by Unknown
ERIE CANAL
Port of Rome
Mrs. Gurget walked over to Dan, who was hitching the Ella’s tie-rope round a post.
“Dan, Sol and me are going to push on for Syracuse right off. It’ll have to be good-bye for now.”
“Yeanh,” said Solomon, trotting up behind her. “Hullo, good-bye; that’s the way it is on the Erie.”
“We like you a lot, Dan,” Mrs. Gurget went on. “Sol and I, we talked about you last night after we went to bed. We’d like to give you a job, but we figger we couldn’t pay you as much as you’d get somewhere’s else.”
“That’s right, Dan, we’re kind of slow folk.”
“No, we ain’t. How can you look at me, Sol, and say that?”
“Well, we take our hauling slow. We don’t get into no competition for speed. He wouldn’t see so much going along with us.”
“No, he wouldn’t. So we’re going to say good-bye. Ain’t we, Sol?”
“Yeanh. We’d better.” He took hold of her fat hand. “You give it to him,” he said in a low voice.
“Well, good-bye, Dan. Good luck.”
He shook hands energetically.
“Keep your eye open for that rapscallion, Calash. You can’t tell when you mightn’t see him and make a penny. It’s always a good idee to keep your eye open, Dan; though it’s handy not to tell everything you see.”
He shook hands once more and trotted off to his. mules.
“Hurry, now, Lucy,” he called.
Dan noticed him busy unhitching the tie-ropes, but keeping an eye on them over his shoulder.
“What do you aim to do, Dan?” Mrs. Gurget asked.
“I guess I’ll get a job.”
“Well, it oughtn’t to be hard nowadays.”
She hesitated a moment and poked at a wisp of her dyed red hair.
“Me and Sol was thinking maybe you ought to have a little extry in your pocket, Dan. Maybe you won’t need it. If you don’t, you’ll want to give it to some gal maybe when you’re lonely. Good-bye, Dan. If you get bad off, come and find us. We’re apt to be somewhere anywhere.”
She caught him suddenly to her with her right hand, and he had the feeling of being smothered against her breast. She kissed him loudly close to his ear and turned away. He watched her hustle over to the Nancy, settling her bonnet as she went. He put his hand in his coat pocket and drew out some bills she had put there. A couple of men, coming along the dock, jostled against him. When he recovered his balance, the Nancy was under way, Solomon cracking his whip over the mules and keeping his face to the path, and Mrs. Gurget steering on the stern. He felt a sudden weakness in his legs, and his eyes blurred. Then a boat cut in behind the Nancy and he had one view of Mrs. Gurget waving a pudgy arm before she disappeared up the canal to the west.
Dan counted the money in his hand five dollars and twenty-five cents; it was a handsome gift.
As he returned it to his pocket, someone took hold of his other arm.
“I’m real sorry,” Hector Berry was saying. “Real sorry. This here’s my regular driver. Mr. George Williams, meet Dan Harrow. A man can’t have but one driver to his boat, can he if he ain’t working for one of the fine companies?”
“That’s right,” said Dan in an embarrassed voice. “A man can’t.”
He wondered what the fuss was about.
“Well,” said Hector, “here’s your pay.”
He took a dollar out of his pigskin wallet. Dan mechanically pocketed it.
“Well, good-bye,” said Hector, making a motion to go.
“Luck,” grunted Mr. George Williams. “Pleased to meet yer any time.” And he went aboard the Ella.
Immediately Hector took Dan by the arm again and began to speak hurriedly in an undertone.
“I’d keep you with me, Dan. Honest to hunkus I would, I like you, for a fact, and he’s no good” he pointed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Mr. George Williams. “Men that drinks like him is no good, Dan, and mind I said so. Oh, I don’t mean a swaller on a cold day is going to rumple your innards for the rest of your life not me. But when a man drinks so long the likker commences running over at his eyes, there ain’t no chance left for connection of thought. By dang, I’d fire him tomorrow.”
He raised his fist.
“By dang, I would, by holy dang. When I say a thing, by dang, I mean it. But he’s Nell’s nephey, and she’s took a notion against you. Regular snarl she gets into when I say, ‘I guess I’ll hire Dan Harrow he’s good with horses.’ I mean what I say, ‘Good with horses.’ You’re a good boy, Dan; I like you.”
He wrung Dan’s hand.
“Your pa done me a turn once. Any time you need anything you come and see me.”
“Hec-tor! Hec-tor!”
“Coming!” bawled Hector. “Luck to you, Dan.”
He turned round and went hurriedly aboard. Dan saw Penelope Berry’s wizened face thrust from the cabin door under a mammoth pink night bonnet, her grey hair full of skewers over her forehead, and curl-papers dangling to her shoulders. He grunted.
“The danged old coot.”
But his eyes watched her until the turning of the boat cut off his view of the door, and then he stared after Hector’s plump, spraddle-legged figure on the poop of the Ella-Romeyn, until the glare of the sun on the canal brought the water to his eyes. At least they were familiar… .
It was all strange to him. The boats, more than he could count, coming in and going out, many passing through without a stop, each with a man steering and a man walking behind the towing team, moving at a slow pace, but giving an impression of an intense, suppressed desire for speed. The line boats, recognizable for the hard faces of their captains, largely Irishers, brought in gangs when the great work of the canal was coming to a close; they had an air about them of men aware of physical well-being. Boats bearing emigrants out to the West, Germans, an old man on one with a mug in his hand and a long china pipe to his mouth and a nightcap on his head, stiffly promenading the deck in his stocking feet; and tow-haired children on another. A New Englander going by, driving a boat, a cold-faced bearded man who spoke in a nasal tight voice ordinary words to his horses more impressive than oaths; a boy steering, his young face grimly serious. Two boats of tall, light-haired folk, “Hunkers” said a man at Dan’s back, and his companion answered, “Damn fool Swedes,” but they had a light in their blue eyes.
Boats of all colors greys, greens, blues, reds, muddy magentas, and many white, floating on their reflections, many bearing strange folk, entering a strange country, the look of whom made Dan uneasy, so that he found comfort in the figures of the boaters, who rolled their r’s in swearing, and who walked as if they knew what their hands were doing. They wore no uniform to tell them by; they were careless in their dress, but their clothes suited them individually small high felt hats, and broad-brimmed hats with flat crowns, and caps with ear flaps turned up; and some wore coats, and some suits of homespun, and some heavy woolen shirts of dark blue or brown; and one old captain went by wearing a peajacket, and he had a conch at his lips, and his face was red with blowing, and the sound of it swallowed the sounds of the people round him so that he could not hear their laughter, but stood with his pegleg braced in an augur hole; and perhaps he felt the ocean.
The words of the old peddler Turnesa, on his wagon, occurred to Dan: “The bowels of the nation … the whole shebang of life.” He could see it in the hurry and a certain breathlessness above the easy noise; he could smell it in the boats coming from the West, the raw foods, the suffocating odor of grain, the scent of meat, of pork, the homely smell of potatoes, to be digested in the East and produce growth. It mystified him, though he seemed to understand it, and it stirred a great affection in him for living, for the people round him, and the clean light of the sun.
His hand went to his face and lingered there. A missionary, who had been observing him for several moments, came up behind him and laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. “What is it, my bo
y?” he asked, perceiving an opportunity to assist in the regeneration of a soul. “It’s a hard life you’ve had to live, but there’s help for every man here.” He opened a small bag he carried in his left hand and selected a tract, which he held out to Dan. It was titled, Esau; or the Ruinous Bargain.
Dan stared at him vacantly, and the missioner smiled reassuringly.
“Come with me,” he said. “Perhaps I can help you.”
He was dressed in black clothes, and wore a rather soiled white tie.
“Thanks,” Dan mumbled.
The missioner’s long face brightened.
“You see the way ahead of you,” he said encouragingly. “You’re puzzled now; but I’ll help you find it if you’ll come with me.”
Dan’s face cleared, as if he understood.
“Yeanh,” he said. “That’s right. I was wondering where there was a barber.”
Perhaps it had been a bad morning for the missioner, or perhaps the work was new to him, for he sighed and told Dan he didn’t know and went on down the dock.
Dan picked up his bag and faced the row of warehouses. A couple of teams pulling heavy lumber wagons thumped past him.
“Looking for something?”
A middle-aged man, well dressed in a black coat and black satin waistcoat, grey trousers, and a pipe hat, regarded Dan out of cool grey eyes. He had lean, fine features, a thin mouth sufficiently curving not to be cruel, and his head was set handsomely on his neck. He was of a type new to Dan’s experience; there was the clever fit of his clothes, for one thing.
“Yeanh,” said Dan. “I was looking for a barber.”
“Well, you go up that right-hand street, two blocks, and turn left down the second street, about five houses down. What’s your name, if I may ask?”
“Dan’l Harrow.”
“Was your father Henry Harrow? He was? I thought I recognized something in your face. I knew him well. Where’s he been all these years?”
“Tug Hill way. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry. I knew him well. So did all the Erie folks. His name and his boat stood out in the great days of packet traveling. What are you doing in Rome?”
“I aim to get a job,” said Dan.
“Located yet?”
“No. I aim to look around some.”
“It’s a good idea to find out what you want. If you’d like to, I can offer you a job. Come round next week. Butterfield’s warehouse. My name’s John Butterfield. I’d like to help you any way I can. Your father was a fine man.”
He shook hands cordially and went on his way, walking sturdily erect.
M. Pantoulenzo, Barber
Following Mr. Butterfield’s directions, after three minutes’ walking Dan found himself in a street of wooden houses, some with fancy work on the porches, but for the most part severely plain and painted in quiet colors. Over a second-story window of one of these his wandering eye fell upon a sign bearing the name M. Pantoulenzo, ornately scrolled, with the explanatory legend underneath:
HAIR TRIMMED. EASY SHAVE. BLOOD LET.
Teeth drawn at Regular Prices.
A door opening on a pitch-dark flight of stairs advertised M. Pantoulenzo again with a card and the words, “One flight up.” Dan entered and, after a moment’s groping, found himself on a small landing with a door on the left-hand side. A small pane of glass was let into one of the panels, affording a view of the shop.
Directly before the window stood a barber chair, gorgeous in crimson plush, and at the moment harboring a tall, very thin man with an abstracted expression on his face. He was sitting up straight, with his hands on his knees, his head bent painfully to one side in the manner of the conscientious and anxiously obliging customer. The towel in which he was enveloped had evidently been manufactured by the barber himself, for it reached just below the tall man’s waistcoat and formed a chute down which the shorn hair slid to his trousers. Of the barber himself Dan could see no more than the half of a red face, a glancing black eye, and a pair of thin hands stretching spasmodically for the hair above them.
The attitudes of both men suggested so forcibly a precarious equilibrium of mind and body that Dan fingered the latch and opened the door as quietly as he could.
“Goo’ morning,” said the barber. “Set down, mister. I’m through in half a mo’.”
The tall man did not look up.
The little barber was parting his customer’s hair. Then he whipped away the towel, scattering the loose hair broadcast. The tall man leisurely climbed out of the chair and pulled out a billfold.
“Here you be, Francey.”
The barber nodded his head and put the bill in his pocket. The tall man picked a broad-brimmed hat from a peg and said, “Morning,” and went out of the room with an easy swagger of his shoulders.
“Next!” cried the barber.
Dan looked round.
“You, mister; you’re next, I reckon.”
Dan took his seat in the chair, and the barber deftly slipped the towel over him and pinned it round his neck.
” What’ll you have?”
“Shave.”
The sunlight shining through the windows and lighting on his neck made him drowsy, his eyes lazily surveying the varnished board walls, a colored lithograph of the battle of Oriskany their only decoration, the white shelf with its rows of lotions, its two razors and their strops, the worn old mug with a cap of lather gradually settling back into its rimy interior, the kettle of hot water purring on the little corner stove, and all about his feet the shorn hair of former customers lying in heaps like little cords of wood.
The barber set about whipping up a lather. He was a small man, but in spite of his outlandish name there was nothing particularly foreign-look- ing about him. His pointed face held an expression of keenness, and there was a precocious cock to his head. As he worked, he kept popping questions at Dan.
“Getting warmer?”
“Yeanh.”
“I thought maybe it would. We don’t get much real cold here till November.”
He applied a great deal of lather and then began to strop his razor. He did it with a flourish.
“Stranger?” asked the barber.
“Yeanh.”
The barber worked for an instant in silence.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve come to a good place to find work. Rome, New York, is due to become one of the great metropolises.” He turned up the left side of Dan’s face. “And look where it stands. On the confluence of two canals. Oneida County has just commenced to grow. Look at the timber. Finest white pine in the state. Cribs of timber coming down every spring faster than the locks’U take them. It’s right on the trade route to the West. The highroad, the railroad, and the canal right among the streets. You looking for a job on the canal?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I wished I’d knowed that. The feller that was in here was looking for a driver. Operates a line boat on the Troy to Michigan Six Day Line.”
Dan took an interest. “What’s his name?”
“Julius W. Wilson. A celebrated character, now a Roman. Used to be-long to Flame and Furnas, the famous knife-throwing team of the American Museum in New York City. Corner of Ann Street and Broadway. If you ever go there, don’t miss it. It’s one of the wonders of this continent, and if there are any others most likely they’re all in it. Every afternoon from four to four-thirty Flame and Furnas did their show. (Flame was Wilson’s bill name.) Furnas held the knives and did the talking and Wilson done the throwing. It was a great sight a cold chill for a thousand people every ten seconds. They had a nine-year-old boy for a target.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’m his regular barber. Most any day he’ll tell me all about it; tell me just how close he’d come. Ankle, knee, hip, waist, shoulder (armhole by particular request), neck. Couldn’t beat him. It ain’t strange, it’s the artist temperament.”
Dan grunted.
“True as preaching. I
’ve shaved a whole minstrel show; they’re all the same.
“Yes, sir,” the barber went on, “if you want a job, you go round to Hennessy’s Saloon just round the corner when you’re shaved and ask for Wilson. Probably he’ll take you on. He’s hauling to Albany.”
“I guess I will.”
M. Pantoulenzo flourished his razor under Dan’s nose and shaved the lip.
“M. Pantoulenzo quite a name, eh?”
“Yeanh,” said Dan.
“A good trade name’s a great thing in business. Now, looking at that name, you’d never guess I was born in London, would you?”
“No.”
“That’s why I picked on it. Real name is Smiggs. That might go in England. Smiggs, barber. But it wouldn’t go an inch in this land. Americans are that way. They’ve got extravagant notions of business and work which makes ‘em serious in their notions of pleasure or getting their hair cut, or going to the dentist. My Crikey, ‘ow these people do shine to a dentist! If I wasn’t a barber, I’d go in for teeth altogether. You can tear out a whole jawful of teeth with them and set up false ones and they’ll call it progress.”
He reached for a damp towel with which to remove the edges of lather left from the shave, and then, grunting, swung the chair into an upright position.
Dan paid him and made his way slowly down the stairs.
In Hennessy’s Saloon
The sun had come out warm, and the air was so sparkling and clear that he stepped out sturdily. Women were going by on their way to market, their baskets on their arms. A carriage crossed the end of the street, and a fast trotter in front of a varnished surrey caught Dan’s eye.
Overhead in the cloudless sky he could see a great flock of crows flapping over the town, so high above him that their cawing sounded thin.
There could be no mistaking Hennessy’s Saloon; it was so obviously one. Its flashy green doors hooked open, it stood well out toward the roadway; and its two broad glass windows gave it an appearance of extreme open-handedness and sincerity.
Inside the bar, the keep was reading that week’s copy of the Roman Citizen. There was no one else in the room. He looked up at Dan’s entrance, cocking one eye over the edge of the paper.
