Blockade-Runners
Blockade-runners were not warships; with no means of defense, if cornered they almost always surrendered without a fight. One exception was the Laird-built paddle steamer Lark, which made four successful round trips through the blockade between Galveston and Havana. On one run into Galveston, possibly in early April, Lark went aground near the harbor entrance and was attacked by boats from the Federal blockading squadron. As related below, Lark's crew, assisted by Confederate troops, successfully drove off the attack, a rare event in the history of blockade running.
On her last run she slipped into Galveston before dawn on May 24, the same morning the boat, Denbigh was burned. When she arrived at the wharf, she was overrun and stripped by civilians. She picked up Denbigh's crew and dashed out to sea again, the very last blockade runner to clear a Confederate port.
Bill made sure that there was the usual article about the price of everything from apples to zebra-colored pajamas that was the current rage for the children of the well-to-do households. Satisfied, he buzzed Matt on the intercom.
“Matt, tonight’s newspaper is good to go. Good job.”
“Thank you, sir. They will be set out in time for the guests this evening. Would you like to hear this evening’s menu?”
“Sure.”
“Very well, sir. Let me start off by telling you that I took the liberty of going down to New York’s famous Delmonico’s Restaurant. First in 1830, then again in1860, 1867 and again in 1876 for the menu of the day and ordered a few dishes that were available and brought them back for this evening’s dinner. We start with lettuce with sliced tomatoes and ground bacon bits with ginger sauce. We shall then set out beef-barley soup followed by Oysters Rockefeller, Lobster Newberg, Eggs Benedict, Delmonico potatoes and Delmonico’s Steak. Finally, we offer Delmonico’s Baked Alaska.”
“Wow!” quipped Bill, “That’s quite a selection, Matt. How do you expect to take orders?”
“Sir, for this one time I thought we would do a buffet style and let the members make their own choice. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely! But, I wouldn’t want to be you when they ask for recipes.”
The grandfather clock in Bill’s den struck seven as he finished dressing. He went to the full-length mirror and studied his reflection. He was happy with the new black and white pinstriped suit he wore and made a mental note to let the club’s tailor know. Bill straightened the stiff collar of his starched white shirt, puffed up the wine colored cravat and stuck in a small pearl stickpin. His wine colored spats showed just enough to enhance his high buttoned black shoes. He grinned at the well-dressed man in the mirror and said, “President Scott, are you ready for dinner and guests?” He answered himself with a nod and went out the door.
Bill cut an elegant figure as he walked down the long hall and admired the collection of paintings his predecessor, Prescott Stevens, had accumulated over the years he ran the club. Hanging on both sides of the high hallway were paintings by: James Frothingham, John Lewis Krimmel, Hezekiak Augor, Samuel F.B. Morse, Alvin Durand, John Neagle and Titian Peal. There were times that Bill was late for an appointment because he got stuck in front of the collection of American artists.
He got to the stairway and as he went down with his hand gliding on the well polished mahogany banister, thought, Wonder what the club members would think if they knew that many times, when I’m alone, I slide down the banister?
The low drone of conversation wafted up from the large clubroom and it was there that Bill headed. Just before the open pocket doors was a low round table with tonight’s newspapers displayed for all to take. He picked one up and tucked it under his arm as he entered the full room.
His appearance brought the conversations to a momentary halt as all head’s turned to smile and nod at the president of The 1800 Club. Bill waved his hand in the universal meaning of ‘please continue’ and the low drone once again was heard.
The spacious room was beautifully decorated with a light and dark blue, flocked, wallpaper of the 1860s period. Three large chandeliers lighted the room and they were accompanied by smaller oil lamps placed on three legged mahogany tables around the room. The bright, dancing flames from the lamps and chandeliers bounced back from the highly polished wood floor. Once again the walls showed the good taste of the past president with great works of art tastefully displayed. A dozen floor-to-ceiling windows with long white drapes brought in the sunlight during the daytime and offered a great view of lower New York City all the way to Brooklyn, Staten Island and New Jersey. The room was filled with mid-eighteen hundreds wingback chairs strategically placed about the room not only to face the roaring fire in the huge fireplace, but also to encourage conversations between the club members.
Not that the chair placement was necessary for conversation, thought Bill as he scanned the room, this group happens to be one of the most extroverted groups I’ve ever encountered.
Matt stepped out from behind a group of members and offered Bill a glass of wine and a cigar from the silver tray he carried. Bill selected a glass of red and a cigar. Matt clipped the end of the Cuban and lit it for him as he tilted his head ever so slightly to a section of the room and whispered: “Mister Gelardi.”
Bill looked and winked at his right-hand-man. “Gotcha! Thanks Matt.” He casually walked the perimeter of the room until he was close to Patty Gelardi. He listened as he talked to George, “G.G.” Graham. Bill knew that both men were voice teachers and it seemed that both had their own view on the best way to bring out the best of a potential singer.
Patty looked like a typical singer of the 1800s. He wore a three-piece black suit with velvet lapels. His shirt was on the flowery side with frilly cuffs peeking out of his sleeves while, at his neck, he wore a velvet cravat loosely tied in a rather bohemian way. He wore his thick, black wavy hair long and relaxed, combing it back periodically with his fingers. He had blue eyes that were forever peeking out of half closed eyelids and his black mustache went up when he smiled, which he did constantly. George “G.G.” Graham also dressed in a relaxed manner with a two-piece outfit, dark brown jacket with tan pants that draped over brown high-topped shoes. G.G., as he was known, was a well-built body builder and his wide shoulders accentuated his narrow waist. His hair was blond and unlike Patty he was clean-shaven.
Bill noticed that the fire seemed to emanate from Patty’s eyes as he explained his creative thinking of his favorite subject: singing.
“Singing, my friend,” he said to G.G., “comes from the heart of a person and if that person doesn’t study to get the best out of what nature gave them, it is the teacher who suffers the most!”
“I truly doubt that,” said G.G. shaking his head. “The student who does not study shall forever suffer for his misuse of time when he realizes the folly he has committed on himself.”
Patty, sensing the right moment to force home his belief, stepped closer to G.G. as he said, “And it is here that I make my point, dear G.G., for I say that the student never realizes the folly he has committed on himself!”
G.G. shrugged his huge shoulders as he pondered his friend’s theory. “Patty, this time I do believe that you have given me food for thought. I shall have to go over tonight’s conversation a few more times before I get some sleep.”
“Then,” said Patty with a slight bow at the waist, “for that I am sorry, my friend.”
“No!” stated G.G. forcibly. “Please do not apologize for giving me another point of view to study for it is encounters such as this that makes our club so unique.”
Bill stepped closer and with a smile offered, “Well said, sir, well said. For you are correct in pointing out that our club is unique, for it is indeed unique.”
Both men turned and faced Bill.
“Good evening, President Scott,” they said almost in unison.
“Please,” Bill said, “I do not wish to interfere with your chat, I just found it intriguing.”
Patty placed a hand on G.G.’s shoulder and s
aid, “President Scott, this conversation is but one of many that G.G. and I have complete opposite views on, but, that said, he is a good friend and many a night it is I who go home pondering his point of view.”
The three men stood chatting for a bit when the dinner bell rang and Matt announced that they should enter the dining room.
Maryellen Strazza walked over to G.G. and said as she offered her hand, “Mister Graham, might I walk in with you as I wish to speak with you about voice lessons?”
G.G. responded with a smile and an outstretched arm, which she draped hers through as they entered the dining room.
“Mister Gelardi,” said Bill, “might you sit to my right this evening as I have some questions of your field?”
“I would be delighted, sir.”
Matt had twelve long silver serving tables rolled out and invited the club members to help themselves. It was a first and all agreed that it should be inserted into the schedule. The club’s newspaper provided a lively discussion of many topics and three new guests were asked to stand and introduce themselves.
A tall, willowy blonde, Kathlene Muroski, was a direct descendant of Margarette Muroski. Her great grandmother had opened a small real estate office, Muroski Properties, on the hills of the Midwest and when the Calvary needed to build a fort she showed them the good points of her properties: it was on the high grounds, was close to water and had trees to build with. She became a very successful real estate operator.
Joseph Blackbear was dressed in buckskin ceremonial outfit of a Comanche Chief, which is what his great grandfather was back in 1862. He was one of the few American Indians that never settled down on a reservation. His people waged a small but effective war to stay free and after awhile they were left alone to wither and die, but not only did they survive, but flourished, and today owned a successful Casino in upstate New York.
Finally, Joseph Aloi stood. The tall, slim dark haired man with a pencil thin black mustache was outfitted in the dress uniform of a Captain of the Calvary for the Union Army. He explained that he was representing his great grandfather, the original, Captain Aloi, who was on the right wing of a charge that routed the confederates at a crucial, unnamed battle for a watering hole. His men won and they were able to stay in the field while the enemy had to retreat for lack of water thus freeing up a huge tract of land. He wore his ancestor’s original sword at his side and on close examination one could see many nicks and scratches on it from battle.
When dinner ended the members went back into the great room to enjoy after dinner drinks and cigars, for those who wished, as they enjoyed the warmth of the fireplace on this dark November evening.
“Mister Gelardi,” asked Bill as he started his pitch, “would it be possible for you to stay here awhile after the other members left? I have another part of the club I’d like to show you.”
Patty shrugged his shoulders, “Me? Stay and see another part of the club? You bet!”
Bill smiled, “Great. Believe me you will enjoy it.”
The clock struck eleven as the last club member went down to the locker rooms to change before leaving the club. Bill guided Patty by the elbow as Matt and a small cleaning crew entered the room.
“This way, Mister Gelardi,” he said as he led Patty out of the room and up the thick, rug-covered staircase. They walked down the long hallway and Bill smiled to himself as he saw Patty’s eyes go wide at the paintings.
“President Scott, isn’t this a Samuel F.B. Morse?”
“Yes, it is.”
“A-And this one,” he said pointing to another, “isn’t this a John Neagle painting?”
Bill nodded, “Yes. You know your art.”
“They are some of the best pieces produced here in the states.”
Bill nodded in agreement as he opened the door to his den. “After you, sir.”
Patty stepped into the room and was immediately struck by its magnificence. The light from a chandelier threw off a warm glow as it reflected off the dark mahogany walls. In front of a roaring fireplace, there was large mahogany coffee table and Patty knew it was a rare piece although he was at a loss for its name. He was tickled to see a very large, white, bear rug on the floor and sitting in the center was a Beagle looking back at him.
“That’s Samson, Mister Gelardi.”
Before Patty could answer he saw, then gaped at the tall writing desk against the wall. “Forgive me, Mister President, but isn’t that an 1860 Rosewood Cylinder Secretary?”
Bill looked and once again nodded. “Yes. My predecessor brought it here. Nice looking piece, isn’t it?”
Patty walked over and reverently ran his hand along the well-oiled, smooth curved wood. “Six drawers behind the glass doors?”
“Please,” said Bill as he took two cigars from a humidor, “open it.”
Patty gently opened the two wood-framed glass door and just stared.
“It is magnificent, President Scott. Do you use it?”
“Yes, I do. But as today’s communications demand speed over finesse, I use my laptop more to shoot off e-mails.” Bill offered him a cigar and went on, “I suggest that, for tonight at least, we use our given names and if you agree, I’m Bill.”
“Ah, yes of course. I’m Patty.”
Bill lit both cigars and as he pointed to a large, leather easy chair, said, “Sit and relax, Patty, as Matt will be here shortly with brandy or anything else of your choosing.”
Brandy is fine, President, . . . ah, Bill.”
Bill sat opposite him in a twin of the easy chair Patty sat in. The Beagle stirred again as Matt entered and placed a silver tray bearing a bottle of brandy and two snifters on the coffee table.
“Will there be anything more, sir?”
“No. Thank you very much, Matt.”
Matt left the room and Bill poured two drinks. He passed one to Patty and said as he held it up. “To the 1800 Club.”
“To the club, Pres, . . . ah, rather, Bill.” Both men took a sip.
“I see that you’ve written three books, Patty.”
“Yes. Although they never made the top ten, I had fun writing them. Are you familiar with them, Bill?”
Bill shook his head, “Not really. I started the first one last evening and am about one third finished. Fascinating stuff!” He sat forward and flicked his ash in the tall, bronze ashtray situated between them. “And they never found out who the murderer was, right?”
“True. The coldest of cold cases, I’m afraid.”
“And what got you interested in the Ripper?”
“My grandfather was living in England at the time and he sort of collected a bunch of the newspaper articles on the subject. One day I was in our attic going through some old steamer trunks and came across them. I’ve been hooked ever since.”
“Bet you’d love to be the guy who solves that mystery?”
Patty swished the brandy around in his glass as his eyes took on a faraway look, “It was always a dream of mine. But, of course it can never happen. It’s been too long and any evidence they have has been handled so many times it would be useless. No, the world will never know who Jack The Ripper was.”
Bill nodded as he tossed out the first teaser, “Unless we went back in time to catch him.”
Patty grinned as he sat forward and flicked the ash from his cigar. “Yeah, that’d be the answer: A time machine.”
“Patty, if you had the opportunity to have anything in New York City from the mid-eighteen hundreds, what would that be?”
Patty blew a smoke ring and followed its journey to the ceiling. “You mean like, anything at all?”
Bill nodded, “Sure, anything at all. What would that be?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be an object, it would be going backstage at the New York Metropolitan Opera on November 22, 1903.”
“Why then?”
“Because Enrico Caruso rehearsed Rigoletto there as the following night was to his first New York appearance.”
“And you are a fan of Caruso?”
“Absolutely! My grandfather gave him a few lessons before and after his first show and whenever the maestro was in New York City they sat and sipped wine as they spoke of the old country. My grandfather heard him that night in 1903 and felt he was trying so hard to impress the others that instead of hitting high notes, he was singing in Falsetto. He told him so and all were in shock, except Caruso who wanted to hear more of what he had to say.” Patty paused and seemed to look off somewhere far away. “My grandfather told me that story so many times that it’s ingrained in my memory.”
“1903,” said Bill as he got up. “Wait one minute, Patty, I’ll be right back.” He walked over to a door and opened it. A light came on automatically as Bill entered the room. It was a large dressing room with suits, coats and shirts hanging in plastic bags, all arranged in the years that Bill traveled in. Beneath the clothes were shoes of all different types: dress, casual, rain gear, and slippers. He went to the early 1920s and picked two long winter coats. Next he went to a wall safe, opened it and took a handful of dollars and coins and left the room.
He dropped them on the back of the couch and sat facing Patty.
“Patty, I’m going to give you your wish. I’m going to take you back to that night in 1903. Can you tell me what time the rehearsal took place?”
Patty grinned. “Is there another section of the club that I don’t know about? Like, I tell you I want to go to a certain place at a certain time and you have your team do a mock up of it?”
Time Travel Adventures of the 1800 Club Book VIII Page 10