‘I will show you in, gentlemen,’ said the clerk waving his hand towards the office where the door was ajar.
‘Thank you,’ said the agent. He lived in Boston and would not jeopardise the possibility of future business with the Judson’s.
Henry grunted and removed his hat.
The clerk opened the inner office door and stood back to allow the two visitors to enter.
‘Welcome, gentlemen, I am sorry I kept you waiting.’
Henry stopped suddenly when he realised the voice came from the woman who sat behind a large desk. The agent, close on Henry’s heels, bumped him in the back and knocked him forward a little.
‘Mind my back, damn your eyes,’ barked Henry as he staggered forward. Then he remembered Judson was a woman.
‘My apologies, Ma’am, I was under the impression I was to meet Mr Judson.’
‘My father is not too well at the moment and asked if I would attend to your needs.’ She smiled a smile of pure innocence, flashing her eyes at the visitors, but she appeared to keep a special smile for Henry, who cursed.
Henry regained his composure and muttered a greeting. His hands played with his hat.
‘Please Mr Nicholson, or should I say, Captain? Please sit down and tell me how I may be a of service.’
Henry dropped into a large armchair in front of the desk. The agent sat opposite and watched.
‘Well I …’
‘How very rude of me, Captain, would you like a drink?’
‘No, thank you, I have come to …’
‘Perhaps your agent, Mr Leather, would like a drink?’
‘I am sure he doesn’t want a drink, either,’ said Henry.
‘No, Sir, thank you,’ said Leather.
‘Where was I?’ sighed Henry, turning his attention back to Ruth.
Her eyes shone, which gave the impression that he was the only person for which she had time. For the life of him he could not remember why he had come. A beautiful woman and her warm smile would distract any man.
‘I have come to ask you about the price of ballast. It appears we are short of a cargo and we will be required to buy ballast. Mr Leather here tells me you are the best company to speak to in regard to the purchase.’
‘We do deal in ballast. We mine it ourselves so we are very competitive.’
Ruth allowed the silence to lengthen. Another clock ticked, Henry became impatient again.
This is no way to engage in a business discussion. He was used to dealing with men and shouting. Perhaps he should wait until her father is available.
‘Are you going to tell me the price?’
‘Captain, I am surprised you have come to my father’s company for ballast. Mr Leather has his own arrangements with another company. He has never bought ballast from my father’s company, yet he brings his Principal to a meeting, which is normally dealt with, shall we say, at a lower level?’
Henry waved his hand as he realised he would have to be very careful around Miss Ruth. He was not comfortable discussing business with women and this one needed watching.
‘Miss Judson, you are evidently a very clever woman and I see I will have to be honest with you. I know Mr Leather has a regular supplier of ballast and he can supply all my needs. I have seen you in the street and have tried to create an occasion where I might meet you, shall we say in the correct manner. I couldn’t think of a situation that would appeal to you, so when Mr Leather told me that you help your father in business, I decided the best way for me to speak to you was through a business connection. So here I am.’
Henry flashed his teeth and smiled a disarming smile in an effort to put Ruth at ease.
‘I am flattered, Mr Nicholson, but why did you wish to speak to me?’
‘This is my first visit to your fine city and I wondered if you would honour me by showing me around Boston. Mr Leather would have been delighted, I am sure, but with the greatest of respect to Mr Leather I would prefer a beautiful lady to show me.’
Ruth smiled. ‘Mr Nicholson, do you flatter the ladies in Liverpool in the same way?’
‘In Liverpool, Ma’am, I know my way around so do not require the services of anyone.’
‘I am sure,’ said Ruth in a low voice.
The two of them watched each other.
‘Well, will you show me Boston?’
‘I am afraid, Mr Nicholson, I will not have the time to help you. My father is not too well at the moment and I am required here in the office.’
‘Perhaps one evening you could show me some of the fine eating houses of which I have heard?’
‘I am sorry, Mr Nicholson, but each evening I dine with Father since his wife, my mother, died some years ago. We only have each other. As I said, he is not too well, so I cannot see myself dining out with anyone at the moment. Perhaps next time when you are in Boston, I am sure Father would be delighted to meet and dine with you.’
‘Your father? … Oh yes, I will look forward to meeting him in the future.’
‘Thank you, Captain, for coming to see us, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I assume you do not wish to purchase ballast?’
‘No, thank you, Miss Judson, perhaps next time.’ Henry stood and bowed. The meeting was over.
Outside, the two men walked back towards the wharf and the Liverpool Lass. Henry growled at the agent. ‘I want to know all about their business interests.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said the agent.
Henry Nicholson strode up the small gangway and dropped lightly onto the deck of the Liverpool Lass. Agent Leather, looking out of place, followed.
‘Afternoon, Captain,’ said the first mate. ‘Cargo has all been discharged and we are now waiting for fresh cargo before making ready to sail.’
‘I’ll tell you when we sail, damn your eyes!’
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ said the first mate, saluting.
‘I want you to spend a few dollars on finding out all that can be gleaned about the Judson business and his family. I also want to know what King is up to loading a cargo of ice. We will load a little more than the normal ballast in the next day or so. I think I may have found a buyer for the stuff.’
‘A buyer for shingle and stones?’ responded the mate, a smirk briefly crossing his face.
‘What’s wrong in that?’ snapped Henry.
‘Sorry, Captain, I have never heard of anyone buying ballast to resell it.’
‘Well you have now. I have arranged for a horse to be at my disposal so I expect it later on this afternoon. I will sleep ashore tonight, but I expect the ballast and the cargo to be loaded before I return late tomorrow afternoon. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Captain. When the horse arrives I’ll let you know.’
Henry nodded and went below to change into clothes more suitable for riding.
The ride out to Mamre Lake was more pleasant than Nicholson had expected. The cold air and the soothing bounce of the horse gave him time to review everything. Henry believed that King was up to something. He would find out what it was and scupper his plans. There must be more to the information that the Albatross would be carrying ice. Although Henry didn’t like King, he wasn’t going to underestimate him.
The horse stepped daintily to the top of a small rise. Henry was then overlooking the full expanse of the countryside. He watched labourers below as they worked on the frozen water of the lake. Several wagons were being loaded with blocks of ice. Others were dragging fresh blocks to the shoreline.
Henry withdrew a small spyglass from his saddle pouch. He had to admit that the workers were efficient in cutting blocks of a similar size. If King’s idea worked, and the blocks stayed frozen, then the ice would be cheaper than gravel.
The wind became stronger and chilled his neck. Henry closed the glass and kicked the horse in to motion.
Nicholson stepped down from the gunwale to the deck of the Liverpool Lass. The first mate was waiting for him.
‘Captain, a word please,’ said the first mate, saluting.
; ‘Come below, it is too damn cold to speak on deck.’
The first mate followed Henry to his cabin, waiting while Henry pulled off his outer clothes and poured a large glass of rum.
‘Help yourself,’ said Henry indicating the rum and glasses.
‘Thank you, Sir, it’s cold tonight.’
‘Well, Mister, what do you have for me?’
‘What I can make out from the rumours, Sir, is that William King and the Judson family have gone into partnership over this ice business.’
‘Damnable! King is supposed to be Christian and he gets into bed with a Jew?’
‘Aye, Sir, so I hear’
‘What else?’
‘The Albatross sails tomorrow for Jamaica.’
‘I guessed as much. Has she finished loading ice?’
‘They will finish tonight, Sir, and be ready to sail on the morning tide.’
‘When will we be ready to sail?’
‘Some time tomorrow afternoon, Sir.’
‘Good, I don’t want to sail before her, nor do I want to be too far behind her. A good day’s work, Mr Mate, this should cover your expenses.’ Henry tossed a small bag of coins to his first mate. ‘If there is nothing else I’ll say goodnight to you.’
Next morning Henry watched from the poop deck of the Liverpool Lass as the shore gang released the Albatross’s stern lines. He could see King waving to someone on the wharf. Henry focused a spyglass on the small group of people and saw Ruth Judson. He also noticed a number of black men around her buggy, clerks finalising the paperwork for the vessel’s departure. An idea suddenly came to mind of how to make a little more profit on the voyage to Jamaica.
‘Mr Mate!’
‘Aye, Sir?’
‘Three good men around dark, I will have a little work for them.’
‘We will have sailed by the time it is dark, Captain.’
‘No, we will not. Have the Lass moved to an anchorage in the harbour and have a boat ready to take me ashore just before dark.’
‘Aye, aye, Sir. Bosun,’ called the first mate and waited while the word was passed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jamaica Bound
Kingston
March 1806
William had packed a hundred and fifty tons of ice in Richard Savage’s unwanted sawdust. Thanks to Abraham, he had been able to hire the Mamre estate workers, who usually spent the winter waiting for the spring thaw. There were carts, drivers and workers to cut the ice and load the carts. The cost of the men and the carts had been cheaper than buying stone ballast.
Abraham had set out the lake in a squared pattern to allow the ice-cutters to work in a methodical fashion. They did not cut too deep in case that made the lake unstable. The ice was thick enough for horses to be used to tow the large blocks to the shoreline. Other groups cut the ice to smaller sizes to be loaded onto wagons. Insulation was not required for the journey from the frozen lake to the wharf, as the temperature was constantly below freezing.
In the meantime, William built an inner shell that mimicked the hull of the Albatross. The space between the inner shell and the ship’s side was filled with Savage’s sawdust to insulate the ice. Additional bags of sawdust had been laid on top of the ice to slow the evaporation.
If any ice survived the voyage he would try and sell it. He and Abraham could split the profit or build a large icehouse near Boston. Stockpiling near the wharf would save time in the future, if the voyage were a success.
The Albatross drifted slowly alongside the main wharf at Harbour Street, Kingston. It had been three weeks since they had left Boston and William felt the tension flow from his body. He’d risked all on his limited knowledge of the Mediterranean ice trade.
‘All fast, Captain,’ his first mate said. ‘Ready to work cargo.’
‘Thank you,’ William answered. ‘I will check the ice.’
William crawled across the top of the sodden bags of sawdust in an effort to estimate how much ice remained. The hold was cold. Even though some had melted during the voyage, it was not as much as he had expected. He estimated that he had about eighty tons left. The insulation would require a little work if he wished to slow down the rate of melting for the next trip. William smiled as he realised he was already thinking of the next voyage.
A wild concept came to him.
What if he only sold part of the ice and used the remainder to keep fruit fresh during the return voyage to Boston? Fresh fruit in a Boston winter would sell very well.
Climbing out of the hold he called to his first mate.
‘Mr Austin, I am going ashore and I will require a carriage. I want to see if I can sell the remainder of the ice. In this heat I don’t expect it to last too long.’
‘Bosun, a carriage for the captain, lively now.’
William descended to his cabin to collect his hat. The heat below deck emphasised how little time he had left to sell the ice.
William’s yellow carriage swayed and bounced over the rough road as it made its way along King Street, in the largest British town in the Caribbean. The bright colours of the carriages were a sharp contrast to the dull black of the hackney cabs of Liverpool.
Kingston felt alive. The hot sandy street was crowded with bullock wagons, two-wheeled open-topped carriages and single horsemen. The street appeared to be more a dry riverbed than a normal street. Horse droppings ground into the dirty sandy soil indicated the route taken by most of the traffic. The hot sun meant the day’s work would have to be completed before it drained the energy from a labourer’s very soul.
The smell of horses and the buzz of flies reminded him of Liverpool in summer. William waved his hand to frighten the flies from his face.
The wagons ahead swayed while the drivers flicked long-handled whips over the bullocks’ ears. Every wagon was stacked high with goods. Outside some of the shops, gangs of black labourers unloaded wagons. Horsemen cursed the small naked black children running under the bellies of their horses. William laughed when a rider leaned over too far in order to strike one of the children with his riding crop, and was nearly unseated.
Smart army officers walked under the canopies of the brightly painted shops and offices. A well-dressed lady accompanied each officer, a hand resting gently on the officer’s arm, the free hand twirling a parasol while studying the fashions of the other ladies.
Each two-storey building contained a shop at street level and offices or accommodation on the upper floor. The upper level was constructed in such manner as to hang over the walkway, providing shade to the passing strollers.
He reached The Parade and noticed two European women cross the street and disappear under the canopy into a shop. His carriage drew level with the shop and he was able to read its name, Paris’ Coffee and Sherbet House. The memory of sherbet made his mouth water as he pictured a sparkling cold drink. He decided to stop.
Paris Aristotle poured the sherbet drink from glass to glass to create as many bubbles as possible. When he was satisfied, he placed the glass on a plate and made his way to the small table by the window.
‘Your sherbet, Madam.’
‘Thank you, Paris,’ replied the well-dressed lady.
The sherbet should have been cold, but in Jamaica there was little chance of a cold drink of sherbet, or anything else.
Paris, chasséd back to the counter in the exaggerated fashion of a decadent Frenchman. His chassé was his trademark and part of the reason for his success with the ladies. He gently pushed a black girl behind the counter.
‘Work, you harlot. What do I pay you for?’
‘Yes, Mass’er,’ said the young black girl, a smile on her face. She knew Paris would not harm her. She was his bed partner. The language he used to her in the café was for the customers, not for her. She knew what he liked in bed and she did not mind his abuse in public. It was all a game. She picked up a cloth and started to wipe the counter, making sure he could see her behind. It wiggled inside the flowery skirt each time she stretched to clean
the flat display area. She turned to see what effect she was having. It was just what she wanted. She was in control, just as her mother had taught her. First you must control his organ, and after that, said her mother, the rest is easy. Her mother was a wise woman.
Paris stood behind the small counter and surveyed the room. How fortunate he was to have come to Jamaica. Seven years had passed since he opened his first coffee shop.
He had been born in London but, as a child, spent many years in Paris. His ability to speak French without an accent convinced others that he was French by birth. Fortunately his papers proved his birthplace was London. He liked to play the part of a French aristocrat who had escaped the guillotine. It gave him that little bit of mystery that attracted the ladies. Only the Secretary for the Governor, Mathew Atkinson, knew his real identity. Paris did not wish to be thought of as a Frenchman by the authorities.
His air of mystery worked well. Most of his customers were English ladies who came to his coffee shop to discuss the latest fashion with their friends. He had added the name ‘Aristotle’ later. His exotic persona allowed him to eat well and make a profit, from his tea and coffee house on the corner of South Parade and King Street.
He stocked fashion publications, which he placed singularly on each table to encourage the ladies to move to the next table to read the next edition. When they moved, they were obliged to buy a fresh cup of coffee.
Paris referred to his coffee shop as the fashion centre of the Caribbean. He would often drop names of acquaintances, implying that they were famous French designers. He tried to make sure he only mentioned the names of people who he knew were dead. Nobody in Jamaica could accuse him of lying; all his ‘friends’ in the French fashion world had met Madam Guillotine. How sad, he would say, the world lost such a great designer.
When the occasion required, he would add a large measure of rum to the coffee of a particular customer who felt sad. As his customers became aware of this additive, they would often complain about feeling sad. It was not ladylike to be known as a drinker of strong spirit. To have a ‘sad coffee’, as the rum-laced beverage became known, was one way of helping the ladies get through the day. There was little to distract them in their daily lives. Their husbands were either in business or ran a plantation, and the abundance of servants never allowed any of the wives to get their hands dirty.
Triangle Trade Page 21