Far From Home

by Val Wood

  Again Allen nodded and murmured that he was.

  ‘Quite a swell, ain’t he? He’ll do well in New Orleans with all them Creole ladies. They’ll want him at their balls and parties.’ He gave Allen a wink. ‘They’ll not want you though, unless it’s to serve on table.’ He wagged a finger. ‘You could do well. They’d like that, having an Englishman waiting on them.’

  Allen took a deep breath, paid him with the money Newmarch had given him and walked out seething. Was there still a class system, then? Even here? Did breeding matter? I thought that only money talked. It does, I’m sure of it, and I intend to do plenty of talking.

  Next day they boarded the Mississippi Girl, a paddle steamer. After Allen had unpacked Newmarch’s luggage in his cabin he went below, taking with him the meat he had just bought, labelled with Edward Newmarch’s name. A tall, thickset Negro was pulling on a white coat over his cotton shirt and trousers and he looked up as Allen came down the companionway. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I’m looking for the cook,’ Allen said briefly. ‘I need this meat cooking now.’

  ‘Guess I’m the cook, sir,’ the man drawled and gazed at Allen with dark placid eyes. He pointed to the table in the middle of the room where other provisions were laid. ‘Put the meat down there. I’ll cook it as soon as the boiler is hot.’

  Allen was curious. ‘Are you from New Orleans?’

  The man’s face closed up and he looked down his wide nose. ‘I ain’t from nowhere, sir. I just go where the cap’n tells me.’

  ‘What? Are you not a free man?’

  ‘No, sir, I ain’t.’ The fellow started to sort out the parcels of food on the table. ‘And I shouldn’t be talking to you, sir, though I guess if you’re from a foreign country you wouldn’t know that.’

  ‘But if you’re a cook, you’ll get a wage? A salary?’

  ‘No, sir. Ah just get my bed, my food and my clothes.’

  ‘But there’s no slavery in the North,’ Allen insisted. ‘Couldn’t you just get off the ship here in New York?’

  ‘Then what’d I do? Nobody would give me a job. They don’t like niggers in New York. No, sir. Besides, my boss’d come looking for me.’

  And I thought I was badly done by, Allen reflected as he went back to the upper deck. But at least if I decided to leave, nobody would chase after me and bring me back. He was sobered by the thought of the big black man who looked so strong that nobody would want to meddle with him, and yet who was captive and weak in that he couldn’t be called free.

  We’ve abolished slavery in England, but never having seen a slave, I haven’t really thought or cared about it before. And here’s one right in front of me. It doesn’t seem a fair system, he pondered. This isn’t a free country after all.

  ‘I’ve just met a slave, sir.’ Allen took Newmarch’s supper to him as they sailed out of New York harbour towards the Atlantic once again, where they would turn towards the coast of Florida. ‘He’s the cook.’

  ‘Good God!’ Edward looked down at his supper tray. ‘Are they allowed to cook? Is he clean?’ He sniffed at his plate. ‘What can I smell? Something spicy! Is this my meat?’

  ‘Yes, sir, yes, sir, and yes, sir. It’s your ham and the spice is cloves, with oregano. The cook told me,’ he added as Newmarch looked up suspiciously. ‘It’s a Creole dish.’

  ‘What else?’ Newmarch poked about in the food with his fork. ‘What’s this red stuff?’

  ‘Chillies, sir. They’ll be hot. And garlic.’

  Newmarch took a small bite. ‘They use these spicy ingredients to disguise bad meat, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The butcher said we should eat the meat before we get to New Orleans or the heat will rot it.’

  Newmarch took another bite and chewed. ‘Tastes all right,’ he considered. ‘Quite good, in fact. Right, we’ll eat meat every day for luncheon. Alternate the ham with the mutton until it’s finished and I’ll take supper with the captain.’

  The weather became hotter as they steamed down the coast and the Atlantic became a brighter and more brilliant blue as they headed towards the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. They looked towards the stumpy finger of land which they were told was East Florida, and came into the steamy air of the Gulf of Mexico.

  ‘Permission to take off my jacket, sir?’ Allen asked, perspiration running down his face. He’d brought Newmarch a glass of fresh orange juice, having squeezed the oranges which he had bought from the cook.

  ‘I should have brought a cotton jacket, Allen. These European clothes are far too hot. I’ll have to buy some more suitable clothes in New Orleans. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Keep your jacket on. It doesn’t do to let standards slip.’

  And so Allen sweated in his wool jacket, waistcoat and trousers, whilst Newmarch sat in his shirtsleeves beneath an awning on the deck and watched the colour of the waves change again as the muddy waters of the Mississippi river slewed into the sea.

  Their progress up the great river towards the old city of New Orleans was slow and took several days, hampered as they were by the mass of river traffic. Ships laden with foreign passengers steamed laboriously along the river between the flat landscape of the plantations where fields of cotton, sugar cane and the huts of the native workers could be seen above the embankment. As they neared New Orleans, flatboats and trading vessels coming down from Kentucky and Ohio bringing in ham, wheat and corn all vied for space along the levee, where merchants and traders piled high their cotton bales, sugar, and other commodities, ready to do business.

  ‘What does the river remind you of, Allen?’ Newmarch asked as they stood at the rails watching the ship dock along the riverbank.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Allen shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, nor felt such heat.’

  ‘Why, the old Humber,’ Newmarch replied. ‘Doesn’t it remind you of that? It’s wide and muddy and full of ships just like this, and even the embankment to keep the waters out of the town is the same as along parts of the Humber.’

  ‘It’s called the levee, sir.’ Allen thought his employer had taken leave of his senses. The Humber was nothing like this. The Humber estuary had hidden sandbanks and rushing tides; the Mississippi was slow, had hidden tree roots below the surface of the water, floating branches and swathes of moss and bulrushes, not to mention crocodiles and the swarms of mosquitoes which were already sucking his blood as the butcher in New York had said they would.

  ‘I know what it’s called,’ Newmarch said impatiently. ‘Come on, let’s get packed, we shall disembark before nightfall.’

  Meaning, Allen grumbled to himself as Newmarch went to join some of the other passengers for a last hand of cards, get packing, Allen, and don’t forget anything. He emptied the cupboard which now contained only half a bottle of brandy and one or two books, and started to take his employer’s clothes from the drawer beneath his bunk. He carefully folded his jackets and put them in the trunk and did the same with the trousers. He put in his shoes and boots, shirts, handkerchiefs and cravats, leaving out one grey suit which was lighter in weight than the others, one shirt and one cravat. ‘He’ll probably want one of those that I’ve already packed,’ he muttered, ‘but I’ll risk it.’

  He laid the trousers on the bunk and put the jacket over the back of the single chair, for there was little hanging space in the cabin. As he did so, something fell out of the inside pocket. It was Newmarch’s bulging leather pocketbook. He picked it up from the floor and, after a single moment’s hesitation, opened it. He reached to put the chair against the cabin door in case Newmarch should return, and quickly flicked through the contents.

  It wasn’t the first time he had looked through his employer’s private things, but there was never much money in his purse. This, however, was packed with notes, bills of credit from the bank, documents and English money.

  He gave a soft whistle through his teeth as he contemplated it. There would be enough here to set him up for a long time. But no, he deliberated. I haven’t yet stooped so low.
I’ll get by on my own endeavours. He put the pocketbook on top of the small chest, moved the chair back to its original place and continued packing.

  A moment later, Newmarch burst through the door. ‘My pocketbook!’ he blurted out. ‘I must have dropped it somewhere.’

  ‘Here, sir.’ Allen, picking it up, waved it at him. ‘I found it on the floor. Must have dropped out of your coat.’

  ‘Phew!’ Newmarch took it from him. ‘Thank God for that, Allen. We’d have been stumped without it. My whole life is in here.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘I have an introduction, Allen.’ Edward watched as Allen and the Negro driver loaded their luggage into the open trap. ‘We’ll book in at the hotel, then I’ll change and go calling.’

  Allen was already exhausted. The heat beat down, even though the day was drawing on, and the aroma of blossom was overpowering. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Very good, sir.’

  They drove to the hotel which the ship’s captain had recommended, watching the hustle and bustle of New Orleans as they trotted by. The streets were filled with Negroes, Indians, dark-eyed Creoles, Europeans and Chinese and frontiersmen of every nationality in their leather-skinned jackets, and they could hear French, Spanish and English voices as people greeted each other.

  Young slave girls with their dark hair covered by colourful scarves, wicker baskets hooked over their arms, chatted on street corners, and laden pack mules plodded slowly up the road towards the market as the drivers cracked their whips above them and shouted fruitlessly for them to hurry.

  The cab driver sang in a rich deep voice as he drove away from the river and towards the interior of the city. Within cool flower-filled courtyards, buildings of sun-dried brick or yellow stucco were festooned with bougainvillea and jasmine, and white shutters enclosed the windows against the heat.

  ‘Quite a city, eh, Allen? Very exotic.’ Edward glanced over his shoulder at a graceful ivory-skinned woman carrying a parasol, a young Negress at her side. The woman saw his stare and lowered her parasol so that her face was shielded from his gaze.

  He suddenly thought of Ruby and was filled with an impotent desire and melancholy for her. He had first seen her whilst travelling in a chaise with his brother as they were returning home from the Hull cotton mill in which they were shareholders. She had lifted her head and smiled at him in a spontaneous carefree manner. He had immediately fallen in love and wanted her, no matter that she was a poor mill girl and he engaged to be married.

  I must be careful, he thought. The ladies here will be kept under lock and key. He had heard that the New Orleans gentlemen with their French or Spanish background would not tolerate any reckless dalliance with their womenfolk.

  They obtained rooms at the hotel which Captain Voularis of the Mississippi Girl had recommended. It was cool within the white walls and they were shown upstairs by a young black boy in a dark blue jacket and trousers which were edged with red. Edward gave him an English shilling, as he hadn’t yet worked out the American currency system.

  The boy looked at it in his hand and Edward asked him if it was acceptable.

  ‘Sure thing, sir. My boss will take any kind of money so long as he can spend it.’

  ‘But that’s for you,’ Edward objected, ‘for bringing up the luggage.’

  The boy nodded. ‘That’s mighty kind of you, sir. But Señor Gomez will be waiting when I get down dem stairs, and I ain’t got no pockets where I can hide it.’

  ‘In that case I’ll have it back.’ Edward put out his hand for the boy to return the money. ‘I’m not tipping your employer. That’s not on at all!’

  ‘There’s a lot to learn, Allen,’ he remarked as the boy left the room. ‘More than I imagined.’

  ‘Yes,’ Allen agreed. ‘It’s a mingling of different cultures. And some of them seem to stick to their old ways, rather like we do in England. Maybe it will be different in California, sir,’ he added.

  ‘I hope so,’ Edward murmured as he took off his shirt to wash in the cool water that Allen had poured into the porcelain basin. ‘I’d like to think that there’s more freedom there than at home.’ He took a deep breath and hoped, not for the first time, that he had done the right thing in leaving his wife and country. But I couldn’t have stayed in England without Ruby. Better that I am in a foreign land with distractions.

  He looked in the gilt mirror on the wall and saw his wind-browned skin. His cheeks seemed leaner than they had been. I’ve lost weight, he thought, which is odd when I have done so much loafing around on the ship. I need some good fresh food, he decided.

  ‘I need a haircut, Allen,’ he said as he fastened his cravat, then smoothed his sideburns. ‘I’ll find somewhere tomorrow, and some new clothes.’

  ‘I’ll cut it for you when you get back, sir,’ Allen offered.

  ‘Good man.’ Edward picked up his cane. He didn’t need it, but he was of the opinion that he cut rather a dash when carrying one. ‘Call me a cab,’ he said. ‘And then you’d better get some rest,’ he added. ‘You look pretty rough.’

  Allen lay on the bed in his room when Newmarch had gone, and closed his eyes. What to do? He couldn’t leave without money and he debated whether to take his wages out of Newmarch’s pocketbook. I’d only take what I’m due or else he’ll have the authorities onto me. And if I’m caught and he presses charges I could finish up in a stinking jail and never get out! No, I’ll wait for an opportunity, he resolved. I’ll know it when it comes.

  Captain Voularis had recommended that Edward called on Señor Rodriguez, who was an eminent man in the city of New Orleans. ‘He can put opportunities your way, Mr Newmarch,’ the captain had said, ‘there is no-one better.’ Edward, always looking for the easiest route to opportunity, decided he would call.

  He told the cab driver the address and they travelled over unmade muddy roads until they came to the wrought-iron gates of the house, where a guard and a dog patrolled inside.

  Edward passed his card to the guard, on which he had written the name of the hotel and Captain Voularis’ name. ‘My compliments to Señor Rodriguez. If I might have the privilege of paying him a visit, at his convenience.’

  He climbed back into the chaise and asked the driver to return along the levee. The evening had cooled and the residents were coming out of their houses and businesses and were socializing along the riverbanks. Hundreds of ships for as far as his eyes could see were moored along the Mississippi, with the flatboats and broadhorns slipped between.

  He heard music from fiddles and pipes and the sound of drumbeat. On the decks of some of the ships, girls and men were dancing. He tapped the driver on his shoulder. ‘Those ladies down there.’ He pointed with his cane to where two honey-coloured young women were walking with an elderly Negress. ‘What would they be, Spanish? Mexican?’

  The driver glanced down towards them, then shrugged. ‘Quadroon,’ he said. ‘Mixed blood. Mebbe Spanish, Mexican or French. Their granddaddy or grandmammy would have been Negro anyway, but they ain’t pure black like me!’

  ‘So, will they be free citizens?’ Edward asked. ‘Or are they servants?’ He found he couldn’t bring himself to say slaves.

  ‘Could be, sir, if they’ve been given their freedom. Some Europeans, even in New Orleans, don’t keep slaves.’ He gave a deep chuckle. ‘Time’s a coming when we’ll all be free, but there’ll be a fight all right: North and South will git blood on their hands.’

  Edward sat back and contemplated. It was such a perfect evening. The sun was warm, people were laughing and making merry, and the city had the feel and appearance of Spain or southern France with its orange and lemon trees and brightly berried hedges, and the smell of blossom. It also appeared to be thriving, judging by the commodities which were on the levee. A fight, the driver said. That can’t be right. There was so much merriment and there didn’t appear to be any hardship. None at all.

  When he returned to the hotel he found Allen fast asleep in his own room, but he had unpacked the luggage
and hung Edward’s clothing in the cupboards, so he didn’t call him but lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He must have fallen asleep for he was awakened by a light tapping.

  The same houseboy was at the door, holding a message. Edward put his hand in his pocket before remembering that any coin he gave to him would go to the hotel owner. The boy saw his hesitation and slightly opening his lips he pointed to the inside of his mouth. Edward nodded and gave him the coin and watched as the boy slipped the silver into his cheek. He touched his cap and silently departed.

  ‘Hope he doesn’t swallow it,’ Edward muttered, and opened up the envelope. The message was from Señor Rodriguez, who requested that he join him for lunch the following day.

  He rose early the next morning and accompanied by Allen went in search of a new suit of clothes, something lighter and more suitable for the climate. He bought a cream linen suit and a wide hat to keep the heat of the day from his head. The hat was made, he was told, from the leaves of the palm tree. He fitted Allen out with a cotton coat and trousers.

  ‘They maybe won’t do for California,’ he said to him. ‘But I like the feel of this place so we’ll stay a while before moving on.’

  He hired a chaise and presented himself at one o’clock at the gates of Señor Rodriguez’ house. The guard, obviously expecting him, unlocked and opened them and advised him to continue up the long drive which divided the wide, lush green lawns where palm trees and the purple-blue jacaranda grew. Mulatto and Negro workers were rolling the clipped grass and trimming the hedges.

  He drew up outside the door and looked with admiration at the house in front of him. Wide steps led up to the front door and the cream-coloured brick gave off a sunny warmth. Wrought-iron balconies at the upstairs windows held stone pots and jars of brightly coloured flowers, and white muslin curtains floated gently in the warm breeze.