"We're more into the practical side of things," Joseph said.
"Sure, whatever that is. Maybe one of these gods will have mercy on me and send a hundred yards of four-hundred-count cotton moleskin and another hundred each of calico, gingham, muslin, buckram, and voile. Now what can I do for you gentlemen at this late hour on a such a dismal night?"
I explained that we were looking for a particular boat, the bateau Elizabeth, a twenty-five-foot-long rowing packet with a single gaff-rigged sail, and her crew of four, and how she belonged to the planter Stephen Bullock of Union Grove, forty miles north. Ricketts said he had traded with Bullock now and then, though he hadn't seen the boat or its crew recently or heard anything about them. But, he added, the new scarcity of goods had induced a lot of desperate behavior up and down the river, and he was not confident that things could move around safely nowadays, which only made him despair again for his business. I didn't want to bother him further, except to ask for someplace we might put up for the night, and he said Slavin's Hotel at the south end of Commercial Row.
Slavin's was a ramshackle structure cobbled up against a trestle of the old elevated freeway running to Clinton and Pearl Street. A lightning flash lit it up in its stark fullness. Ironically, it was a stone's throw from the old Albany train station, still standing and visible in the downpour, a beaux arts period Greco-Roman temple that had been rescued by preservationists in the 1980s and turned into a bank, and was now an empty, looted hulk in need of rescuing again. Hotel was perhaps a grandiose term for Slavin's three-story log and clapboard jerry-built eyesore that was more accurately a flophouse for river rats, as boatmen were called, with a tavern on the ground floor that served pretty good food, Ricketts had said, when the cook was not drunk.
The tavern room in Slavin's was a lively scene in contrast to the desolation of the streets and wharves outside. Whatever its other shortcomings, the management was liberal with the candles. The rain had driven the denizens of the waterfront inside that night, rough boatmen, wranglers, dockmen, plus half a dozen bar girls who were "friendly and available," we were told. Some card games were in progress. Smoke wreathed the ceiling beams, both cannabis and some real tobacco. A wan youth about fifteen played tunes on a small accordion while a younger female child-his sister? -performed a loose-limbed clog dance beside him. Both seemed to be drunk. The aroma of things cooked in butter wafted from the pass-through window to the kitchen behind the bar. It put a keen edge on my hunger. With rain dripping off the eaves and thunder crashing outside, even this squalid scene was a relief.
The barkeeper, a keg-shaped man about forty with close-cut black hair and a Vandyke beard, a damp bar towel over his shoul der and a stained apron on, introduced himself with a kind of distracted patter: "I'm Henry Slavin and this is my place and you can apply to me a drink, a meal, a bed, a chippie, or any combination, what'll it be, boys?"
We asked first for someplace to stable our animals and he said they maintained a boarding barn on the other side of the trestle. It was "self-serve." They couldn't afford to keep a man out there and couldn't vouch for security and suggested that some member of our party might put up in there with the animals. The diligent Brother Minor volunteered if we would bring him something to eat and a bottle of anything potable. So we helped Minor get the tack off and settle the animals. The stalls lacked fresh bedding and Minor took it upon himself to rake them out, since the management didn't. Elam tossed down a bale of stalky hay from the lofts above.
We couldn't turn up any oats or other grain. But to our surprise there was a faucet on an iron pipe with running water, and when we returned to the tavern, Slavin explained that the "boss" of the city, or what remained of the city, Mr. Dan Curry, had installed a waterworks the previous year near the old Rensselaer Bridge ramp, with a great undershot wheel that used the river current itself to lift water to Commercial Row and a few streets beyond. Curry was regarded as a hero because of it. It had required the digging of a half-acre reservoir pond on what had historically been Cornelius Place. They hoped someday to resume water service "up the hill" to the former heart of the city, Center Square, now largely uninhabited, and the area around the capitol, but that day was still somewhat over the horizon. Curry also ran a fire department, policed the docks, operated the justice court, deported "pickers" (vagabonds) downriver, and collected substantial taxes in connection with these ventures. For practical purposes, he was mayor, but disdained the title, Slavin said. Brother Elam volunteered that Slavin was talking to the new mayor of Union Grove, up in Washington County. Joseph told Elam to shut up. Slavin cocked a knowing grin at me and said, "I hope you're thriving, sir, like our Mr. Curry is."
"It's not a paid position," I said.
"Neither is Mr. Curry's," Slavin said with a wink. "But he manages pretty smartly all the same. Now, how do you boys propose to pay for your rooms and meals? Paper dollars or real money?"
"Silver coin good enough?" Joseph said.
"We take that here. Two bits each, bed and a meal. One dollar for the horses. Drinks are extra, of course."
Joseph took out a leather drawstring purse and dropped a handful of old quarters and half-dollars on the wooden bar, where they rang musically. Slavin looked impressed. Whatever the other failures of the U.S. government were, it had managed to print an excess of dollars which, combined with the collapse of trade and communication, had severely eroded the currency's value. People always liked silver better, if it was offered. Gold, on the other hand, was rarely seen. People tended to hoard it.
In a little while, Slavin's kitchen produced a chowder that he said was made from a locally caught sturgeon "the size of a Nile crocodile," stewed with plenty of butter and cream, green onions, and firm new potatoes. The portions were substantial, befitting a place that served hardworking men. We sent Seth out with a crock of the stuff to Minor in the stable, along with several slabs of buttered corn bread, a big hunk of what they called Duanesberg cheddar, and a quart bottle of pale ale Slavin swore he brewed himself.
We asked Slavin if he'd heard anything of the Elizabeth and its crew. He snorted saying boats were coming and going all the time and he had no idea, but I might inquire in the morning at Dan Curry's office at the waterworks; his people seemed to track every last corncob that passed in and out of the port.
Finally, we were advised to "double up," two to a bed because the other rooms were let out to the girls quarter-hourly, and by the way, Slavin said, were we interested in some of that action, for an additional two bits each? We declined. Joseph and I paired up, and Seth and Elam together, and soon we went to the rooms above.
Joseph and I lay side by side on a rank mattress in the close dank room. I had been ruminating sleeplessly about the young widow and child whom I had perhaps rashly agreed to let move into my house, worrying what people would think, worrying about her getting into my things, worrying about being so far from home, just worrying, anxious in the storm-lashed darkness.
"You awake?" I said. Joseph's breathing had not seemed the regular pattern of a man asleep. The rain had not even succeeded in cooling off the jungly night air.
"Yessir, I am," Joseph said.
"Do you remember air-conditioning?"
"Yessir, I do." He gave a mordant little laugh. "If it's not raining out tomorrow night, I say it's back to camping for us in the fresh air."
"I'm with you on that. Should we pay a call on this Boss Curry tomorrow?"
"Not right off," Joseph said. "I smell something."
"What?"
"Just a feeling. I say we comb the docks and the boathouses first."
"What feeling?" I said.
"Some kind of trap," he said. "We saw situations like this in the Holy Land, when things were not what they seemed to be."
"Do you think this Curry has done something to Bullock's crew?"
"I think they may be in his custody."
"Hostages?"
"Yessir."
As I paused to reflect on this, a vicious thunderbolt, like a
gunshot, crackled across the rooftop and reverberated against the concrete slabs of the old ruined highway above.
"Like a ransom situation?"
"Yessir."
"But nobody sent any message to Bullock demanding money for his crew," I said.
"How do we know that?"
His question caught me up short.
"Leastwise, Bullock didn't mention any," I said.
"Why risk sending a messenger all the way up there," Joseph said, "when sooner or later Mr. Bullock would surely send someone down here to inquire, which he has now done, namely us."
"Then I suppose we can't be too careful."
"Exactly so."
"I see," I said, trying to take measure of what I didn't see. "I hardly recognize this city. It's frightening how much has changed here in just a few years."
"Everything's gone to the devil all over our poor country. Believe me. We've seen a lot."
"Why did you leave Pennsylvania, Joseph?"
For an awkward interval, we lay silently there in the moist darkness. I wondered if he had heard me.
"Well, sir," he said finally, "race trouble, to be honest."
"What do you mean?"
"A lot of people cut loose when Washington got hit, you know. They left there with nothing but the clothes on their backs and some firearms. You had civil disorders in Philadelphia and Baltimore, refugees fleeing, what you folks call pickers, bandit gangs. Pennsylvania became a desperate place. After a while, it was like cowboys and Indians."
"What happened?"
"There was no getting along."
"Did you fight?"
"Yessir. Over two years we lost twelve of our number."
"Why did you stay as long as you did?"
"It was mighty good land. Some of the best I ever seen. But, obviously, we decided to move on."
"I've got a boy out there somewhere," I said.
"Where?"
"I don't know, exactly. He set out two years ago with Reverend Holder's boy. We haven't heard from them since."
"I hope he turns up, sir," Joseph said. "I had a boy myself."
"Had?"
"He was one of the twelve that was killed."
"Oh ... gosh ... I'm sorry."
"He was sixteen. Name of Aaron. He was a brave boy. Yours?"
"Daniel. Nineteen when he left. We haven't seen that kind of strife up in Washington County, New York."
"I know. That's how come we like it."
"I didn't know it was so bad out there."
"There's grievances and vendettas all around at every level. Poor against whatever rich are left. Black against white. English-speaking against the Spanish. More than one bunch on the Jews. You name it, there's a fight on. Groups in flight everywhere, ourselves among them. I haven't seen any black folks or Spanish in Union Grove so far. You got any, sir?"
"Some black families lived in that hollow down by the WaylandUnion Mill, the old factory village. The mill closed up before I moved to town. There was a fellow named Archie Basiltree who worked in the Aubuchon hardware store when we first came. The store is gone and so is Archie. Another black man worked on the county road crew."
Thunder had been pealing and lightning flashing all along, some strokes so close that they shook the building.
"I haven't been anywhere in years," I said. "I don't really know what's going on out there."
"Let me tell you something, sir," Joseph said. "There has been considerable churning of the population and warring among different sorts of people all over. Why do you think we left Virginia in the first place? I think the separate regions will go their own
"It would be a sad and sorry thing if it came to that."
"Well, it has come to that, sir."
In a little while, Joseph's breathing fell into a regular rhythm, and I assumed he'd gone to sleep. I lay awake longer, listening to the rain drip from the eaves and thinking of the big map that hung from the top of the chalkboard in my primary school in Wilton, Connecticut, so many years ago, back in the days of cars, television, and air-conditioning. The states on this map were muted tones of pink, green, and yellow. Over it hung the flag that we pledged our allegiance to every single morning. "One nation, under God, indivisible ..."
In the morning, the sky had been swept clean again and, of course, the heat was rising. I had kept the bandana on my hand overnight and, when I took it off before breakfast, was astonished to see that a florid pink spot on my palm was all that remained of the blister. A new layer of skin had seemingly grown over the spot.
Minor joined us from the stable for a breakfast of fresh eggs, smoked fish, and corn bread downstairs, again paid for in silver coin. The animals were rested, watered, and ready, he said. He had straw in his hair from bedding down in the stable, but he didn't complain about his duties.
I showed Minor my hand and asked him how it was possible that such an injury could actually heal overnight.
"Solomon's seal has powers," he said. "But you add a little Jesus juice to the mix and that puts her in overdrive, so to say."
It wasn't an explanation that squared with my understanding of how reality worked. But I couldn't argue with the results either.
"I'm grateful to you," I said.
We decided over our meal to devote the early hours of the day to shopping for wholesale goods and necessities along Commercial Row. New Faith needed everything from salt in quantity to candlewicks. I wanted to find machine-made paper and good steel pen nibs for the town so we could resume recording things again in a coherent way, medical supplies for Jerry Copeland, and whatever else I could scrounge up. We didn't have a whole lot of cargo space in the donkey cart. After that, we'd break into two groups and search the wharves for the Elizabeth. If we found her, perhaps we could bring more goods back to Union Grove. But that remained to be seen.
When we turned out onto the street, the first thing we saw was the figure of a large man seated in the dirt, slumped against a rain barrel across the way with a hog rooting in his lap. The figure was inert. As we came closer, we could see a vivid red and gray mess of stuff that looked like sausage links in his lap, where the pig was rooting. Seth sent the animal off squealing with a blow across the hams with the flat of his sword.
"He's dead," Elam said. "Why, I'll be dog."
"What?" Joseph said.
"This is that same drover we took that jenny off of. Lookit."
Elam took a kerchief rag out of his pocket and used it to hold the dead man's head up at the chin for us all to see. The face was distorted in death, and the whites of his still-open eyes were shot through with blood as if he had suffered a severe blow to his head. But it apparently was indeed the same man we'd quarreled with at the Waterford bridge.
"I believe you're right," Seth said. "That'd be the one."
"Did you kill him, Minor?" Joseph said.
"I didn't do nothing," Minor said. "Sumbitch probably fell out drunk and cracked his durn head."
I stooped down. The stench he gave offwas impressive up close. Around the ragged edge of his dirty shirt, above the gross wound to his abdomen, you could see a pattern of small round holes, like shotgun pellets would make. I did not point it out, but I don't think the others failed to notice either. I remembered that gunshotlike blast of thunder the night before and imagined this nameless wretch reeling out the stable door and collapsing where he now sat, to die in the rain, with a pig in his guts.
"I judge that this poor soul is beyond our assistance," Minor said, "and if I linger here, I'm liable to lose my breakfast."
"I suppose we can leave him for the constable," Joseph said.
"If they got any law here," Elam said.
"Anyway, it ain't our business," Minor said.
And so we went about our business, but not before Joseph invoked Matthew 5:13: "Ye are the salt of the earth," he said, "but ifthe salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden underfoot of men."
Traders from elsewhere along the Hudson Valley were already out on Commercial Row, and men with drays and carts were busy moving goods off the wharves in a clatter of wheels and dust. Some smaller vendors had joined them along the street, selling fish, vegetables, and odd items of salvage from wagons and tarps spread on the ground. Here and there, snatches of songs of the loaders could be heard. Not everybody's business was off, but it seemed a very dull trade in necessities. No groups collected on the street to socialize, as one might expect in a livelier marketplace. Hardly any women were among the traders, and the men were furtive in their movements. They scuttled in and out of the trading houses like wary rodents or bugs and left with whatever goods they'd purchased without lingering.
We found some of the things we needed among Minnery's General Stocks, Hyde's Salvage and Made Goods, and VanVoast's Import and General Trade Articles, the three largest competing establishments on the row, and Aulk's Provisions, the food wholesaler. I found aspirin, reusable hypodermic syringes, IV catheters, and adhesive tape for Doc Copeland. I could not find antiseptic or antibiotic medicines of any kind. Nor did they have any lidocaine or topical anesthetic for our dentist. I purchased a five-ream box of plain white twenty-pound bond paper (Xerox brand from the old days) and a gross of Phinney no. 4 steel pen points. They didn't have any manufactured ink in stock, but you could make that easily enough yourself from lampblack or walnut shells. The New Faithers were delighted to come across a fifty-pound sack of peanuts, which they had not seen any of in some time, they said, as well as the other articles on their list, and some of Mr. Ricketts's remaining inventory in linen fabrics at a very high price, which they apparently could afford Joseph's fund of silver seemed bottomless. VanVoast's actually had on hand a small inventory of manufactured instrument strings, and I bought several sets of guitar, violin, and cello strings. It had been years since we'd had any new ones, making do with the gut strings Andrew produced.
World Made by Hand: A Novel Page 14