by Carl Waters
No, he thought, he would never be satisfied as a chimney sweep. He would go home and tell his family the news, and though they would cheer and congratulate him, he knew one thing: He would not be happy until he was working in a position that he found both challenging and fulfilling.
At that very moment, he happened to turn to the left, his eyes roaming over the row of shops next to him, and stopped dead in his tracks. There, as if in answer to his question, was a small, compact shop, complete with glass in the windows and a sign out front that advertised the trade practiced there. In the shop, he saw gleaming blades and wooden frames, complete with several tools of the trade, and he let his eyes travel up to the tile hanging over the road.
“White’s Creations,” he breathed out.
A machinist—it was as if George had called him out of the air with his dreams.
Without another thought, George rushed into the shop, his heart hammering away at his ribs. This was the very chance he’d been waiting for, and he knew without a doubt that if there was a God—which George wasn’t certain about, by any means—He had put George on that very road for a purpose.
Inside, he found a long, narrow shop with counters running down both sides and glass shelves behind them. There were small machines and sculptures on those shelves, and there at the far end was a cash register, and beside it a notepad. For taking orders, no doubt. In the back, he could just make out the glow of a forge and guessed that there was a larger work area behind the main shop, where the metalworking and building was done.
Suddenly a man appeared from the back of the shop, wiping his hands and arranging his heavy leather apron. He had a row of tools pushed into his belt and a set of eyeglasses on his head, along with a set of goggles around his neck for protecting his eyes against sparks.
“Well, hello there,” he said, raising his eyebrows in George’s general direction. “I’m Robert White, and this is my shop. What might I help you with, my boy?”
George raised his eyebrows back, never having been addressed in quite that way, and gave the man a shy sort of smile. He was a kindly looking sort, older and with a great head of white hair. He looked like the type of man that dandled his grandchildren on his knee at night in front of the fire. Nothing like the type of white men George had known in his lifetime.
Perhaps whatever had led him here knew what it was doing, after all.
“I’m here looking for work,” he returned, looking around the shop curiously. It seemed a rather untidy sort of place, with a number of different machine parts lined up against the wall, he now noticed, and various gears, levers, and tools hanging on the walls. George looked back at the man, full of questions, and decided that starting at the beginning might be the best way to go with this particular fellow. “I’ve worked in factories before, doing machine work, and I’d like to do so again.”
The man pushed his lips out in consideration and looked George up and down. “Well, you look like the sort who could lift a thing or two,” he observed slowly, staring at George as if he was a prize horse on the market. George stretched, trying to show his muscles and likelihood for this type of work. “What kind of machine work have you done?”
George launched into a description of the factory and Mr. Wilson, his foreman at the factory, and then went on to detail the machine he’d invented. He told the man about having built the machine on his own, running it for the factory and keeping it up, even mending it when it broke. He even went so far as to describe some of the other projects he’d thought of and what they could possibly do. He didn’t mention the fact that he was a runaway slave, although he didn’t think that would matter.
At least he hoped it wouldn’t.
The man nodded, but then shrugged. “That’s all very well, son, but I’m not looking for help at the moment. Don’t have enough business to support it, you see.”
George’s heart dropped right through the floor. This couldn’t be! He’d finally found the thing he was destined to do and the shop where he could do it, and the man was going to turn him out? “You don’t understand,” he said quickly. “I’m a man of steel and gears and mechanical things. I’ve always felt that way about myself, and working in the hemp factory, designing my own machine and building it, made me certain. That is where my future lies. I want to work with my hands, and I want them on machines of metal and wood—machines that do some good in the world and help people to do things more easily.”
The man laughed. “And a fine goal it is, to be sure. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not in need of a boy like yourself. No matter how brilliant you might be.”
He started to turn away, and George shot forward and put a hand on his arm. “But I’ve come here with a family to feed!” he said pleadingly. “A wife and a small boy. We’ve come here to make a life for ourselves, and to do that I must find work!”
Mr. White narrowed his eyes and took in George’s frame once more, looking him slowly up and down, as if he could tell his worth just with his gaze. George bristled at the treatment, which was so like what he’d experienced down in Kentucky, but did his best to stifle the feeling. This man was considering him as an employee. It wasn’t the time to lose his temper.
Finally Mr. White nodded once, having come to a decision. “Come back tomorrow, boy, and I’ll give you a chance. A test, so to speak. Perhaps with another set of hands I can increase production, pay your salary, and pay more of my own bills.”
George felt as if he could have kissed the man right then and there, but stopped himself just in time. He leaned forward, grabbed Mr. White’s hand, and pumped it up and down in thanks. “Oh, thank you, sir, and I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow, and you’ll never have seen anyone work as hard as I can! That’s a promise!”
He spun on his heel and darted for the door, anxious to get home and tell Eliza what had happened. Before he could get out the door, though, the man’s voice shot out once more.
“And another thing, boy: If you’re to work here, I must know that you have a level head. We’ll be working with dangerous objects, and I can’t have a man with a quick temper in my shop.”
George froze at the question. For though he wouldn’t often admit it, he knew for certain that his biggest weakness was his temper. A level head? No, he couldn’t say that he’d ever recommend himself in that manner.
But telling the truth now would ruin any chance he had of working in this shop.
“Always try to keep my wits about me,” he said, turning back to the machinist. “Yes, sir, you’ll find my head to be level in most all situations.”
Mr. Smith nodded, satisfied, and George rushed out the door before he could give himself away.
18
As he walked home, George began to think about the last thing the machinist had said to him. Couldn’t have a man with a quick temper, he’d said. Had to have someone with a level head, because they would be working with dangerous tools and hot metal.
No one had ever accused George of having a level head. In fact, he knew for a fact that his temper ran nearly as hot as the metal with which he would be working. He’d lied to the man, plain and simple.
But his entire future was depending on this. His career. He would maintain his temper, even if it killed him.
By the time he’d arrived back at Jim’s home, he’d well and truly talked himself into being a hero and convinced himself that, not only would he impress the machinist during his test, he’d also be the best machinist this city had ever seen. Why, he could apply his own thoughts on business as well and help Mr. Smith increase the size and productivity of his shop. He might even find opportunities to invent new machines outside of work!
He burst through the door, barely able to contain himself, and everyone at the table looked up at him.
“Why, George, you’ve been gone all day,” Eliza said, standing and walking toward him. “Where have you been? You’ve missed dinner!”
George took her arms and gazed lovingly in
to her eyes, grinning. “I know I have, but there’s a good reason for it. A job, Eliza. I’ve found a job! Two of them, honestly speaking, though only one matters.”
“What?” she gasped. Behind her, Jim and Anita stood as well, their faces curious.
George picked Eliza up at the waist and swung her around, laughing with pure joy. “Yes! I searched the city high and low for anyone who might need a man such as me, and found no one—not until the end of the day, when a chimney sweeping shop hired me. I left there horrified that I was going to be taking on such work, which any common man would do. I was walking along, feeling very sorry for myself, when I looked up and there—there in front of me, I saw a machinist’s shop! I walked right in and told the man who I was and what I’d done, and, although he said at first that he didn’t have need of any help, I convinced him!”
“And he gave you a job?” Eliza asked, laughing.
George shrugged. “Well, he told me to come back tomorrow so that he could give me a test. But I know I shall pass it! And then I will have a job! A job with metal and machines. Can you imagine? The very thing I’ve hoped for!” He twirled her around again until they were both quite dizzy, and stopped to see Jim and Anita both grinning from ear to ear.
Jim walked toward him and clapped a big hand on his shoulder. “Congratulations, George,” he said warmly. “I couldn’t be happier for you. ’Tis the very thing you need!”
George nodded, smiling happily, and told them again and again what the machinist had said to him, and how he’d talked his way into the position. They took turns guessing at what the test could possibly be, and George ended the conversation late that night with one statement.
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” he said confidently. “I’ll pass it. I know I will. This is my destiny, and nothing’s going to stop me from achieving it!”
* * *
That confidence was still there when he awoke. He jumped out of bed, rushed through breakfast, got into a quick but heated argument with Eliza about who was going to watch Harry if they were both working—he maintained his opinion that she should be at home, while she wanted to work with the dressmaker—and then darted out the door without coming to a proper conclusion, too excited about his appointment with the machinist to truly consider Eliza’s argument.
He made his way quickly toward the machinist’s shop, almost skipping in his haste to get there. When he arrived, he was covered in a light sheen of sweat, despite the chilly morning weather.
And he was ready. Whatever the machinist threw at him, he would succeed.
Mr. White strode forward, greeted him, and shook his hand. He then wasted no time in telling George what he’d planned as the test.
“I’ve got this machine here, and I’ve been working on it all week, with no luck whatsoever. It’s supposed to help a woman wash clothes more effectively, but it’s got something stuck in it, and the gears won’t move. Now, if you can fix this, I might be inclined to see what else you could do.”
No sooner had the man moved to the side than George pressed forward, eager to get his hands on the machine and feel gears and tools under his fingers again. He hadn’t been allowed to work with machinery at the plantation, and now his fingers were fairly itching to be back at it. He walked around the machine, poking here and prodding there, grabbing up a screwdriver to adjust this or that joint, and levering the gears in and out. Eventually, he gave a soft grunt, made one last adjustment, and stood back proudly.
The machinist stepped forward and turned the lever of the machine and—to his amazement—saw it move gracefully into motion, with no argument whatsoever. He glanced from the machine to George and back again, both surprised and pleased, and finally stuck out his hand.
“Well then, fellow,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll be happy to give you a job, long as you can do that kind of magic in such a short time. Welcome aboard!”
George shook the man’s hand, quite proud of himself, and reveled in the realization that he’d just won his first job as a free man. He’d be making money that he could take home for himself and working in a shop where they valued—and needed—his mind and experience. He could hardly believe his good luck.
But then the machinist began outlining his tasks, and his heart fell to the floor.
“Folks bring in all sorts of machines that’ve quit working,” Mr. White said. “Your job will be to repair those machines, deal with customers, and clean up the shop at least twice a day. It can get quite messy in here, as you can imagine.”
George gaped at the man. What was he talking about? Fix machines? No! George had many grand plans about things he wanted to build and ways he could increase the shop’s output and productivity. He had thoughts on business and thoughts on inventions. He hadn’t come here and worked so hard so that he could be put to work repairing plows!
“But sir,” he said quietly. “I thought I would be helping you build new machines.”
The machinist shook his head sharply. “I’m afraid not, young man. You’re new to the shop, and that means you start at the bottom. I need someone repairing what my customers bring in, if I’m to build new contraptions. It’s the logical choice. The most rational doling out of responsibilities, if you will.”
“But I won’t,” George replied, puffing up his chest. “I’m more qualified than that, sir! I’ve invented my own machines in the past, and I mean to do so again. Just hand me the tools, and I’ll make your shop more money than you’ve ever dreamed!”
Mr. White narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath, then blew it out. “And I’m telling you that this is the job, boy. You’ll have your hands on plenty of tools, but you’ll be using them to repair the machines we get. You’ll be learning more as you work and giving your hands the practice they need. What’s more, you’ll be freeing up my time so that I can produce new prototypes—and that, boy, is more valuable than anything else. You cannot build new machines until you’ve learned how to repair the old ones and perhaps come up with ways to improve on them. The best ideas for new inventions will come to you while you’re doing things that you’d rather not be doing. But you must give that first step a chance. That is the job, boy, and if you want it, you’ll be back again in the morning to get started.”
George took a deep breath himself, ready to rail against the man’s argument, but then bit his tongue. For he’d told the man that he could keep his temper, and he’d told Eliza that he’d do whatever it took to make this his career.
No, he realized. Now was not the time for an argument. But sometime soon he and Mr. White would be having a conversation about this very thing—and the next time George wouldn’t take no for an answer.
19
Tom left the woman alone for an hour and then walked quietly toward her. Out on the water, the sunshine was sparkling softly in golden ripples, the end of the day drawing near. Above him, he heard gay voices, full of ease and pleasure, talking about anything and everything. But he could see that the woman’s heart was broken, as if a great stone had fallen on her. She looked down at her son, who had raised himself up and put a hand to her cheek, as if to calm her. The little fellow was quite lively and was bouncing up and down and gurgling now, trying to get her attention.
“Lively boy you have there,” Tom said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.
The girl jumped but calmed when she saw it was Tom and not the trader. “Ten and a half months old,” she said, giving a sad smile. “Uncommonly large and strong for his age, I tell ya. Strongest hands I ever did see. Never been still a day in his life.”
“Got a few like that myself. Where’s his father?” Tom asked.
“Louisville,” she said quietly. “’Spect we’ll be passin’ it soon enough. Work there as a laborer, out on hire from my master. Mas’r told me I’d be joinin’ him, so he did. Tricked me, come to it. Come to find out I’s been sold. Goin’ south, the new mas’r says. Don’t know what I done to deserve it, but it feels mighty unfair.”
Tom nodded. “Been separated
from my own family, myself. Sold to pay my mas’r’s debts. But I’ve faith he’ll find me again. Faith the good Lord’ll protect me.”
Lucy snorted. “Faith don’t get you nothin’ in this life, stranger. Nothin’ but grievin’.”
Tom sighed but let that go and reached down to tickle the boy’s chin. “Least you’ve got your son,” he observed. “Had to leave mine behind. And my baby, Polly, ’long with my wife. Don’t know for certain that I’ll ever see them again.”
The girl gave him a long look and then sighed. “You’re right, stranger. I do have my boy, and it’s better’n a lot can say. Long as I get to keep him, guessin’ I’ll survive.”
Tom, thinking that she was going to be friendlier now, took a seat on a nearby box and began to talk to the girl about the life she’d left behind.
* * *
Some hours later, near dusk, the captain of the boat called out that they were pulling into Louisville, as the girl had supposed, and that they’d be docking there for several hours. At this announcement, Lucy’s head flew up and her eyes became fevered.
“This is where my husband is,” she told Tom quickly. “Works in the docks as a laborer.”
She had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep, and hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow among the boxes, on top of the cloak she’d spread out. She covered him up, giving his cheek a slight brush of her fingertips, and then used her free arm to climb up the ladder to the upper deck. Tom slowly followed behind her. The woman then sprang to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-waiters who thronged the wharf, she might see her husband. She pressed forward onto the rails and, stretching far over them, strained her eyes intently, searching the moving heads on the shore.
