by Ami McKay
“Perhaps we could take the steamboat?” a gentleman’s voice suggested. “There’s one that leaves at noon from Grassy Point.”
Beatrice turned to find that he wasn’t speaking to her, but to a woman dressed in a red silk dress whose bonnet was adorned with a matching spray of ostrich feathers.
“I guess it will have to do,” the lady sighed, the plumes on her bonnet trembling.
Figuring the steamboat might have to do for her as well, Beatrice rose to follow them.
As they made their way off the platform, a train whistle sounded in the distance. Stopping short, Beatrice waited for it to sound again. The next time the whistle blew it was somewhat closer, and when she looked down the tracks she could see a train approaching the station. Rushing to the ticket window, she rapped on the counter to get the station agent’s attention. “What’s that train?” she demanded.
“The New York Central.”
“When’s it set to leave?”
“Ten a.m., but it’s freight only.”
“Why’s it running when the passenger trains aren’t?”
“Milk, hay and potatoes don’t give a fig if they’re on time.”
Smoke belching from its engine, the train pulled into the station with a string of boxcars hitched behind it.
Beatrice picked up her bag and turned to leave, walking past groups of farmhands loading heavy cans of milk and barrels of apples. Just as she was about to exit the station, she recognized a young man who was hefting sacks of potatoes, one after another into the dark hold of a boxcar. It was Joseph Wheeler, the eldest son of the owner of one of the largest farms in Stony Point. She and Joseph had gone to school together and their families had held adjacent pews at the Stony Point Presbyterian Church. Beatrice watched as the young man loaded the last of his sacks into the car, then hopped up and stowed a sturdy handcart. When he didn’t reappear, she realized he meant to go along for the ride.
“Joe!” Beatrice called. “Joseph Wheeler!” she tried again, feeling like a fool. As she hurried towards the car, she prayed she hadn’t been mistaken, that it truly was Joseph she’d seen.
“Beatrice Dunn?” Joseph said when she arrived at the car’s door. “What on earth brings you here?”
“I’m going to the city, or at least I was.”
As he wiped his brow with his handkerchief, Joseph asked, “Miss your train?”
“Not exactly. The station agent says my train’s not running. I couldn’t even get a ticket.”
“That’s a shame,” he said with a shrug. “Guess I’ll get there before you.” He always did like to tease.
“You and your potatoes,” Beatrice said.
Joseph let out a laugh.
“Think I might join you and your russets?” Beatrice ventured to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joseph replied, actually scuffing the toe of his boot on the boxcar’s dusty floor.
Beatrice didn’t know what else to say.
“I wouldn’t mind the company, of course,” Joseph said at last, grinning at her. “You’re welcome to come along, but I have to warn you—you’re in for a pretty bumpy ride.”
The train’s whistle sounded a sharp toot, announcing its departure.
“I don’t care about a few bumps,” Beatrice said, holding out her bag. “Mind taking this for me?”
“Happy to,” Joseph replied, pulling the carpetbag into the hold. Then offering his hand to Beatrice, he exclaimed, “All aboard!”
She spent much of the journey perched atop a heap of burlap sacks that Joseph had arranged for her. “It’s this,” he’d said, “or get that pretty-looking getup of yours covered in god-knows-what.”
“Thanks,” she’d said, blushing. “How thoughtful of you.”
She was glad when Joseph turned his back to sit in the open doorway of the car, legs dangling over the edge.
When they were younger, he’d often leaned forward on the edge of the church pew behind Beatrice to flick the frayed end of a goose feather at the back of her neck. Time and again she’d ignored his pestering, guessing he was only doing it to get her in trouble. Once, when they were older, he’d asked her if he could walk her home from school, but she’d thought the invitation was another one of his pranks. She’d replied by snorting out an awkward laugh, which Joseph had promptly taken as a “no.” All the girls like Joseph Wheeler, she’d thought. What would he want with me? When he’d made the same request the following week, this time loud enough so every girl within ten feet could hear, Beatrice had turned tail and run, hot tears of embarrassment streaking down her face, chased by the titters of the other girls and the disbelief in their jealous eyes.
Carefully shifting on her sacks, Beatrice turned the collar of her coat up and held it around her neck to shield herself from the raw nip of wind coming through the car’s door. She found herself longing for warmth and solid ground under her feet. Determined not to succumb to regret, she stared past Joseph in the open door, and became transfixed by the ever-changing view. Moss-green pastureland skirted the tracks as they rolled past, and beyond that, she could see the Hudson River. Haystacks dotted the land, and a lone dairy cow made its way along a winding path to the water. Had the gentle beast managed to break through the barnyard fence? One could hope. One could pray. One could wish.
Closing her eyes, Beatrice remembered a farm she used to visit with her parents when she was a child. Why they’d gone there she couldn’t remember, but she did recall the farmer’s wife allowing her to feed the chickens, and milk their favourite cow. How pleasant it’d felt to rest her head against the velvety warmth of the Holstein’s flank as she went about the steady grasp and tug of emptying its udders. What she wouldn’t give to be back there again, to feel her mother’s gentle hand on her shoulder, to hear the farmer’s wife sing in time with her work.
May you rise with the sun, ready to make hay.
May the rains come at night to wash your cares away.
May you sleep with the angels sittin’ on your bed.
May you be an hour in Heaven a’fore the Devil knows you’re dead.
She guessed they’d been travelling for well past an hour. How much longer would it take to get to New York? By passenger train the trip usually took a little over two hours. Was it the same for freight? By the way her belly was rumbling, Beatrice guessed it must be getting close to noon. Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack. Fingering the coins in her pocket, she wondered if she should offer to pay Joseph for her passage. She hadn’t had to buy a ticket at the station, so she had more than enough to share.
Holding out a quarter, she called to him over the noise of the train. “Here,” she said, “this is for you.”
“Why for?” Joseph asked, getting up and coming to sit by Beatrice’s side.
“For letting me come along with you and your potatoes.”
The young man waved the offer away. “There’s no need for that. I’m happy for the company.” Then taking an apple and a knife from his knapsack, he sliced a wedge from the ripe red fruit and offered it to Beatrice.
Grateful, she took the slice and bit into its crisp, sweet flesh. Now he was next to her she couldn’t help feeling that she needed to fill the space between them with whatever thoughts came into her head. Mouth half full, she nervously sputtered, “Did you know the trains in the city are elevated? Three storeys off the ground. Every three minutes a string of train cars atop one of those tracks rattles from one end of the city to the other. For a nickel you can ride from Battery Park to the Harlem River. Of course there’s noise and smoke and showers of hot cinders that get spewed to the streets below, and there’s always a risk of falling from the platform, or getting pushed by the crowds, but five cents is a small price to pay for turning hours to minutes, don’t you think?”
Joseph smiled at her, then pointed to the sacks of potatoes piled all around them. “Me and the russets go to the city most every week, you know.”
“Right,” Beatrice said, feeling stupid. “Of course. I’m sorry. I
should’ve known.”
How ridiculous it was for her to think that she could understand all that was worth knowing about a place simply from reading newspapers and guidebooks, and from a yearly jaunt with Aunt Lydia to the tamest parts of the city. Had she ever stayed in New York overnight? If she had, she couldn’t remember it. But it was too late to turn back now. All she could do was try her best not to look as uncomfortable and scared as she felt. “Shouldn’t be long now,” Joseph said, checking his watch. “Know where you’re goin’ when we get there?”
Beatrice said, “Madison Square Park, or thereabouts.”
“Nice spot,” Joseph replied. “Be sure to visit Lady Liberty’s torch while you’re there. Even without the rest of her attached, it’s truly something else.”
“You’ve seen it?”
Beatrice had begged Lydia many times over to take her to the park to see it, but her aunt had insisted they wait until the statue was whole and in place on Bedloe’s Island.
“Just last week. Even climbed to the top to have a look around. You get a great view of the Fifth Avenue Hotel from up there.”
“Have you been to the hotel as well?” Beatrice asked, now thinking that anything might be possible when it came to Joseph Wheeler.
“Yes,” he said, “but only in the lobby. To tell you the truth, the place is far too fussy for my taste. All that velvet and crystal and marble makes me anxious.”
The thought of Joseph standing amongst the hotel’s elite clientele made Beatrice smile. “Do you stay over in the city on these trips?”
“Sometimes. I’ve got cousins who run a saloon near the Bowery. I stay with them on occasion.”
“The Bowery,” Beatrice repeated. She’d read of it in Madam Morrow’s Strange Tales of Gotham, which had described the street as having pits dug into the floors of every beer hall for cock fights and rat-catching matches, and prostitutes plying their trade on every corner. Biting her lip, she said, “Sounds nice.”
Joseph shrugged. “It’s not, but they’re good people and it’s a place to rest my head.” Pitching his apple core out the door, Joseph turned so he could meet Beatrice’s eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, wiping her face with a handkerchief, hoping to brush away the smudge of dirt she imagined must be there.
“Nothing,” Joseph said, his cheeks turning pink.
“Joseph, be honest. I’ve an important appointment ahead. I can’t afford to look shabby.”
“Your face is fine,” Joseph said.
“What is it then?”
Sunlight shone through the slats of the boxcar and across his face. “I always figured you’d go away someday,” he said. “To New York, or out west, or maybe London or Paris.”
“Whatever made you think that?”
“Because you aren’t like any of the other girls in Stony Point.”
Just then the train’s wheels began to squeal on the tracks, and they came to a stop.
“Are we there?” Beatrice asked.
Sticking his head out the door and looking both ways, Joseph answered, “We’re close, but we’re not at the station.”
They could both hear a great commotion building outside as a man shouted, “Stand back! Everyone, stand back!”
“Come on,” Joseph said, “let’s go see what all the fuss is about.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
Joseph took her hand in his, helping her up. “We’ll find out.”
Climbing out of the car, they picked their way down a steep rocky grade to a scrubby patch of grass. A crowd had gathered around the engine, which had stopped just shy of a curious contraption that’d been laid over the tracks. Made from massive wood beams that supported a set of iron rails with cannonballs for bearings, it held an enormous wooden box at one end and a bright red steam engine at the other. A sturdy chain attached the engine to the box, presumably to haul the box across the tracks. Beatrice recognized the odd shape at once. “That’s Cleopatra’s Needle,” she whispered to Joseph. “It has to be.” Glancing around she saw that, indeed, they were stopped next to the dockyard on the Hudson where the pontoons were moored after carrying the Needle up the river.
One by one the other farmhands who’d been riding along with their goods got off the train to join them, and they all moved to get a better view.
“Clear the area!” a red-faced man began to shout. His was the same voice that earlier had instructed the crowd to stand back.
Beatrice couldn’t see past the sack-coated men who now surrounded her, their hats cocked to the backs of their heads, their weathered hands on their hips. When one of the men spat to the side without thinking, his spittle landed on the toe of her boot. He stared at Beatrice and grinned.
Dragging her boot across a clump of grass, she thought, Welcome to city life.
“Why are we standing around looking at a box?” the rude man groused.
“ ’Cause Vanderbilt paid for it,” the man next to him answered.
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand smackers.”
“You lie.”
“I don’t.”
“You do! You told me there’d be something to see—that there’s just a box.”
Beatrice and Joseph found their way past the men to a less crowded spot where the sound of the steam engine drowned out the men’s chatter. The grind of the chain winding on its spool along with the growling churn of cannonballs tumbling in their channels caused the ground to shake as the obelisk inched forward. Soon the terrible sound of metal scraping against metal squealed through the air. Holding her hands over her ears, Beatrice looked on as a man standing atop the obelisk waved a white flag and signalled for the engine to be brought to a stop.
A chorus of whoops and hollers erupted from the contraption’s crew to celebrate the safe delivery of the Needle across the tracks.
Atop the roof of a warehouse nearby, two men were observing the proceedings. One was a photographer hired by Mr. Vanderbilt to document this important moment in the obelisk’s journey. The other was Gideon Palsham, a master architect who had a great interest in ancient stone structures and anything said to have been touched by magic. While the photographer stood hunched behind his camera, cloaked in a heavy black cloth, Palsham caught sight of Beatrice. He watched the girl intently, never taking his eyes off her. She was the only female in the crowd, the only one of her kind. As the photographer drew the cover over his lens, the train’s whistle sounded, calling its passengers back.
Beatrice held fast to Joseph’s arm. Who could’ve imagined that she’d arrive in New York at the same time as this magnificent wonder? Perhaps there was magic in the world after all. Everything she’d read about the obelisk had pointed to it being an object of untold mystical powers.
Tugging at Joseph’s sleeve, she hoped she might convince him to stop so she could get a better look at the obelisk. Although it was dressed in wood planking and laid on its side, she couldn’t help but feel that she should pause to honour it. “Joseph, wait,” she said. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Looking up to make sure he’d heard her, she discovered that the sleeve she’d gotten a grip on wasn’t his: a stranger now stood in his place. Flustered and confused she pulled away from the gentleman. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“It’s quite all right,” he said, turning to protect her from the jostling crowd. “I’d like to help you, if I might.”
His skin was the colour of nutmeg, and his face was lined with wrinkles as if he’d spent most of his life turned towards the sun. He wore no hat, but his greying hair was neatly combed and his beard came to a jaunty point. Dressed in pinstriped trousers and a double-breasted waistcoat, he held his jacket over his arm. The sleeves of his linen shirt were loosely rolled to his elbows, but the blue silk ascot he wore around his neck was properly tied and fixed with a silver pin in the shape of a scarab. When he smiled, a gold-capped tooth glinted in the corner of his grin and his dark eyes shone with stea
dfastness. Although Beatrice hadn’t any reason to trust him, she was certain he didn’t mean her harm.
“Thank you,” Beatrice found herself saying as the crowd continued to push on around them.
“This way,” the gentleman said, leading her to a platform of wooden skids, directly beside the obelisk. “Just until those barbarians pass.”
From where she stood, Beatrice could see a team of men going about the business of dismantling the portion of the contraption that still obstructed the tracks. They were making quick work of it, and she was sure the train’s conductor wouldn’t waste any time once the tracks were clear. “I should be getting back on the train,” she said.
“Have you come a long way?”
“Not nearly as far as the obelisk,” Beatrice answered him with a smile.
Patting the side of the box the man said, “It has been a long journey.”
“Have you travelled with it the entire way?” Beatrice asked.
“I have indeed,” he replied with a solemn nod. Pointing to a brass handle on the side of the box, he asked, “Would you like to see it?”
Glancing back at the train, Beatrice shook her head. “I’d love to, but I really must go.”
“I won’t let them leave without you. I promise.” Gently sliding the wooden panel to the left, he revealed a space just large enough for Beatrice to peer through. “Go on,” he urged. “It misses being seen.”
Beatrice stuck her head inside the box. The space was filled with the smell of damp stone, reminding her of the smooth rocks she’d collected along the Hudson as a child. Standing on tiptoe, she shifted slightly to one side to allow a bit of sunlight to pass into the box. All at once she could see the rosy, mottled surface of the obelisk; the graceful curve of a glyph was within her reach. She traced it with her fingers. The stone was cool and damp, and when she held her palm against it, she could feel a low, steady pulse. Was it the obelisk? Was it the train’s engine preparing to depart? Or was it just her heart, racing with excitement? Giddy with wonder, she let out a soft laugh, which to her surprise echoed quite freely inside the dark space. It carried on long after it should have, fading into an eerie, undulating whisper. Closing her eyes, Beatrice leaned forward and said, “Hello?” half thinking if she waited long enough, she might receive an answer.
