by Ann Turnbull
“No! Well, yes, I thank thee, but I’ll look around for myself first; try the shops and businesses on the waterfront. I’ll go on second-day.”
My father nodded. “Do that.” He plucked a wood-shaving from my hair and gave me a gentle push on the head. “But not the butcher’s this time.”
We laughed.
But then he spoilt the moment by saying, “Thou will come to Meeting again? No more of thy backsliding?”
At once I felt resistance. I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I expect thee to come, Jos.”
“I don’t know anyone there,” I said. The remark sounded childish, and I regretted it immediately.
“The purpose of meeting is not to chatter with acquaintances,” he said. “Meeting is the assembly of God’s people. Thou know the Kites, and will come to know others, in time.”
It was in my mind to say that no one could force me to go, but I thought better of it. And in the end I went to Meeting, and the following day set off in search of work.
Six
It was good to be out alone. From our cabin in Sassafras Street I walked down to Second Street, where several small businesses – a tailor, a hardware seller, a draper – had set up rudimentary shops. Everything looked new – fresh-painted wood, trodden dirt paths. I turned south, noting the names of the streets roughly painted on the sides of buildings: Cherry Street, Mulberry Street. The names amused me. They seemed unreal, not like the street names in London that had roots going down into history. Market Street was broader, and here I turned left and saw the harbour sparkling ahead of me: merchant ships anchored out in the river; brown sails furled; sunlight glinting on ripples.
All around was activity, the chance of work. Men were loading sacks into a waiting boat tied up at the jetty. An overseer on the dockside shouted orders, while a merchant and his clerk, list in hand, supervised the operation. I saw that they were sending goods out to be loaded onto one of the large ships waiting in the river. Further along the waterfront, men with shovels were emptying a cart of something that looked like gravel.
The shops along the front appeared more finished than those on Second Street. I noted a cooper’s, a ship’s chandler’s, a large general store, an ironmonger’s, a carpenter’s – all with customers going in and out. An inn sign swung in the breeze – and I almost laughed aloud: the Blue Anchor. The same name as the inn I’d been in trouble for frequenting in Limehouse. Perhaps I should seek work there as a pot boy? Work of that kind should be easy enough to find. But I’d said I would try for something better. I supposed I should approach one of the shopkeepers – see if they needed a clerk. I hesitated, realizing now that it would have been sensible to have taken up my father’s offer to talk to Friends at Meeting. An introduction would have made everything easier. And yet I wanted to be independent, not to rely on my father or to be restricted to working for Friends.
I became aware of a stir of movement and talk along the quayside. People were staring out across the water, where another large ship had come into view. I heard the name “Chepstow”. A man – the merchant I’d seen earlier attending to the loading of his ship – called out to me, “Boy! Canst’ take a message?”
“Yes – for sure!” I said.
He gave me a coin. “Dost thou know Walnut Street?” He pointed. “George Bainbrigg’s house. Up there, near the corner of Second Street. Big house with a blue door. Tell George the Chepstow’s here.”
I nodded, and turned to go. He called after me, “Tom Appleyard’s my name!”
“I’ll tell him.”
I found George Bainbrigg’s house easily, but its appearance daunted me. It was a large clapboard house of several storeys with a wide front and a balcony over the street. Should I grasp the sturdy brass knocker on the blue door, or go up the side passage, like a tradesman?
I decided on the door, and knocked. A maidservant opened it, but the master was already stepping into the hall. He was a man of middling age, not tall but sturdily built, his fair hair beginning to recede at the temples, his eyes sharp blue. I knew him for the master by his manner and his sober but well-cut grey coat.
“George Bainbrigg?” I asked.
“Aye, lad.”
“Tom Appleyard sent me. He says to tell thee the Chepstow’s coming in.”
At once he was alert.
“I must get down there! Mary!” The servant reappeared. “Ask Izzie to delay dinner. And tell Kate the ship from England is in, that I’ll be in the counting house.”
He opened the door, and we stepped out together.
“Thou work for Tom?” he asked.
“No. I was passing by. I’m fresh from England—”
“Oh, aye! I see that now. Thou hast those pale London looks.” His own complexion was fair and ruddy, and he spoke with a north-country accent. “Thou came with thy parents?”
“Yes. They’re printers—”
“Ah! I heard there was a printer come. That’s good. What’s thy name?”
“Josiah Heywood.” I seized my opportunity, and added, “I’m looking for work. As a clerk, or some such.”
He cast an appraising glance at me. “Art thou? Well, Josiah, I could do with an extra pair of hands right now for an hour or two, unpacking. I’ll pay thee. It’s not much, but I know what it’s like when folks first arrive – especially folks like your father, with a family. Every penny helps.”
“Yes! I thank thee,” I said. Perhaps, if I showed willing and he liked me, he might offer me a permanent position, or recommend me to a friend. I’d taken to him already; I liked his straightforward way of talking.
“Here’s my counting house.”
We had walked only a few yards from his home, to the back entrance of a building on the west side of Second Street. George Bainbrigg led me in, calling, “Matt!”
We stepped into an office, where a young man was writing in a ledger. He got up, and I felt his gaze on me.
“The Chepstow’s been sighted,” George Bainbrigg said. “We must get down to the quay.”
“Ah! That’s good!” The news seemed to energize the young man. He finished his note in the ledger, blotted it, snapped the book closed and stood up. He looked again at me, and his employer said, “This is Josiah Heywood. Josiah – my apprentice, Matthew Peel.”
We nodded to each other warily.
“Josiah will help with the unpacking,” George Bainbrigg told the other man. “He’s newly come from England – from London – and looking for work.”
The three of us walked the short distance to the quayside together, where a small crowd had gathered. Tom Appleyard’s ship was now laden and ready to leave, and the sailors were raising the anchor. We all watched the ship move slowly out into the current as the wind took her sails.
“God speed,” said George Bainbrigg.
The approaching Chepstow was much closer now. I could read her name on the side and see men on the decks moving about.
Tom Appleyard turned to George Bainbrigg. “She’s made good time.”
“Aye. Let’s hope Arkwright’s brought what we need. Folks I speak to are all after chisels, hacksaws, nails. And they’ll be wanting woollens and sewing stuff with winter coming.” He turned to me. “Thou might as well come back later, Josiah. It’ll take them a while to unload the ship.”
He explained that he’d had a part share in the trading voyage with Tom Appleyard, and I agreed to return when the goods had been transferred to his counting house to be divided up.
I used the intervening time to continue to look around for places where I might find work, but I did not search over-zealously. I wanted to be free to take up employment with George Bainbrigg if he should ask me. I liked the man, and knew my father would be impressed if I found myself work with a merchant.
Rather than go home, I went into the Blue Anchor and bought a measure of small beer and a pie. I sat in a corner watching the people around me – the Philadelphians. Not all the merchants and townsfolk were Friends, though most wore sober dress o
f one kind or another. I saw a man who looked like a trapper or backwoodsman, drinking slowly and steadily, alone except for a dog that lay across his feet. Two merchants were deep in conversation, a creased map spread out on the table in front of them. There were sailors of all nationalities – Dutch, Swedish, German, French. One of them winked at me, and I glanced hastily away.
When I emerged into the sunlight, the last of the crates from the Chepstow’s boats were being loaded onto a cart, supervised by Matthew Peel. I made my way to the front entrance of George Bainbrigg’s counting house on Second Street. The doors were wide open, and the two merchants and Tom Appleyard’s apprentice, David Severs, were inside, surrounded by crates, boxes and barrels. The only other person there was an older man, Zachary Rowe, who seemed to be employed as a general handyman.
Matthew arrived soon after with the final delivery, and we all set to work. The crates were roughly labelled, and Zachary and I prised them open so that the contents and quantities could be checked against the bill of lading. The two apprentices made lists, noting everything in detail, while the merchants discussed how it should all be divided up.
“No chisels,” George Bainbrigg grumbled, “and I’ve been promising them to folk. But we have nails a-plenty. Thou’ll take half, Tom?” He signalled to me. “Push that crate over there, Josiah. We’ll have Tom’s stuff that side.”
“There are four dozen scythes,” said Matthew, scratching away with his quill.
George grunted approval. “They’ll sell, with all these new folk coming in.”
To my surprise there was not only woollen cloth and tableware but furniture in the consignment: a few dozen chairs and stools, finely finished and decorated, not like the furniture we’d had back home. We opened another crate and found thirty Bibles, several dozen ledgers and journals, some almanacs, ten reams of paper and a box full of jars of ink powder.
“Might thy father be interested in some of this?” George Bainbrigg asked me.
“I think so, yes. He wants to set up shop as soon as possible.” I’d been looking around the storeroom upstairs, with its shelves stacked with goods. “Dost thou have a shop?”
“No. Some of the merchants do, but Tom and I, we both prefer to sell at public vendue. You can get rid of stuff fast, once word’s gone out. And folk enjoy an auction. I sell wholesale to shops, though; tell thy father I can quote him a good price for stationery.”
We continued our work, and I saw why extra help was needed, for there was a lot of lifting and stowing, and stacks of boxes to be carried upstairs. It was hard work, and my back and shoulders soon began to ache. We divided up the goods, loaded Tom Appleyard’s share onto a cart, and stowed George Bainbrigg’s away on shelves and in cupboards. Everyone worked together, even the masters. Matthew Peel was rather aloof, but David was friendly enough. Zachary, strong and quiet, chewed tobacco as he worked, and occasionally nudged me away from a particularly heavy box, saying, “I’ll take this one.”
It was early evening when I went home with money in my pocket and a feeling of satisfaction at work well done and connections made. My father would no doubt visit George Bainbrigg and buy stock from him. And the merchant had told me, when I left, that he might be able to offer me “something in the way of permanent work”.
I walked back to Sassafras Street with a spring in my step.
Tokpa
Many more demons come. They surround us as we stand on the block. Their breath is foul; their eyes glare. They push and shout – all of them grabbing at us, jabbing fingers, pointing.
I shake with fear. What will they do? Will they kill us? Eat us? I call on the spirits to help me. I call loudly, for they are far away.
A crewman cuts me with a whip. He shouts words I’ve learned mean, “Shut your mouth!”
One of the demons jumps up onto the block, prods and handles me, forces my mouth open. He has a hairy, whiskery face and bad teeth. He keeps hold of me. Words fly between him and the captain.
I am taken off the block and made to climb into a cart. The driver is not of my people: he is Bassa. He wears clothes like the demons: trousers, shirt, straw hat. There are others in the cart: three men, two women. I smell their fear. The cart is pulled by an animal of a kind I have never seen before. I watch its haunches moving as we follow the road. When I look over my shoulder I see the ship still rocking on the water. I feel afraid to be leaving it. It was a bad place, but a place I knew.
Seven
I was hungry by the time I reached home. There was a smell of cooking in the cabin, and Betty exclaimed, “At last! Now we can eat! Mam! Jos is back!”
My mother had made a pottage of venison with onions and pumpkin, and we sat on boxes while she set out plates on the packing case. After we had given thanks in silence, everyone looked at me expectantly, but I made them wait until I had eaten a few spoonfuls. Then I told them about my afternoon’s work and the people I had met. My parents were pleased, and I had the unusual experience of being both the centre of attention and the subject of their approval. I scooped up the rest of my pottage. “This is good! Is there any more?”
My mother refilled my plate. “I wonder, should thou continue to look around, or wait and see if the merchant comes back to thee?”
“I’d say wait a little,” my father said. “Thou can help me set up the shop, Jos. The sooner that’s done the sooner we’ll make some return – though whether it’ll be cash or barter I don’t know. It seems there’s very little money in the colony; it’s all tied up in goods and land.”
I was glad my father wanted me to wait, for I felt sure I’d hear more from George Bainbrigg.
Within a few days our bookshop and stationer’s was stocked and open for business. We arranged some of the books by subject matter on the shelves: religion, science, medicine, history, poetry, books written in French or Latin. Many more remained in labelled boxes. We stood the pamphlets upright in boxes on the floor, and set out the stationery on a crate near the makeshift counter at the front.
I painted a sign saying WM. HEYWOOD – BOOKSELLER & STATIONER and hammered it to a post on the roadside; and we hoped any customers would not mind tramping across our muddy plot to reach us.
George Bainbrigg was one of our first callers. When he came, my father was minding the shop. I was outside with my mother and sisters, helping to clear the ground for a hen house and some vegetable planting. Lars and Gunnar had cut down a couple of large trees for us, and Lars was showing me how to chop them up for firewood – something I had never done before and found surprisingly satisfying. Betty had paused to watch us – or rather, to watch Lars, for I suspected it was he she was interested in. My mother must have guessed too, for she called Betty away, back to the weeding; and Betty moved reluctantly, then brightened and exclaimed, “Oh! A customer!”
I looked up. “It’s the merchant – George Bainbrigg!” I told my mother. I felt nervous at the thought that he might want to speak to me. “Should I go in?”
“Wait,” she said. “They may call thee.”
I brushed at my clothes. I was covered in a film of sawdust. It was in my hair, on my tongue – everywhere. “I feel dirty,” I said.
“No matter. Thou look as if thou hast been working, and there is nothing to be ashamed of in that.”
She herself was, as always, uncaring of her workaday appearance, her skirts caught up above the ankle so that she could dig, her hair tucked under a plain cap.
But they did not call me, though George Bainbrigg stayed some time. As soon as he left, carrying a small parcel, I put down my axe and hurried indoors.
My father was standing by the counter, looking thoughtful. I could tell nothing from his expression.
“Dad? What did… Did George Bainbrigg say anything…?”
He turned his attention to me. “Yes. He did. He made me a proposition, and I must think on it. We all must. I’ll talk to thee later, with thy mother.”
“Oh, Dad! Tell me now – please. Did he offer me work? Thou didn’t call me i
n,” I added, reproachfully.
“Later!” he repeated – and went on to say how George Bainbrigg had looked all around and been impressed with the shop, and wished our venture well, and spoken of his terms for purchase of stationery, which sounded most reasonable.
“And he bought a book.” My father smiled. “Our first book sale!”
“What did he buy?”
“Robert Barclay’s Apology. Said his copy had been damaged by sea water on a voyage. I think he bought it mainly as a kindness – to encourage me in my venture.”
I nodded – but I had grown impatient again. “Dad – when wilt thou say…?”
“This evening. When I’ve shut up shop.”
I went back to report to my mother and sisters. Betty was laughing at something Lars had said and did not notice me. And my mother, with infuriating calmness, said, “In God’s good time, then, Jos.”
But after supper she put the dishes aside to wash later, and sent the girls up to the loft with a candle. “You may read, or write in your journals,” she told them.
Betty protested; she wanted to know what was going on; but my mother insisted, so she followed Sarah reluctantly up the ladder. I felt sure she would perch at the top, out of sight, and listen.
My parents and I sat down on boxes around the fireplace.
“Now, husband,” my mother said.
“George Bainbrigg was pleased with Josiah, and would like to offer him work…” my father began; and I gave a little jolt of satisfaction.
He turned to me. “But it is not as simple as that, Jos. He has an apprentice, a young man of twenty-one, who is about to leave him at the end of his term. George Bainbrigg will then need another person to work for him. He could take on a clerk – a man of some experience – or he could take another apprentice…”
I saw where this was leading, and said, “I want—”
My father raised a hand to silence me. “George Bainbrigg’s problem is cash. There is not much money in the colony. There is work, land, abundance of everything in nature; there are goods to be had cheaply enough. But the merchants – their wealth is tied up in goods. And, Jos, although George Bainbrigg took a liking to thee, thou’rt a youth, and inexperienced. He would prefer to take thee on as an apprentice.”