Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “New hemp soaked in rum,” said the sailor. “I have few enough years out here where I still don’t feel quite right in really heavy seas.”

  “You don’t call these really heavy seas?”

  The young sailor laughed. “No, mate. Trust me; this is a bathtub. Take it. Just chew on it a bit. I don’t know if it helps you being sick but it sure keeps that damn taste of your stomach from your mouth.”

  Keeping his leaning position over the rail, Jacob stretched one arm back. The boy handed over the rum laden hemp and waited, expecting a thank you or some acknowledgment. Jacob ignored him. Pulling the rope to his mouth, he began to suck.

  “One other thing, don’t look at the horizon. Keep your eye on the deck or like you’re doing now, straight down in the water.”

  Jacob barely moved all day. The captain came by and stopped briefly. Craning his neck toward him over his horizontal shoulder, Jacob weakly snorted, “What are you gawking at? Can’t you find a different, smoother route?”

  “So you’d like to be captain now, would you? I’m not sure you could even stand erect. You’re the one who insisted on Portsmouth. If you want a smoother ride, jump overboard and swim. Makes no never mind to me. I’ve been paid.”

  Jacob felt his hand tightening on the rail but he was too sick to do anything about the captain’s demeaning sarcasm. Long after dark the next day, the trawler pulled into Portsmouth Harbor. Even at that time of night, the port buzzed with civilian and British Navy activity. The calmer waters of the harbor allowed Jacob to partially regain his composure. The trawler made for a point past the end of the wharf toward a beach, perhaps one hundred fifty yards away.

  The captain appeared and stood six feet distant, leveling a pistol at Jacob.

  “This is the harbor. My part of the deal is done. Over you go.” His eyes were hard.

  Jacob was incredulous, “What do you mean?”

  Cocking the hammer of the pistol, the captain answered coldly, “I mean I’m not waiting in line to moor up for the likes of you. We’ll lose half the night trying to get a berth for the minute or two it takes to drop your sorry ass off simply to keep your boots out of the water. After sailing all this way, I don’t intend to miss the morning fishing on the inner channel bank.”

  “But—” began Jacob.

  The captain cut him off. “I didn’t say I’d deliver you with your feet dry on the dock, mister. Now either over the side with you or it’s back out to sea with us. If that’s the case, it might be over the side with you out there.”

  Hunching, Jacob leaned forward to make a move toward the stiletto in his boot. He’s too close and a lead ball is too fast. Jacob straightened up not trusting himself to speak. Taking a few steps over to the rail, he paused to make sure his money pouch was deep in his pocket, then swung one leg over the gunnels to lower himself into the water.

  Moving quickly, the captain shoved Jacob over the rail into the icy cold water. Sputtering as he surfaced, Jacob almost gagged on the reek of fish, oil and sewage. The trawler never stopped moving and was almost past him. He could see the captain leering down at him over the stern.

  “Don’t drown,” the captain called with a flippant wave as the trawler disappeared in the night.

  Jacob struck out for shore. He was not much of a swimmer but with a combination of dog paddling and floating on his back, he finally arrived, gasping, at the shoreline. He climbed over large wet rocks, slimy with foul-smelling moss, separated by pockets of coarse sand that felt like dirty paste mortar.

  Regaining his breath, he tottered to his feet and looked back out into the harbor. Hissing into the darkness,

  “Someday I’ll run a knife round your throat, you bastard.”

  Jacob struggled up the embankment to a road of sorts and began walking toward the nearest lights. His boots squished and gurgled with every step. Soaked and freezing, he told himself through chattering teeth, “I’ve got to find some shelter. Some warmth.”

  He walked down a very dimly lit street on the outskirts of the town. Gas lamps were spread widely apart. Two-, three- and four-story buildings, some masonry, some wood, virtually all dilapidated, lined the street. Many of the tenements were lit by candles. Only a few people were walking about. Some were sailors off the Navy frigates.

  The first door Jacob tried was unsecured. My first piece of good luck in twenty-four hours.

  Pushing it open, he entered a squalid landing that smelled like urine and wood decay. Stairways led both up and down, with a door to an apartment on either side.

  Jacob wrinkled his nose at the odor. I’ve always heard the English are a smelly bunch. He heard some scratching. Damn, is that a rat? The tiny tap of claws receded into a dark corner.

  Jacob crept down the stairs. He tread lightly but each step squeaked, some more than others. He found a furnace back in a far corner of the basement. It had been stoked not long before. A large pile of coal leaned against the basement wall almost up to the bottom of the opening of the coal chute. It was dusty and dirty but it was warm and dry. Picking out a corner, taking care to keep the furnace between him and the stairs, he lay down on his back. His shivering lessened and he fell asleep.

  *****

  Loud voices, ebbing and flowing with laughter and good-natured curses, woke him. The sounds emanated from the main landing where Jacob had entered. He had no idea what time it was. Must be very early morning. Lying still in the glow of the coal furnace, the only light in the basement, he listened intently.

  Come on, man, make a plan, he told himself. You’re safe from the law for now but you need food, clean clothes, shelter and heat. You need to stay on the move. His hands searched for his money pouch. In the dim light, he could not tell exactly what each coin was but he came close to a total by feel. About eighty pounds. Tucking the pouch into his waistband, he walked carefully up the stairs. The boisterous group in the hallway was too engrossed to notice the creak in the old wooden steps. Two men leaned against the wall. One had a whiskey bottle. Five men were kneeling on the floor.

  “Playing poker?” he queried with a nod of his head toward the cards on the floor. “Room for one more?” He tried to make his tone friendly.

  The men stopped playing and looked up at him, surprised. The two who lounged against the wall straightened up, wrinkling their noses. “Man, what happened to you?”

  An oil lamp hung from a long nail protruding from the risers on the stairway. He moved a bit further into the light. “Just me lot in life. I’m Irish,” he joked.

  They looked at one another and burst out laughing. “A Mick, eh?”

  One man smiled in a friendly way despite the slur.

  “What the hell you do, swim over here?”

  Jacob looked down at himself. He was a mess. Caked mud covered his boots. Mud lines stained his trousers halfway up his calves where he had struggled through the filthy sands. He could feel greasy residues in his hair from the harbor water. “I admit I’m in deplorable condition, even for me but would you men mind making room for this poor old Mick?”

  “Sure, come on. There’s room here at this fancy table,” one of the players called out, gesturing to the floor.

  “Hey, don’t sit too close to me,” one man joked. “You smell like the bloody harbor.”

  Smiling an overly friendly smile, Jacob’s experienced eyes roved over the other players for clues. He glanced down at the pot. It was not very large. Maybe three or four pounds. All of the men had calloused hands. Most had thin, worn boots. Low-level workers, probably at the harbor. Based on their dress, the pot and the run-down neighborhood, they have very little money. This is not the type of crowd I am used to.

  He folded three hands, satisfied just to observe for the price of the small ante. The third hand, he decided to play. His cards were quite good, a solid two pair, jacks and tens, more than enough to take most pots in a game of five-card draw. He most certainly had the winning hand. They went around the circle and each man bet. The liquor bottle had been passed to him three ti
mes and he pretended to drink but had not swallowed a drop. The rest of the men, getting tipsy, made small raises, laughing, giving each other good-natured pushes. Jacob matched the bet. The men turned their cards over. There were several players to go but Jacob knew his assumptions were correct. He had the best hand.

  Still, rather than turning them over, he threw his cards face down among the others so they couldn’t be picked out. “You boys are getting awful good hands. I can’t compete—I fold.”

  The group whooped and hollered. The man next to him slapped him on the back. “Pass me that bottle. Are all you Irish players like that? Bring the leprechauns. I hear they have gold.” They all roared with laughter; Jacob made the motions of joining in. For almost an hour, he sacrificed his ante or on a number of occasions even pretended to lose with a winning hand. He wasn’t down more than a pound.

  When it became his turn to deal, Jacob held himself back. He awkwardly shuffled the cards, making sure he appeared clumsy, even dropping the deck on one deal. He purposefully lost the first two hands he dealt and sacrificed the ante on the third. This group evidently had a rule that each player dealt five hands and then passed the cards on.

  As he was dealing the fourth hand, he pretended to fumble the cards several times. With each feigned mistake, his fingers deftly rearranged the deck. He began to deal. “Whoops, sorry mate. I’m an oaf when it comes to this. Let me get you another. I didn’t mean to throw that face up.”

  To his satisfaction, it was clear the other players, even as inebriated as they were, realized that they had just been dealt exceptional hands. Looking down at his own cards, they were just as he intended. The ring of players bet on each card. These were the heaviest bets of the night. Only one player dropped out in the first round and the pot was up to a solid fifteen pounds. The group grew quiet. This was a good deal of money to each of these men. With cards like those that they had been dealt, they couldn’t afford to drop out. Jacob was careful not to raise any bet.

  “I think I oughta fold,” said Jacob with a facade disgust and surrender. He let himself get talked into remaining in the hand, throwing in his money with a great show of reluctance.

  On the next round of bets, he again picked up his cards as if he were about to throw them in. “I’ve had it, mates.”

  The man next to him put his hand on his forearm. Jacob knew what the man’s cards were.

  “You’re not getting out of this hand, Mick.” The other players nodded. “No one gets out of this hand.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Jacob with another show of reticence. He threw enough money in to match the previous raise but no more. It was time to deal the last card. Five of the players were still in. There was very little talk. Each man was raising the previous bet. As the bet went around, to appear even less inclined to stay in, he used body language. He knew the first man to bet held a straight, eight high. Reaching in his pocket for a gold piece, the man called out, “I raise five pounds.”

  The heads in the circle snapped up. This was a huge bet for this group. Jacob knew the next man had a low flush, nine high. He frantically dug in his pockets, emptying them of every bill and coin and came up with just enough to match the bet. The third man was distraught. Jacob knew he had a better flush, king high. The cards shook in his trembling fingers. He ransacked every pocket and then stood up, pulled off one boot, and extracted some paper money.

  “Come on, come on. We don’t have all morning. I’ve got to get me arse to work,” said one of the men irritably.

  “Easy, mate,” said Jacob. “This is a big pot. Give the man time.”

  The man, whom everybody had been calling Tom, glanced up at him. “Thanks, Mick; that was good of you.”

  Continuing to rummage through his clothes, Tom’s voice cracked. “I just don’t have enough. Anybody here want to lend me three pounds six pence? I’m good for it,” he slurred in drunken earnestness. All the men shook their heads.

  “You’ll just have to fold then,” urged the man with the lower straight.

  “What’s that sticking out of your coat pocket?” asked Jacob.

  Tom looked up at Jacob’s question, startled. He said, “That’s me ticket.”

  “Ticket?”

  “For the SS Edinburgh. I’m going to America.”

  Jacob’s mind raced. “Tell you what, Tom, you must think you have a good hand, mate. Good hands don’t come along often. Why don’t I lend you five pounds against that ticket? When you win the pot, you just pay me back. If you don’t, I guess I got me a ticket.”

  Hesitating, the man glanced down at his cards, looking at all the other players. “You’d do that?”

  “Sure I would. Men don’t get lucky hands too often. I never get ‘em. You fellows might have noticed. In fact, to make this fair, I’ll just fold right now.” Shoving his cards into the deck and discards in the center of the circle, Jacob made sure they were face down so nobody could see the ace high full house he had dealt himself. Okay, now I am gambling.

  That pushed Tom over the edge. “Okay, Okay.” He handed the ticket across the circle to Jacob, who counted out five pounds and threw it in the pot for Tom.

  “I counted it. It’s five pounds,” said Jacob. “Tom has raised.” All the heads in the circle nodded. The next two players folded. The last player, sitting to Jacob’s right, was a very small man, probably not over five feet high. He was older. Jacob thought him the meekest of this group. Jacob also knew that—besides himself—the man had the best hand, a full house, jacks over eights.

  Jacob held his breath. As he had surmised, the old man did not raise but simply matched the bet. “Okay, boys, lay your cards out,” Jacob said.

  With trembling hands, the circle of players rolled over their cards, muttering curses as each man’s good hand was beaten by the next man’s slightly better one. Tom’s hand was the best thus far and only one player, the older, timid man, remained between Tom and the pot. The elderly player’s body shivered. He laid his cards out with unsteady fingers.

  “I…I think I won!” he said in a low, quiet voice. Leaning over, the other players peered in disbelief at his full house. Jacob helped the old man spread his cards out so that everybody could see them.

  “By God, I think you did.” Jacob said. “That’s a hell of a hand.” He glanced over at Tom, whose face was wide-eyed and ashen.

  “I’m sorry, mate” said Jacob earnestly.

  Looking desperately around the circle, Tom pleaded with his friends, “Can any of you be lending me the money to buy that ticket back?” The men all shook their heads. Tom turned his attention to the old man, who stared incredulously down at the pot that Jacob had already pushed in front of him. “Harry, can you lend me the five pounds, mate?” he begged.

  Shifting his eyes from the pot to his frantic friend, Harry stammered, “I…I don’t think so, Tom. There is a rocking chair me wifey has been looking at for a long time. I want to buy it for her, and I’ll never have the money to do it again.”

  Glancing up at Tom, Jacob inquired, “When is that boat leaving?” in a nonchalant but friendly voice.

  Pulling out a dented timepiece, Tom tried to focus. “Just five hours from now, at twelve noon,” was the desperate reply.

  “Tell you what, mate, get yourself cleaned up and I’ll meet you back here at eleven o’clock, which will just give you time to make the boat if you can round up the money to buy the ticket back.”

  “Thank you. You’re a fine Irishman.” Standing up unsteadily, Tom bolted out the door at the far end of the foyer. The other players stood also. Jacob shook hands with all of them.

  “Maybe we can play again sometime,” he said following them all out the door. Standing in the chilly, morning sunlight, he watched until they were out of sight, then hurried down the street toward the taller buildings in the city. I only have a few hours. Need to get some paper, envelope and talk someone into writing a quick note to Cousin Samuel to meet me at the docks. If I can find a British Navy seaman sailing for New York, maybe
he will deliver it for five or ten pounds. Those Navy ships are faster than the steamers. Pausing to catch his breath, he drew out the Edinburgh ticket, and holding it to his lips, kissed it. I need a few changes of clothes and a bath. I want to be at the gangplank at 11:00 a.m., an hour before the ship sails.

  CHAPTER 9

  JANUARY 16, 1855

  THE SS EDINBURGH

  Across the English Channel from where Rebecca’s six trunks lay open for final packing, gray fog shrouded the slick, dark surface of the waters of the North Sea at the mouth of the River Weser. The quiet of the night had not yet departed. The two Prussian brothers from the Lahn River farmland, eyes straining against the fog, carefully guided the wagon down the cobbled streets of Bremen Harbor.

  On one side of the wagon there was the energy of space and the fishy smell of brackish salt water. On the other side were the dark forms of buildings, their corners softened by the thick mist sifting inland from the harbor.

  Turning to Reuben, Erik held out the lines. “Hold these lines, would you? I need to pull up my collar against this damp!”

  Taking the long leathers, Reuben nodded, “Yes. I am glad we don’t live on the coast.”

  The horses moved gingerly, picking their way down the cobbled streets along the edge of the harbor, their unshod hooves not used to such hard surfaces. They passed several docks, most still quiet at this early hour. The black, looming hull of a steamship appeared out of the soupy, saline shadows of the early morning murk. The big white letters on its bow were unmistakable: SS Edinburgh.

  The wharf was alive with activity in the now dissipating fog—passengers crowding toward the gangplanks, the crew shouting curses, and rope nets creaking with cargo. Ship’s officers barked orders. Seamen scurried on the decks high above the dock. Reuben and Erik sat for a moment absorbing the scene.

  “You in the way there! Move that wagon! Be quick about it!” The loud, gruff voice startled them. The two brothers turned to one another, Erik biting his lip.