Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “Let me help you with your bags, Reuben.” Clambering into the back of the wagon, he threw the duffel and the map case down to Reuben. Erik tried to lift the heavier trunk to the side of the wagon but Reuben had to reach in to help him.

  “You need to build up some muscle, Erik,” teased Reuben, laughing. “I’m sure there’s a woman or two who would notice.”

  “I want a woman who will love me for my mind,” retorted Erik.

  “When it comes to men and women, Erik, you will find out that there are many important things; the mind is just one of them.”

  “Is that the voice of experience?” Erik teased. Raising one eyebrow, he grinned. “You think I don’t know about Gretchen?”

  Reuben slapped his leg. “So that was you up in that tree at the picnic.”

  Reddening, Erik did not reply but instead jumped down off the wagon next to Reuben. The two brothers embraced.

  “I will miss you, Reuben.” Erik’s voice was thick with emotion, even though muffled in the shoulder of Reuben’s coat.

  “And I, you, little brother. You will grow into a fine man. Help Father; follow your heart. Don’t let Isaac bully you.”

  Stepping back, the younger brother wiped tears from his eyes. “I know you will be successful, but will I ever see you again?”

  Hesitating for a moment, his mind torn between the two thoughts, Reuben mustered a cheerful tone that belied the empty feeling in his gut, “Of course you will.” He studied the features of Erik’s face to keep the memory with him, embracing his smaller sibling again.

  “I love you, Erik. Say goodbye to Father, Isaac and Helmon for me. Tell them I will write when I can. And work on that violin. You have a real talent.”

  Breaking off their hug, Erik smiled a sad half-smile, tears still running down his cheeks. Wheeling quickly, he walked back to the wagon.

  Reuben stood looking after the wagon until it vanished. Hefting the duffel, he picked up the map case and struggled simultaneously to drag the trunk toward the gangplank. A long line of passengers were shuffling in a haphazard queue in front of him. Up toward the top of the gangplank he spied a tall figure, at least a head taller than everyone else, with bright blond hair that was hard to miss. Now that is a tall man.

  Ludwig had booked a tiny middeck berth for his son. The compartment was miniscule but Reuben was glad to have it. He stowed his gear, wedging the map case and his work coat far against the wall under the single bunk, then shoved the duffel in against them. Making certain they were concealed, he checked the locks on the cabin door.

  He felt for his money pouch inside his jacket. It was gone! Damn. Other than some British currency, everything had been in coins. Sure he had strapped the leather bag to his waistband, he searched again but to no avail.

  Thinking for a minute, he decided to go up on deck and look there but he knew it was futile. No doubt, somebody is slapping himself on the back at his rare good fortune. What an inept way to start a trip. No matter—I have enough money for the voyage if I am careful, and it is but a small setback. I have some additional money in my pockets and trunk. “I will need to be frugal,” he muttered.

  Making his way up to the deck, he saw the crew had drawn up the gangplank. It seemed the ship was about to get under way. Leaning on the rail, lost in thought, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. The tall man with the bright shock of blond hair, whom Reuben had glimpsed when he was about to board the Edinburgh hours earlier, was standing before him.

  “I am Johannes. I believe this is yours,” he said with a smile and a heavy Scandinavian accent. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew and handed Reuben the change pouch he had lost. A mischievous twinkle emanated from his eyes. Reuben knew immediately he was a rogue but liked him anyway.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Ah, my young friend, you did not tie it securely to your waistband. This was with it,” Johannes responded, holding out the twisted leather fastener. “If you wish not to be parted from your money again, try a double loop.”

  Hefting the pouch, Reuben was surprised—which he hoped he hid—that it seemed to be all there. This tall, blond man with steady blue eyes, gregarious smile and roguish aura could be trusted.

  “Thank you. My name is Reuben Frank. I realized it was missing when I unpacked. Where are you from?”

  The man’s grin broadened, his tone taking on a mysterious air, “Call me Johannes Svenson. And I’m from Europe.”

  “Europe? I know you are from Europe but where? You appear Scandinavian.”

  Johannes laughed. “North of Italy.”

  From that moment, Johannes and Reuben talked frequently sharing lunch and supper together as the ship steamed towards Portsmouth. Their conversations were casual, generally discussing other passengers, their expectations of America and the unsavory food served on the ship. Except by general reference, Reuben avoided giving details about his plans, and he noticed Johannes was quick to change the subject any time the talk drifted to the past. Nonetheless, the young Prussian grew more impressed with the mysterious tall, blond Scandinavian. As the Edinburgh forged her way through the tempestuous waters between Prussia and England, an idea began to stir in Reuben’s mind.

  CHAPTER 10

  JANUARY 17, 1855

  FORETOLD

  Seventy five miles northeast from where rats scurried through the coal dust in the dark basement where Jacob slept, Elizabeth’s voice floated from the hallway “Rebecca! Rebecca Marx. I have the china all laid out. Do you have room in a trunk, my dear? This china must be wrapped.” The question cut through the fog of Rebecca’s annoyed self-pity.

  Rebecca turned to see her mother at her bedroom door, wringing her hands. “I will get it packed, Mother. Thank you for sorting it out.”

  “Rebecca, do you know that this will make six trunks? This amount of luggage will cost a fortune in porters and handling.” There was a now familiar half-wondering, half-querulous tone in her mother’s voice. Her trembling speech pattern had emerged shortly after her father’s death one year before.

  Smiling at her mother, she kept her tone reassuring, “I shan’t be spending any time outside of cities.” She sighed. “I remember a time when incidental costs like baggage handling were of no concern to this family. Now, let’s get that china properly wrapped! I must get some sleep—tomorrow will be busy.”

  *****

  January 18, 1855

  Blinking against the last remnants of slumber, Rebecca partially opened the heavy, pleated curtains at her bedroom bay window, peering out at the mist of early morning gray fog that clutched the street. Well, at least it’s not raining.

  Looking slowly around the room, Rebecca fought the lump in her throat. It was formal but large and airy, with nine-foot-high ceilings. A dark, cherry, carved, four-poster bed with a filmy canopy suspended from the rounded tops of the eight-foot vertical posts perched against one wall, flanked by rich cherry nightstands. The plaster was colored off-white, offset by carved trim, an ornate ceiling, and corner mulligan and wide baseboard. The bamboo floor, imported by her father from the Philippines on one of his trading vessels years prior, shone dark blond. The planks contrasted with the deeper hues of the cherry furniture but blended with the wood trim accents. An ornate, oversized, cherry dresser was settled against the wall opposite the foot of the bed next to a matching armoire. Large antique jade jewelry boxes, also imported by her father on yet another trading mission, sat on the dresser, perfectly centered between large candles on wrought-iron holders with thick curved legs. The muted, mottled colors of a plush Persian rug, given to her by her father just before he died, spanned most of the distance on the floor between the dresser and the bed.

  It will be at least six, perhaps as many as ten, months before I again sleep in this bed. The realization that she would not see this space that had been hers since birth crystalized the reality of the enormity of her undertaking, overwhelming her. Walking over to the dresser, her fingers gently stroked the smooth-grained edges of the jewelry b
oxes. Blinking, then again, she involuntarily wiped a corner of one eye. “You’ll do no such thing!” she said in stern self-reprimand.

  She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, straightened her shoulders and walked to the door. “Mother,” she called, “we need to start the staff moving the trunks to the front foyer. My carriage is due in two hours. I have to be in Portsmouth by ten to board.”

  “Yes, dear,” her mother’s voice floated up the wide curved oak stairway that Rebecca could see from the threshold of her room.

  She hurried from the bedroom to her father’s study. Crouching behind his desk, she opened the secret drawer, placing the deed, will and map in her traveling satchel.

  “Rebeccaaaa! Rebeccaaaa!” the tones of her mother’s voice wavered distantly up the stairwell. “We have everything in the foyer. What are you doing up there? Are you ready?”

  Sliding the concealed drawer quietly back into place, she walked quickly down the balcony hall toward her bedroom. “I will be ready shortly, Mother. We still have an hour before the carriage is here.”

  “Do make some haste, daughter.”

  Passing the bathroom on the way back to her bed- room, she paused, casting a long wishful look at the tub that Sally had filled for her. Thin wisps of steam still curled from the water. Rebecca had been to sea with her father on short trading voyages to Europe and Ireland. She well knew the confined quarters of shipboard. She had procured one of only two staterooms with private baths available on the ship headed west across the ocean to the place they called America. She had bathed the previous evening. Rebecca sighed. I shall bathe tonight when settled in my room.

  Back in her bedroom, slipping on silk drawers with a split crotch, she laughed to herself. Thank God I don’t have to take all these layers off when the need for privacy arrives. She wiggled into her silk chemise, then struggled with the corset, fastening the metal bucks in front. That was such a good idea to remove the whalebone—far softer and suppler. Eyeing the stiff, dome-shaped crinoline, she hesitated. Four of my best petticoats will be far easier to travel with. She rapidly but meticulously donned the petticoats and fine dress she had laid out the previous night. The light blue satin fabric set her dark hair off smartly and fitted her form perfectly with its billow at the bottom of her hips descending to just inches above the floor. She carefully fastened diamond stud earrings and lovingly draped her favorite emerald pendant around her neck, with its gold heart-shaped picture box carrying the painted image of her father. The large pear-cut jewel hung down to the top of her cleavage, which barely peeked round and smooth above the half-moon edge of the upper portions of the frilled bodice that accentuated her breasts. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, perched her color-coordinated traveling hat at a jaunty angle on the flowing mane of her slightly wavy hair and let down the thin veil from the hat brim.

  Smiling to the mirror she announced, “America, the lady Rebecca Elizabeth Marx is about to visit.” Adjusting her hat slightly, she took a last critical look, “But only very briefly,” she added.

  Then, Rebecca descended smoothly down the staircase, dark-blue rain parasol in one hand, and her matching small traveling satchel containing her necessities and her father’s map, deed and papers in the other.

  The large, glossy black, arched, double-front doors leading to the street were partially ajar. The black carriage, shiny and immaculate with red spoke wheels, had arrived and the servants were moving the trunks from the curb to the rear baggage compartment. The Aborigines huddled with subdued expressions toward the back of the carriage.

  “At this rate, you’ll never meet a man, be married, have grandchildren for me and live a proper woman’s life.” Rebecca faced her mother. The old woman’s arms shivered with nervous emotion, her eyes had a pained worried glaze and she was wringing her hands. “This is wrong, daughter. School, then business, those voyages on dear Henry’s boats, now this.”

  Taking the few steps to Elizabeth, she corrected her softly, “Ships, Mother, not boats.”

  Reaching up with shaking hands, Elizabeth tried to straighten the already perfect square pads in the shoulders of Rebecca’s dress.

  She gently took her mother’s fidgeting fingers from her shoulders and held them. Looking directly into the wrinkled eyes, she laid her palm tenderly against her mother’s cheek. “Mother, I know what I am doing. And I am doing what I must. It is father’s wishes and an unfortunate necessity for the honor of the family. Proper is simply a state of mind. We can certainly never be proper or keep our position in London secure if we do not rescue our fortunes.”

  “But—”

  Raising a finger to her mother’s lips she shushed her. “Mother,” she said firmly, “do not despair. I shall not be gone long. And as for men, I have never met one yet, other than Father, whom I respect. If I never do, so be it. I may never marry. However, be assured, my dear Mum, that your daughter loves you and I will always be there for you.”

  Elizabeth began to sob. “I have lost dear Henry and now I shall lose you too.”

  Folding her arms around the frail heaving body, Rebecca drew her close. Bending her neck, she kissed the top of her mother’s silver gray hair, breathing in the matronly scent that had become so familiar over twenty-one years, and then stepped back.

  “I must go.” Rebecca walked briskly down the marble steps to the street. The door to the carriage compartment was open and the white-gloved, uniformed driver was holding out his hand to assist her.

  Rebecca spun to face the house staff.

  The Aborigines were nodding their farewells. Tears rolling silently down Sally’s face, she ran up and gave Rebecca a brief hug. Eve curtsied smartly. Adam walked to her and stood silently.

  “Goodbye, Adam,” said Rebecca. Raising her eyes over his head, she smiled at Sally and Eve. “I will see you all in a few months. Take care of Mother.”

  Adam, his voice deep and low, said in almost perfect, though heavily accented English, “It will be a different life mistress but you shall prosper.”

  Staring, Rebecca took a half-step backward, unsure whether his English—more than she had heard him speak at one time in the fifteen years she had known him—or his words, surprised her more.

  “Adam, I am impressed by your English. And thank you for your good wishes but I shall return before next winter.”

  Adam’s dark brown eyes looked deep into hers, and he half-smiled with a look of sad wisdom. “The power of the land and the man will hold you,” he said quietly. Rebecca stifled her laugh. “See you all in late autumn.

  Do stay well. Sally, be sure Mother has her potions every night.”

  Waving at her mother, who clung to the edge of the door, her head and shoulder resting against its edge for support, she called out, “I shall write, Mother. Wish me luck.”

  Taking the hand of the driver, she stepped up into the carriage and sat, pulling one ankle across the other and clasping her hands in her lap. The driver looked up at her through the still open door, “I understand, milady, that we’re bound for the docks in Portsmouth? The SS Edinburgh, I believe it is?”

  “Yes, driver. The SS Edinburgh it is, indeed. Let’s be off.”

  CHAPTER 11

  JANUARY 18, 1855

  PRINCESS IN PORTSMOUTH

  The deep tones of the ship’s horn and the lessening pitch of the waves of the English Channel woke Reuben. He dropped one arm off the bunk, rummaging for his timepiece. Seven a.m. He had overslept. He rushed to get dressed. He had never seen England, and they were coming into Portsmouth Harbor.

  It was a bright and chilly day. They had already sailed into the strait between the Isle of Wight and the English mainland. Gusty winds were blowing up the channel, their blustery music causing whitecaps to dance across the waters of the great harbor. A vast array of vessels, including frigates of the Royal Navy and several passenger ships like the SS Edinburgh, were either moored at countless wharfs or engaged in slow, watery waltzes with one another. Tugs and barges scuttled back and fort
h like ants attending to their queens. The scene verified all Reuben had heard about the British Empire.

  Sidling up next to him at the rail, Johannes slapped him on the back. “Quite something, eh?”

  “Good morning. Now this is a harbor. I have never seen anything like it!”

  Johannes gave his shoulder a good-humored shove and laughed deeply. “No, I would imagine a farm boy from the middle of Prussia wouldn’t have.”

  “It’s amazing. The Americans must be some tough people to have twice defeated this kind of power and commerce.”

  “I suppose we will soon see.”

  Surveying the ship, Reuben had an idea. “As I understand it, we are only in port for part of the day. Long enough to pick up some supplies, top off coal and water and disembark passengers from the continent to the British Isles. I presume there will be additional passengers from England coming on board on their way to America. I think we are due to sail for Liverpool at one p.m.”

  “Then let’s see if we can go into Portsmouth for a few hours,” suggested Johannes. “Maybe you can spend some of the money in that pouch and buy a proper breakfast for us. And we can see if there are any tall thin blondes for me, and good-looking dark-haired women for you.”

  Reuben felt himself start, “What makes you think I like dark-haired women?”

  Chuckling, Johannes winked at him. “I can tell. You’re definitely a dark-haired woman type of man.”

  Looking out over the harbor, Reuben was suddenly transported to the heat of a late spring day at the synagogue’s celebration of Sukkot, a year before. Gretchen’s hair had been dark brown, almost black, and shoulder length. He swallowed, remembering the feel of her soft curves as they moved passionately underneath him, the heat of her breasts pressed against his chest and the musky, sweet smell of her on his fingers and body.