by J. F. Collen
Comforted, Cornelia drowsed in the sun while the bands played on.
She awoke to the confusion of her group mobilizing.
“It is preposterous to even contemplate carrying them all to City Hall!” her mother exclaimed.
“Yer parents should allow us to take t’ larger perambulator,” said her father. Mr. Entwhistle was getting a little hot under the collar. He ran his hand over his hair in consternation. The gestured ended with a tug on his ear.
“James, we must leave it here with the picnic supplies and blankets, so they can transport all the necessities and our nieces and nephews, first to the ceremony, and then the Murray Hill Reservoir. We have only ourselves to transport in time for the dignitary seating.”
“Let’s get shinning around!” Mr. Entwhistle thrust his chin forward and through clenched teeth stated, “I’ll not abide being late nor bereft o’ me family when I am honored.”
Mrs. Entwhistle put a hand on her husband’s arm. “If we start now and walk to a side street, perhaps we will be able to hire a carriage.”
“Wishful thinking woman!” her husband exclaimed. “The whole city is celebrating today, everyone wants to hire a carriage. Jerome, look lively lad and shoulder yer burden.”
“I fear I am not fit for this endeavor. I’ll swear this brother of mine is heavier now than this morning.” Jerome grumbled and jostled the slumbering Jonas, trying to get a firm grip on the sleeping, limp four-year-old, who kept slipping from his hold.
“Mr. Entwhistle, sir, perhaps I could be of assistance?” A young face distinguished itself from the crowd.
“Halloo Clayton,” whistled Jerome, cheered by the sight of his older brother Patrick’s friend.
“Young Clayton! Your assistance proved invaluable on t’ building of the aqueduct, I’ll wager it will be of some benefit here as well,” Mr. Entwhistle said. He clapped the boy on the shoulder with a friendly hand.
The thirteen-year-old boy blushed, looking uncertain, but then continued, “My relations have a house about four blocks hence. We have an old baby buggy, in want of some attention to be sure, but it might just come in handy transporting your fine family to City Hall.”
“Son, it would be a Godsend.” Entwhistle picked up the boy’s hand and pumped it rapidly in appreciation. “Gertrude!” He turned to his wife. “Gather t’ children and begin to make yer way, as best ye can without strife, toward Canal Street. I’ll hustle with young Clayton here to retrieve t’ carriage, and find ye in progress.” He turned and they were gone before Mrs. Entwhistle or Jerome could summon a reply.
With the help of the aunts and uncles, the Entwhistle crew assembled and mobilized. Much complaining and crying accompanied the children’s departure from the parade route.
Grandmama waved and the Pffernuss cousins watched Mrs. Entwhistle and the children straggle away.
“Mind your Mutter, Cornelia Rose,” Grandmama chided. Nellie remained standing on the curb, watching the circus march past, mesmerized by the bearded lady. With a guilty start, Nellie turned and ran after her family, by now, half way down the side street behind them.
Mrs. Entwhistle, already carrying Matthias the baby, picked up Anastasia as well. A strong, determined woman, she rose to the occasion, encouraging her children along. Jerome grumbled about his brother being a lead weight. Sullen faced, Agnes straggled along at her mother’s side, dragging her jacket. Cornelia trailed a few feet behind, tired legs lagging and sore feet making her wince and complain.
Mrs. Entwhistle enticed them forward with the promise of future exciting events. “We will next see New York City’s Mayor, Robert H. Morris commend your father, along with Mr. John Jervis and Mr. George Cartwright, the chief Croton Dam engineers. Other dignitaries, including our charismatic Governor William H. Seward, will also be on the dais, to congratulate your father on his fine work, and perhaps shake his hand. I will wager that old humbug, Doctor Benjamin Brandreth will not miss an opportunity for posturing on a bigger stage—a speech from him will be forthcoming, mind you!” Mrs. Entwhistle stopped talking to wag her finger, adjusting her children’s positions in agitation. Nellie was not sure which person was the object of her ire. “There will be grand speeches, praising the fine work done by the many men devising this engineering feat and extolling the modern technology that engendered the system. Men will speak of the future and make predictions of the great technological wonders to come!
“At the conclusion of the official dedication and honoring ceremony, we will walk to the Murray Hill Reservoir to watch your brother Patrick parade with his Academy. General Aaron Ward himself, Sing Sing’s hero of the War of 1812 and our State Representative, will lead Mount Pleasant Academy in his capacity as trustee and alumnus. On this auspicious occasion, our entire family will enjoy a lovely picnic dinner as we watch water flow through the new pipes, filling the reservoir.”
Jonas roused himself from Jerome’s shoulder and said, “But I want to see the shooting water! Papa promised me!”
“A special commemorative fountain has been erected just for this event,” confirmed Mrs. Entwhistle. “Keep my pace, Agnes and Cornelia. You mustn’t lollygag on such a grand day.”
But as she spoke these encouraging words, sniffles got louder, and even the babies who were carried began to complain. Mrs. Entwhistle had no tolerance for whining, and in spite of her strength under adverse conditions, she lost her patience.
“Gott im Himmel!” exclaimed Mrs. Entwhistle. “That is too darn bad about you, now isn’t it?” she whirled on Nellie who was in mid-complaint. Nellie saw the grim line of her mother’s lips, her clenched jaw, and her raised eyebrows. Nellie burst into tears. Her mother harrumphed, hiked the two offspring higher on her hips and spun on her heel, marching forward. Nellie did not mean to be uncooperative, but her days’ worth of walking, crammed into one early morning, had worn a huge hole in her stocking right at the heel, and now a blister was forming. She closed her mouth and limped along. Every step was painful, gingerly undertaken on already tired legs. She tried stepping only on her toe so her heel would not rub, but it only moderated the pain slightly.
She tried to hop, but it was almost impossible to keep going. She sat down on the curb and simply watched as her family paraded away from her. No one cares about me! She sniffed back tears. She was going to miss the ceremony that would honor her father!
Suddenly Jonas shouted, “Papa!”
Nellie raised her head and then jumped up, attempting to see what Jonas, a distance away and viewing from his height in Jerome’s arms, saw through the throngs of people. She could not. She tore off after her family in a most un-lady-like fashion, and if not for the fact that her mother was so thankful for relief from the task of carrying the children, Nellie would have received a reprimand.
Jerome dumped his brother Jonas into the cart, and pumped Clayton’s hand in appreciation.
Mrs. Entwhistle, divested of the two children, was already finding fault with the conveyance.
“Ach du Liebe! This could hardly be called a carriage,” she muttered. Her husband looked chagrined. “We will arrive at the culmination of your career, the pinnacle of the Great Water Celebration with our children riding in a dilapidated old donkey cart.”
“Sure ‘n where is thy gratitude, Mrs. Entwhistle?” asked her husband, running his hand through his hair and scratching behind his ear. “This fine strappin’ lad has lent this conveyance to us, for no compensation, out o’ the goodness of his heart, when our need was dire.”
True lady that she was, the reminder elicited a most gracious gratitude, so eloquently expressed to the boy, he blushed, pulled his hat from his head, and bobbed up and down, averting his eyes. Mr. Entwhistle reached into his pocket for a coin, but young Clayton declined it.
“Aye, a right proper gentleman, you are, me lad,” said Mr. Entwhistle, nodding his head. He squeezed Agnes into the small cart already filled with his younger children, and picked up the handle. “Forward... March!” he said and sang, “Da-da... Tah da
da dut da da....” The wagon lurched forward behind him.
Nellie, last to arrive, stood looking at the retreating, overfull, cart teaming with arms and legs. “No room for me!” she exclaimed.
“I reckon ye’ll have to stay behind then Miss.” Nellie looked up into Clayton’s laughing face.
She was incensed. “My Papa invented the whole water system! If you think I will stay behind, you are sadly misinformed.” She stamped her foot, and then winced. The blister on her foot exploded in pain. She caught her lip with her teeth, and scraped at her face where a stray piece of hair was irritating it.
Clayton bowed before her and scooped her into his arms. In two steps, he was beside the carriage, elbowing Agnes into a corner to make a space. He dumped Nellie in the midst of her squirming brothers and sisters. He faded from view as the baby buggy rolled on.
“Do not put your foot near my dress!” complained Agnes.
Nellie twisted her body as far as she could, peering around Agnes to see what happened to Clayton. Matthias squealed and Jonas grabbed Nellie’s hair in an attempt to stop himself from slipping. With tears in her eyes from the sting of the pulled hair, Nellie saw nothing but the pants and skirts of strangers.
Chapter 2 – Summer Breeze
Sing Sing, June 1847
Nellie wrinkled her nose in disgust. Take care of the pigs! All summer! Again?
She kicked the ground and looked up. Her father was staring at her, frowning at her lack of response. She swallowed hard, trying to rid herself of the mounting anger she felt at her return to this occupation. She bit back angry words before they escaped from her mouth.
Nellie looked at her older sister. Arm in a sling, face covered in ugly scratches and gashes, some still oozing, Agnes was a pitiful sight.
I would wager she did it deliberately, Nellie fumed, simply to avoid pig duty.
She looked back at her father, on whose brow a storm was gathering. He was about to thunder.
She repressed the wave of nausea that threatened to overcome her stomach at the mere thought of the smell of the pigs at high noon in mid-summer. Even worse than the pig stench was the smell emanating from the nearby outhouse... “No, the ‘privy,’ Nellie,” she could hear her mother correct her in her head.... Nellie adjusted her apron and amended her thoughts. Drat that pigpen located so near the privy as to make a perfect combination of stenches. Blood rushed to her face, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Another glance at her father caused her to close her mouth again and drop her head.
She tucked the stray hair hanging in her face back into her braid. The motion calmed her and changed her heart.
She looked up, rearranged her face into a small smile, curtsied and said, “Of course, Papa, as you wish. I would be happy to resume the care and feeding of the pigs until Agnes’ wounds heal.”
The flood of tears that threatened to follow this bald face lie was held in check by the instant change in her father’s demeanor.
“That’s me colleen!” he shouted, and swept her into his giant bear hug.
Agnes smirked. Anastasia, Jonas, and Jerome looked relieved that the chain of command had not dumped pig duty in their laps.
As the group dispersed, Jonas said, “C’mon Nell, pig duty ain’t so bad. Me and ‘Stasia will help ya, sometimes.”
Cheered by that bit of friendliness, she ran back to her room for her old apron. She flew down the back stairs to the kitchen, picked up the scraps Cook had collected from yesterday’s meals, and ran the bucket to the pigpen.
Her mother’s admonition, “Cornelia, I hope you are not wearing your Sunday frock to feed the pigs,” floated over the beautiful Sunday afternoon sky and hung aloft with the puffy clouds, not reaching Nellie’s consciousness.
The day was picture perfect, the trees tossing their green heads in the wind. The task usually only took her about twenty minutes. She would breeze right through and not let it bother her.
The stench smacked her in the nose.
She kicked the dirt in anger at her lack of ability to at least respectfully petition that this task should no longer be hers. Why should it be her burden, just because Agnes, the first replacement she had had in one and one-half years, had fallen off Patrick and Jerome’s wagon, breaking her arm and suffering multiple contusions? Agnes never should have been racing it. Leave that wagon riding to the big boys, she thought.
Agnes should have played jump rope with me! If she had, we would not have had to use a tree as a rope turner... Augusta and Clara would have stayed longer and we could have jumped ‘All Together Now’. No, instead that horrid contrarian chose to race with her brothers. She had to go give herself those ugly discolorations and bruises, and I am paying for her mistakes.
Nellie snorted out of her nose. “Humph, I bet she did it on purpose, just to dodge this chore.” With that proclamation, her conscious felt a twinge of remorse. Nellie knew that Agnes adored her older brothers and tried to emulate their every move. Patrick, however much he cared for all of his siblings, would not tolerate any hindrance to his important business. Agnes was probably trying yet again to prove to Patrick she could keep up with him, when she took the nasty spill off the wagon.
Nellie’s pity was short lived. How un-ladylike! she thought.
Cornelia Rose heard the three short blasts of a steamship’s whistle, signaling the afternoon steamer’s impending departure from the Sing Sing dock. Can I finish this pig task before the ship leaves promptly at three o’clock?
Mercy! Patrick is probably sailing his schooner today. Recently graduated from Mount Pleasant Academy, her oldest brother spent the majority of his time at the harbor, either learning their father’s shipping business or sailing his own vessel. I must not dally! I must see his schooner, flags proudly displaying their colors in the bright sun, cruising out of the harbor.
Like a magnet, the river pulled Nellie toward its bustle and activity. In that one glorious week that Agnes had fed the pigs, Nell watched ships come and go from the harbor every stray free moment during the week and all Sunday afternoon. She helped Patrick with boat maintenance, even volunteering for chores—one evening joining the sailors swabbing the deck, as his schooner lay moored in its slot.
In the middle of the pigsty Nellie suddenly turned an intense shade of scarlet at the thought of her embarrassment last week. Her hand flew to her mouth, spilling slop on her Sunday shoes. She remembered scampering on board her brother’s ship last Sunday in a jovial mood only to have Patrick tease her mercilessly, in front of the crew.
“I did not grant you permission to come aboard,” Patrick boomed from the forecastle.
This stopped Nellie in her tracks, tears brimming in her eyes. Luckily her brother Jonas stood on deck, practicing his nautical knots. He directed in a stage whisper, “He wants you to salute, remember?”
Nellie ran back down the gangplank and planted herself on the pier, hand to her forehead in a salute. “Permission to come aboard, sir!” she shouted.
“Permission granted, sailor.” Patrick’s laugh rang out, distinguishing itself from the caw of the seagulls. Nellie was sure sailors two piers away turned to look at the cause of merriment.
Nellie cringed again in remembrance. The butt of the seamen’s jokes again. Now they will never think of me as a young lady! She squirmed in renewed mortification. This will never do, she thought and forced herself to think of other things.
There were many joys that absorbed Nellie at the harbor; its lure wasn’t just the ships. Summer brought many fancy folks traveling from New York City. They streamed off the steamships, sloops, and yachts in droves. Nellie observed them all and ogled the gentry’s fancy couture. Fine ladies, beautifully coiffed and plumed, bustled about and fussed over their luggage, until they climbed into grand carriages and rolled up the hill. Nellie looked down at her new Sunday dress, now sporting a bit of mud at the hem. Certainly not nearly as grand as a New York City Lady, but at least it is finer than my apparel last Sunday, she thought.
; The less grand folk walked, lugging, carting, or even carrying unwieldy bundles and bags. The passengers formed a continuous parade, climbing the hill that was Main Street to one of the many fine inns.
The elite went to the Union Hotel or the American Hotel, both at the top of the hill, with the best breezes and the best views. Bucolic Sing Sing was a mecca for aficionados of fine academies, beautiful vistas, cool forests, and fresh air.
Nellie thrilled at the air of chaos that wafted off the river. But after her week of active participation in wharf life, she saw order and purpose in the jumble and confusion on the docks. Sloops slipped into moorings, discharged their cargo, and slipped away again. Fishing boats docked amid a cacophony of cawing seagulls. Fishermen quickly unloaded their catch with only an occasional reward for those gulls, and then swabbed the decks clean in preparation for the next day’s expedition. Ship after ship berthed, had the contents of their hulls emptied, and then repacked with pickles, oysters, cotton gins, cider, apples, files, iron pipes, pills, porous plasters, shoes, stoves, and people, and cast off again.
Farmers are as interesting to watch as sailors, Nellie decided. Hours slipped by as she observed them hurrying their produce down the hills from their farms and haggling with the ship owners for the best price. Last Monday, Nellie watched the grand entrance of one of her father’s ship building competitors, Sing Sing resident Thomas Collyer’s steamship Katrina van Tassel. With an elegant ‘come about’ leeward in the incoming tide, it moored at the wharf. Smokestacks standing tall, the ship’s contents swiftly spilled out of its hold. Waiting produce stood in line to fill the newly created void. Nell followed bunches of long orange carrots, green tops tied together, passing from farmers’ carts to market merchants’ scales, to shippers’ crates. Wisps of green tops escaping from in between the slates, she watched the stacked crates balance on the deck of the steamship as the Katrina van Tassel sailed back down the river to New York City. She imagined a family in Brooklyn, bowing their heads, saying ‘grace’ over the hot carrots on their supper plates.