Johannes blinked.
“There’s a halter in the storage compartment of the surrey. Harnesses are in the shed by the alley. If you walk down the road you can lead Gertrude back, get the traces on her and be on your way.” Pushing his chair back, he rose slowly using the table for support. “Remember, ask for Wallace,” he reminded Reuben, “I’ve known him for many, many years and we’ve shared much. He will pay special attention to you.”
Several hours later Johannes punched Reuben playfully in the shoulder, chuckling, “I believe, farm boy, you have us lost.”
“I have us lost? You were doing the navigating, and you have Uncle’s directions. You’re supposed to be the worldly fellow!”
“Let’s hope your maps are better than your uncle’s directions or you and I may be wandering for forty years like your ancestors did.”
Reuben laughed loudly, and Gertrude jerked her old gray muzzle up in alarm. Wiping his eyes, his shoulders still shaking with mirth, Reuben gasped, “We could ask somebody.”
“Only if she’s pretty. I hate asking for directions. Where the hell are we, anyway?” Johannes swung around looking for the nearest street sign “Ah, Beaver Street.”
“Very helpful, Viking. That clears everything up.”
Johannes exaggerated a sigh. “You said Iwas the navigator. I have now offered you an exact location. I have navigated! Since we are behind schedule, we should stop for lunch. What about that restaurant over there, Delmonicos?”
His laughter finally subsiding, Reuben shook his head. “No, let’s get done what we came to do. The only thing worse than getting lost today, would be losing our way in the dark. Besides, I would like to spend an hour greasing these axles for Uncle. That right wheel is squeaking.”
Johannes looked longingly at the restaurant, then pointed, “There’s a policeman. Let’s hope he knows his way around this maze of streets.” He began laughing again. “Just one thing.”
“What?”
“You ask him.”
Finally arriving at the mercantile, a four-story building of warm, red-brown, pockmarked brick, Reuben looked around bewildered, “Where do we park the carriage? Do we have to go in one at a time?”
Gales of laughter burst from deep in Johannes chest. “You really are a farm boy, aren’t you? See that man over there with the uniform? He’s a coachman. We leave the surrey with him; he minds the carriage and we go into the store and bolster their ledgers.”
“Oh!”
As Reuben was handing the reins to the coachman, an elderly, bespectacled, balding man, with a ragged scar across one cheek, came bustling from the front doors of the mercantile, his eyes moving rapidly from Johannes to Reuben and then to the carriage. A look of disappointment crept into his face.
“I’m sorry; I thought this was Major Frank’s carriage.” He began to turn away but Reuben reached out, grabbing his arm lightly. “I am his nephew, Reuben Frank, and this is my friend Johannes Svenson. We’re headed west and Uncle insisted we come down here to partially outfit ourselves. Uncle suggested we asked for a ‘Wallace.’ Do you know him?”
The man spun, a wide smile spreading across his face. “I am Wallace.” Looking Reuben up-and-down he nodded, “Yes, yes, I see the resemblance. It is an honor, Herr Frank, to meet my major’s nephew. Over the years, he has told me much about you, your father, the farm, and your other brothers.” He shook his head sadly. “I believe his leg is increasingly painful. I’ve not seen him for some months.”
“How do you know him?”
Wallace drew himself erect. “It was my honor to serve as his sergeant major. I carried him off the battlefield when he was wounded.” He lifted two fingers to the scar across his cheek, tracing it with his fingertips. “I have a memento from that day, too.” He fell silent for a moment, obviously remembering the cries of men and horses, and the smoky stench of battle and blood in that moment many years past. “Damn British,” he muttered.
His face brightening, he rubbed his hands together. “I am honored to be able to assist you. What is it that you need?” Before either of them could answer, he turned abruptly, waving them to follow.
Johannes and Reuben exchanged glances and a smile as they followed Wallace into the mercantile.
Amazing. Reuben stopped, his eyes moving rapidly around the store. Every conceivable item of mercantile, hardware, armament, tack and frontier merchandise was organized into sections. Balconies of the second, third and fourth floors, each of them extending slightly less from the wall than the floor below, stair-stepped up to the high, tiled ceiling.
Reuben’s eyes lit upon a corner with a number of hats on display. Wallace explained, “These new hats are becoming popular in the West and with cattle growers in Pennsylvania and north of the city. They are Army discards—mostly wrong dyes. The Army will only accept dark blue. They are made of beaver felt. The wide brims keep the sun and rain from your face and neck and they can be shaped to your desire over steam.
Reuben held one of the big, brown hats in his hand, liking the stiff feel of its brim and crown, and the texture of the material. He curled the front of the brims toward the center, holding it up at arm’s-length and looking at it critically, then trying it on. Perfect fit. “I’ll take it. Perhaps you could steam just a bit of curl into the front third of the brim for me?”
Wallace nodded enthusiastically.
Johannes pointed to a light tan hat with a narrower brim and a triangular crown not as high as Reuben’s. “If it fits, I’ll take that one.”
Wallace’s head bobbed again. “They call those campaign hats. Many ex-military seemed to like them best.” He looked at Johannes intently.
The corners of Johannes’ lips curled in an almost imperceptible smile. “Do you carry sabers or swords?” The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. “Indeed we do, though not many. We have both 1840 and 1842 military sabers with scabbards. Excellent weapons in the right hands.” He looked at Johannes pointedly. “Our swords, unfortunately, are more decorative. I would not recommend them for any engagement.”
“If you point me in that direction I’ll go take a look. Perhaps you can help Reuben select a pistol. I know what I want. A Colt Army .44 caliber, blued, not plated and four boxes of ammunition. If you can get several of those pistols with varying grips out for me, I’ll be over to take a look. I would also be most interested in acquiring an 1852 .52 caliber slanting breech Sharps carbine. If you would also have several of those available for me to heft I would be grateful.”
Studying Johannes closely, a slight smile played on Wallace’s lips, and there was a knowing look in his eyes.
He nodded, “It would be my pleasure, Herr Svenson.” Turning to Reuben, he gestured, “Follow me, young man.” They moved toward the back of the store to four long rows of glass display cases, each with three levels of slanted shelves holding a bewildering array of pistols and armaments.
“What do you have in mind, Herr Frank?”
“Please, call me Reuben. Uncle Hermann recommended a Navy Squareback Colt .36 caliber. He said it was lighter, quicker and more accurate than the Colt Armys or Dragoons. “What’s that?”
Following the direction of Reuben’s pointing finger, Wallace answered, “Holsters, for pistols. They’re not yet widely used but demand is growing.” They walked over to the line of leather holsters displayed on pegs on the wall. Taking one down, he handed it to Reuben. “This would fit the Navy Colt well. Repeated application of mink oil will soften the leather and mold to the pistol. They are called Slim Jims or Californias, depending upon the maker.” He turned the holster over in his hand, peering at it. “Yes, yes, this is made by John Moore. His saddle shop is in Independence Missouri. He just started making these holsters recently. Notice the fine stamping and scrolling. Most people, you know, carry pistols in their waistband or belts. There are advantages and disadvantages to each, Reuben. The disadvantages are, of course, revolvers are percussion weapons and dirt and moisture can get into the top of a holster perhaps affecting the percuss
ion cartridges and the action. Also, you’ll notice they hang from your belt. They wobble, and that can slow the time to withdraw the pistol.
On the other hand…” he looked around from side-to-side and lowered his voice, “…I’ve been told by men who bought these and have become quite proficient in quickly drawing the revolver from the holster that the trick is to sew a leather loop at the bottom of the holster and tie the holster to your thigh with rawhide. Some have even sewn flaps on the body side of the leather, which will protect the weapon when not in use but can be folded back into your belt when the need arises.”
Reuben nodded slowly, his thumb tracing the intricate embossing. He liked the feel of the Slim Jim. “I’ll take this one. Also, could you bring me a strip of thick leather, a leather awl, mink oil and several strands of rawhide?”
Measuring Reuben’s thigh with his eye, Wallace nodded, “About thirty inches long, I think, would be perfect.” Wallace hustled off to gather the sundry items Reuben had requested.
Walking slowly down the display cases, Reuben’s eyes moved from pistol to pistol. Suddenly, he stopped. Nestled between shiny plated and blued revolvers, and cap and ball handguns of every size, barrel-length and caliber imaginable, was one weapon unlike any of the hundreds on display. Its protective metal coating was soft gray-blue, rather than the typical blue-black. Its handle was off-white, pearl colored, glowing in semi-translucent pearl to cream waves in the light from the high, suspended gas lamps, as if calling him.
Returning with a small burlap sack, Wallace smiled, “I have all your materials gathered, Reuben. Now let me recommend some pistols.…” The clerk started to turn.
“No. That one. That one right there.”
Wallace followed Reuben’s eyes. “It is indeed a Navy Squareback, .36 caliber, just as you were searching for.” Wallace paused. “It is very distinctive. This is only the third one that has come to the store in the last eighteen months. Quite expensive, too.”
He’s trying to talk me out of this pistol—why? “Nonetheless, could you take it out of the case for me?” Hesitating for just a moment, Wallace walked behind the glass case. Sliding open the rear doors, he reached in, extracted the Colt and placed it on one of the felt pads that were scattered every three or four feet down the countertops.
Picking up the pistol, Reuben spun the cylinder, checked the action and raised it, aiming at the wall. He slipped it in and out of the Slim Jim. Then, undoing his belt he threaded the Slim Jim so that it hung low and just behind his right hip. Holding the bottom of the holster he pulled the gun from it, shoved it back in and pulled it out again. Perfect heft, weight and feel. The grip fits my hand as if it was made for me.
“This is my pistol, Wallace.” The clerk took the weapon from him slowly. Looking into Reuben’s eyes, he carefully chose his words, “Herr Frank, sometimes it is more wise to not stand out.”
Reuben returned his stare briefly, then, grinning, motioned with his hand, “Thank you, Wallace. That is my pistol.”
CHAPTER 23
MARCH 3, 1855
LUNCH IN THE CITY
Rebecca luxuriated in the warm spring sun as she waited for Inga in front of the mansion. After several minutes, the statuesque blonde came bouncing exuberantly down the steps. “Hello, Reb…milady Marx. A beautiful day!”
As Inga had promised, the carriage and driver were waiting. They were assisted into the cab, and facing one another on opposite seats, the two women excitedly made their way into the city.
Inga gazed out the window, a smile playing on her lips. Rebecca, sensing her delight over the day’s excursion, deemed the time opportune to satisfy some of her curiosities. “Tell me more about Americans. How do they think? What happens in this country that might be different than the events and customs of Europe?”
Shoulders rocking with the gentle movement of the coach, Inga reflected on Rebecca’s question. “There is opportunity here that I don’t recall in Europe, even though I was a young girl when I left. People seem to have an air of common energy but it’s also very much every man for himself. There is not, except in the big cities, the etiquette one would find in European societies. You can be or do whatever you wish. There are social classes but there is no aristocracy. People are not shy about stating their beliefs, even to the point of argument. Americans love to argue.”
Thinking for a minute longer, she added, “The country is growing. New immigrants arrive at virtually every major port every day. Adventurous souls are heading west. There are several towns just east of the Mississippi that, I gathered from talk in the restaurant, have greatly expanded. The Mississippi is the major river running through the center of the country. There seem to be vast lands west of the river, which are far more expansive than the United States, as it exists between the Atlantic and the river. I’ve had several discussions with patrons as I served them…” Inga looked down quickly and Rebecca noticed she blushed heavily. “…and afterwards, if they stayed around the bar after dinner,” she added hastily.
“Some had been to St. Louis and had seen wagon trains headed west with people and all of their worldly possessions. Old, young, many with children. They have begun to build the railroad on the west side of the river but I hear the lands are empty. There are Indians and renegade outlaws. Stories in the paper from time to time relate terrible tales about people getting killed. The army can’t do much because there is a big disagreement over slavery between the states in the North and the South. From what I’ve read in the papers and overheard, the army is kept mostly in the East. Some of the southern states are even talking about breaking away from the North. There is much enmity between the South and the North. No one knows how it will be resolved.”
Sitting silently, Rebecca absorbed the information while watching the bustle on the street. Many in the throngs turned and pointed at the carriage with the seal of the mayor emblazoned on its sides. “Yes, indeed, there is certainly a different atmosphere here. Quite a change from the stuffiness of London.”
Browsing together through many shops, Rebecca observed Inga carefully; how she interacted with people, made decisions, her mental processes and her personality strengths and weaknesses. I have an idea.
Everywhere they went, heads turned and they returned admiring glances with reserved smiles as passing gentlemen tipped their hats. Many of the men would stop and follow them with their eyes after they passed. “It will be a sad day when there is no longer admiration,” Rebecca commented wryly to Inga.
Inga giggled. “Yes, the eyes and smiles are good for one’s ego. As long as it remains a look, without a touch.”
That comment stuck with Rebecca, stirring her curiosity but she decided to say nothing. Perhaps I will find out in due course.
They strolled down Fifth Avenue and Broadway, occasionally venturing several blocks on streets leading off those main arteries. The mayor’s coach, with flags unfurled, followed slowly behind them at one hundred paces. On Beaver Street, they peered in the windows, walking in the doors of several restaurants, looking at the menus. They finally settled on Delmonico’s at 56 Beaver Street.
The establishment was large and crowded. Rebecca estimated more than three hundred seats were filled. The light of candles and wall-mounted gaslights imparted a warm, yellow-gold sheen to the waxed finish of the carefully carved wooden trim and paneling.
Waiting for a table in the crowded restaurant, they were approached by two well-dressed men, one bowing slightly and sweeping his hat from his head with an elegant gesture. “It is infrequent that we come across a single woman as beautiful as either of you. To find two such lovely ladies is truly exceptional. Would you care to join us for a sherry while we wait for a table? Perhaps we can lunch together?”
Rebecca opened her mouth to brush them off but Inga spoke first. Cocking her head slightly to the side, she smiled radiantly, “We are, of course, quite flattered at your compliments and invitation. However, the lady and I have matters to discuss of a private nature. Perhaps we will take you up
on your kind offer the next time we are in the restaurant. It is likely that we’ll run into each other again.”
The two men looked at one another, their disappointment obvious. “Yes, well, since you apparently frequent this establishment often, we shall look forward to the next time. Good day.”
Leaning over to Inga, Rebecca whispered in her ear, “I thought you said you’d never been here?”
Inga smiled, intimating in a low voice, “I’ve never dined in this establishment before, and it is unlikely I will be here again.”
The two women were fanning themselves in the humid air as the carriage returned to Gracie Mansion late that afternoon, Inga wearing a mischievous expression.
“What?” asked Rebecca.
“I presume his excellency requested the pleasure of your company at dinner again tonight?”
“Of course. I am simply irresistible.” The two women laughed so loud that the driver leaned over to look back in the carriage window to see what the commotion was about.
“Oh dear,” chuckled Inga, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure you know, Rebecca, but it is likely that you could be three feet tall and three hundred pounds and the mayor would have dinner with you every night. That you are as beautiful as you are probably makes him swoon.”
Rebecca nodded silently. Well, perhaps I shall be able to convert the mayor’s ardor into something useful.
CHAPTER 24
MARCH 3, 1855
THE MAP
Despite cheating for several hours, Jacob was down half of his winnings from the Edinburgh. Any other time he would have glowered, focused on intimidating his opponents, and been filled with rage over losing, but he was preoccupied. In an earlier hand, one of the other players gathered in a circle on the floor of the rank-smelling, smoky foyer of the rundown tenement, had had an enviable set of cards. The man, a slightly overweight mop-haired fellow, was neither tough nor smart. Despite his meek manner, Micky—as the other players called him—had the intelligence and inebriated fortitude to play those cards, even though his pile of coins and cash had been virtually depleted. Before receiving the fifth card, and making his last bet, Micky hesitated. Fumbling nervously at his lapel, he pulled out a tightly folded grease-stained parchment, which he threw onto the pot.
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