a week or two and personally contacting prospective customers. When I return I should have a better idea of how quickly to proceed."
"Well, you know I'd be glad to help you out when the time comes. What's Bayard think of all of this?"
"He, too, advises caution." Christopher smiled. "I am sure he is waiting to see if I will fall flat on my face in this second round."
By early summer Christopher proved his detractors wrong. His first trip was fruitful, bringing in more prospective business than he'd dreamed. Christopher himself initiated the contacts with prospective buyers, bartered his cargo in trade for other cargo or sold his goods outright, then bought New England-produced goods to be brought to New York and auctioned off there. Though his face was a new one and his reputation unknown, no merchant argued with the hard cash crossing his palm.
Though the trip on the whole was a good one, there'd been bad moments, too—one in particular when his schooner had pulled in Eastport harbor. He'd had no idea just how strongly that familiar scene would affect him until he'd stood on the deck and viewed it with his own eyes. Although the cluster of buildings along the harbor banks bore no resemblance to his memory of the scene, the lay of the land was the same—the small islands grouped around the mouth of the harbor, the salt marshes, the low hills, now mostly farmland, rolling back from the Sound. Memories came flashing back of the times he and Jessica had walked along the pebbled beach he saw in the distance. It was sand then, a popular spot for sun worshipers. He remembered her laughter, the wind blowing the hair back from her face as she'd reached out for his hand, run with him over the hot sand, wrapped her arms around him as they'd collapsed, exhausted, on the breakwater.
"I love you," she'd whispered.
"I love you, too."
"This child of ours," she'd said, pressing her hand to her slightly protuberant belly, "is beginning to make himself felt. I don't think he likes the exercise."
"Nonsense," he'd laughed. "Any child of ours will be an athlete, but perhaps you should slow down a bit."
It was June then and not long before that they'd returned from England with the wonderful news that Christopher was not returning to his own time; at least, all evidence pointed in that direction. They had reason for happiness. The obstacles to their loving and planning a life together were gone. Was it possible that that joyous moment had occurred nearly two years before?
He felt an oppression bearing down on his shoulders as the vessel slipped into her mooring and he stepped off onto the busy dock. For the first time since embarking on his new career, he was only going through the motions of conducting business. This place brought back too much "pain . . . too many remembrances.
It was only by chance that he concluded a lucrative deal with a local merchant in desperate need of a lot of Christopher's English-made textiles. He shared his noon meal at one of the local inns with a representative of the firm, a pleasant young man named Roger Weldon, who'd been down at the docks when Christopher's schooner had pulled in.
He had immediately approached Christopher when he
saw the notice of goods being offered. Over lunch the young man not only completed the sale, but contracted for future shipments to Beard's Mercantile of the same quality merchandise, promising an increase if the initial shipments proved satisfactory.
As they left the inn and Christopher turned his footsteps back toward his vessel, he knew he should feel some satisfaction, yet the shadow of his memories left him dazed and disoriented. He was tempted to stay in the town for" the night, and the next morning hire a hack and ride north to the area where he and Jessica had lived, to the site of their former home. But what purpose would it have served? She wasn't here—she was somewhere one hundred and sixty years in the future, and no amount of searching would bring her into his arms again. All it would bring him was torment.
Instead, in an effort to run away from the reminders and the emptiness in his heart, he ordered the vessel to set sail immediately for the next port of call.
He returned to New York two weeks later with a full hold of local goods and immediately began procuring the imported goods to fill the orders he'd taken.
Once a week thereafter Christopher's schooner sailed out from the South Street wharves. A month later, when the volume of business proved more than she could handle alone, he leased a second schooner, then a third, and began serious conversation with Mawson over the construction of a larger cargo vessel to ply the sea routes. That was where the money could be made—in the West Indian and European trade. Within the next year, Christopher planned, he would be a member of the group of international shipper
s.
A freshly painted sign hung outside his office door on Burling Slip, and now three young clerks worked diligently at desks in the back room. Bayard, not ready to consolidate his own business with Dunlap's but seeing that his friend was on the road to success, agreed for a small percentage to keep his eyes open at the docks and auction rooms for merchandise that fit Christopher's needs and could be gotten for a reasonable bid. The two men were not in competition with each other, and the arrangement worked well.
Mawson, seeing that there might soon be good use for Christopher's merchantman, finally gave in to his friend's pressuring. Yes, he'd agreed, he would rather be working to line his own pockets than those of the big shots up at Corlear's. He consented to a quarter of the partnership-all he would accept without making a monetary investment; but the business had grown beyond Christopher's ability to manage it alone, and Mawson more than earned his partnership by overseeing the maintenance of the vessels and the stowing and unloading of cargo when the ships put in. Of course, the drawing of plans for construction of the merchantman was his first priority.
Christopher and Mawson left Hester's for more prestigious quarters on Beaver Street near Bowling Green, leasing a small town house and hiring a daily to do the cooking and cleaning. They'd been able to lease the three-story, seven-room brick house furnished—of prime importance to two bachelors with no domestic belongings—and Christopher converted one of the small downstairs rooms into a study where he and Mawson could work in the evenings.
Their new address was of particular delight to Mawson. His courting of Abbey Miller had become more serious, and he was now only a few blocks south of her family's residence. His evening visits to her residence had become an established rule, a situation Christopher could not let pass without comment.
"So, my man, it would appear I will soon be looking for a new roommate."
"Eh? The two of us ain't makin' enough to keep the place goin'?"
"Far from it. However, I hear the distinct sound of wedding bells in the not-too-distant future."