Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  “Oh, I…I am going to stay with a relative. I am sure their carriage is out front.”

  “Well then, let’s find that coach of yours.” Picking up her trunk, he balanced it on one shoulder, took her hand and led her through the crowd.

  Sarah was not quite sure how to handle the situation. I want to be away from this man but what gracious way can I employ to separate? And now he has my trunk. Weaving through the multitude of people, she looked back for Reuben. Perhaps he will realize I need assistance.

  “What are ya lookin’ for, lassie?” said Jacob over his shoulder.

  “Nothing, nothing,” replied Sarah, “I was just trying to see if that poor woman who lost her children disembarked yet.”

  Reaching the street, Jacob looked up and down the thoroughfare. “Where is that carriage of yours, Sarah?”

  Fidgeting with the folds in her dress and clutching her valise tight to her stomach, she craned her neck as if to search the long line of wagons, carriages and buggies. She knew her face was pale when she turned back to Jacob and said, “I don’t see it.”

  Jacob grinned. “Well, then, no sense leaving you stranded here in the cold. My cousin Samuel should be here with his wagon if my letter got here before the Edinburgh. He delivers milk, so he must know the city. We will drop you off. If he doesn’t show, I’ll find us a carriage for hire. Where did you say you were going?”

  “I didn’t say. I am sure my aunt will be along.”

  Jacob had not lowered her trunk. “You can sit in the wagon with us until she arrives. We’ll wait with you. I’m too much the gentleman to allow a beautiful woman to be alone in an unknown crowd in a strange city.”

  Though sensing the disingenuous irony in Jacob’s tone, she could come up with no choice but to follow him.

  Walking down the line of carriages, Jacob suddenly raised his free arm and waved. “Yo there, Samuel.”

  From the mill of horse-drawn transportation, a man raised his hand in response. The weathered wood of the side panels of Samuel’s milk wagon had ragged holes where pieces of the planking had fallen out. Empty milk crates were piled in the wagon bed. A film of grime covered the wagon. Two thin horses were hanging their heads listlessly and appeared not to have been curried in months. Samuel resembled Jacob but older, with a huge potbelly and the florid complexion of a heavy drinker.

  He grunted, “‘Bout time. You’re damn lucky. That limey Navy sop just delivered your letter yesterday.” His eyes fixed on Sarah. “Didn’t write nuthin’ ‘bout no woman.”

  “This is Miss Sarah Bonney. We met on the ship. Isn’t she a delightful wisp of a redhead?”

  The eyes of both men roving over her body, Sarah felt a hot blush rise in her cheeks and a queasy feeling in her stomach.

  Twenty minutes elapsed. Sarah continuing to pretend to search for her transportation. Far down the line of carriages, she saw Reuben helping Rebecca with her luggage.

  “She must have gotten the date wrong.”

  Following her stare and line of sight to Rebecca and Reuben, Jacob looked at her thoughtfully. “Well, let us drop you off. We can’t leave a lady here alone with no ride, right Samuel?”

  Raising bleary eyes to Jacob, Samuel slid them to Sarah and grunted. “What’s the address, then, lassie? We’ll get you there safely.”

  Feeling trapped, Sarah could still think of no plausible alternative or excuse. Besides, he has my trunk…and Reuben is…busy. “I am headed to my aunt’s shop. She is a seamstress. I will be working with her and will live with her in the apartment above the store.”

  “Well, now, that is all fine information lass, but we need an address if we are to get you to your aunt.”

  Glancing back at Rebecca and Reuben in the distance, she felt a pang of jealousy mixed with apprehension. What harm can it do? She rationalized with herself. I shan’t see him again anyway.

  Without looking at Jacob, she said, “East 42nd Street, off 7th Avenue, please.”

  Smiling strangely, Jacob winked at Samuel. “You heard the lady. Let’s get this sorry crate rolling.”

  CHAPTER 17

  MARCH 2, 1855

  THE MAYOR’S CARRIAGE

  Stomping her foot with impatience, eyes darting up and down the line of coaches, Rebecca complained, “I am soooo irritated.”

  Standing to the side and slightly behind her, Reuben smiled at her outburst while allowing himself to soak in every detail of her figure and clothing. In disregard of the fashions of the day, Rebecca had replaced the flared skirts for one with a smooth-fitting front. Her small waist eliminated the need for a corset. The wide pagoda sleeves of her dark, wool, traveling suit were trimmed with black satin braids. This contrasted with the narrow fitted under-sleeves of black, gathered at the wrist, which matched the small collar. She wore a knee-length black, velvet, traveling coat, lined and trimmed at the edges with fur. It secured with heavy brocade hook-and-eye closures in front. She was beautiful.

  “My father and Ferdinando Wood conducted shipping business together years ago, until Mister Wood was elected to their Parliament over here, and recently became mayor. One would think a mayor would be better organized.”

  “Congress,” Reuben corrected. “The Americans call it Congress, and I am quite sure neither the mayor nor anyone else could forget you, Mistress Marx.”

  Rebecca wheeled to face Reuben. With glittering eyes, she snapped, “It is bad enough, Mister Frank, to have to deal with leaving England for this ragged frontier…,” she paused to give the city and harbor a sweeping look of disgust, “…without your impolite sarcasm. I am simply not accustomed to waiting.”

  For a beautiful woman, she certainly has a sharp tongue! Reuben continued to watch her when she turned back to the street to resume her search. He glanced behind him at the four men who had each lugged a trunk or two, amusing himself with the thought that Rebecca’s collection of luggage was so monumental it must have constituted at least half the storage in the hold. A number of carefully crafted valises sat near the six huge ornate trunks with intricate hand scrolling and silverwork. Together they spread out nearly five yards along the curb.

  “There it is! That is my carriage!” Rebecca gestured above the crowd out to Bowery Street, where a carriage replete with flags, the coat of arms of the city of New York, two plumed horses and a uniformed driver was prancing toward them.

  Turning to Rebecca, he laughed. “Should have brought some mules with you, too.” She stared at him blankly. He laughed again, more deeply.

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t quite understand. Explain yourself please,” she demanded in a petulant voice.

  She seems intrigued by my voice but I sense I annoy her. “Haven’t spent much time in the country, have you?” queried Reuben, straining under the weight of the first trunk.

  “No,” said Rebecca. “The country lacks the culture of the city.”

  Casting a sideways glance at her, he spoke quietly. “Land, not people, is the root of culture.”

  Reaching the rear of the carriage, he levered the first trunk on board, then frowned at the driver who hadn’t lifted a hand to assist. “Tie off that line, and help me with the lady’s trunks.”

  The driver, startled at the directive, shot a questioning look toward Rebecca.

  Following a surprised glance at Reuben, Rebecca gave a nod.

  Together they loaded the baggage while Rebecca watched. The assorted pieces filled the carriage to overflowing.

  “Be careful with that; there is china in there!”

  Snapping his eyes toward her, Reuben shook his head incredulously. “China? You mean as in teacups and saucers?”

  “Of course. Thank you, Reuben.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I am afraid that after some time as the guest of the mayor, I will have to leave the city to take care of some matters.” She sighed with resignation. “My father recently died and left some business interests here that I am forced to attend to…” she caught herself, “…in this place.�
� Sweeping her arm, she looked around with an air of scarcely veiled contempt.

  “What type of business and where?” pressed Reuben. “Are you staying in New York?”

  Rebecca’s face stiffened. “No, slightly west of here,” she said curtly, offering nothing further.

  Taking her hand, he bowed from the waist, raising her wrist to his lips. The shadow on her features vanished, replaced by a rose hue.

  Reuben flashed a broad grin. “I sincerely hope that our paths cross again.”

  Smiling faintly as she turned, she said without emotion, “I suppose anything is possible, though I would doubt it.” Raising her long skirts, she stepped up into the carriage with Reuben’s assistance.

  CHAPTER 18

  MARCH 2, 1855

  UNCLE HERMAN

  The carriage rolled away. The mayor’s colors snapping smartly in the wind, the two meticulously groomed black horses prancing with streamlined precision. Their plumed heads bobbed each time their hooves struck the street with the shallow reverberation of horseshoes on stone. Rebecca sat stiff and erect, her back several inches from the rear of the seat, her profile outlined by the opposite carriage window. Reuben thought she slid her eyes toward him as the coach pulled away from the curb but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Colder than an ice block in the milk house,” he muttered to himself and then headed back to the dock where Johannes was waiting with their duffels and the map case. He wove his way through hundreds of people who milled and moved in every direction, staggering under the burden of luggage, trunks and satchels of every size and description.

  “Sorry that took so long,” Reuben said to Johannes when he finally reached him.

  “I could see glimpses of the two of you and her entourage whenever this throng parted or whenever there were short people in front of me.

  “She is undoubtedly the most aloof, most arrogant—” Johannes cut Reuben off, “You mean you like her.”

  Reuben’s head snapped up and he felt that familiar tingle as his eye color began to change from green to gray, “I don’t mean any such thing. I will never see her again, anyway.”

  Catching the mischievous twinkle in Johannes eyes, he realized his friend’s solemn expression was feigned. He relaxed. “You’ll get yours, Johannes. Now come on; we have other things to do.”

  “We?”

  “I thought you might like to accompany me to my uncle’s home. It will be an hour or more carriage ride but I understand the house is quite comfortable. He left the farm when he was twenty-two and joined the army. He was an officer in the cavalry but was wounded and discharged. He moved to America with my aunt eleven years ago, though she died soon thereafter. Uncle Hermann and I have to discuss the trip west and some other family matters. I’m sure you would be most welcome.”

  Johannes smiled, shifted from one foot to the other, and his eyebrows arched. “The Prussian cavalry was well-known.” Clearing his throat, he looked down the street. “I was just going to sling my duffel and walk from the docks until I found a good, cheap, rundown hotel. I thought we would simply meet up later sometime.”

  “No sense in that. Besides, I have an idea I want to discuss with you. Come on; grab your stuff. Let’s take in our first taste of America.”

  Johannes and Reuben hauled their gear to the street, hailing a small surrey that was waiting for passengers in a long line of other similar commercial carriages. Reuben noticed few of the immigrants solicited a ride. Most were walking off in various directions, struggling with bags.

  They loaded their duffels in the carriage. “157th Street, off Kingsbridge Road, please,” Reuben called out to the driver. The driver leaned down and peered back into the surrey window. “That’s a long ways from here, mate. Not gonna be cheap.”

  Reuben waved his hand. “You’ll get paid.”

  The surrey bounced and clattered on the cobblestones. Occasionally the hard pavement would end in a long expanse of dirt or gravel. Johannes was leaning half out the window as transfixed as Reuben by the sights, sounds, buildings and energy of New York City.

  “Have you ever seen this many people in such a hurry?” Reuben wondered aloud.

  “Can’t say I have. Looks like coronation day for the king.”

  “And what country would that be the king of?”

  Johannes shot him a dour but good-humored look and then returned his eyes to the passing streetscape.

  The first part of the ride was through a seamy section of the city. People were dressed crudely, street urchins played and screamed in the street, and the signs on the shops were mostly weathered and in need of paint. Then they turned on Broadway and traveled through an area of higher buildings, many of them of newer brick or stone. Storefronts with the latest fashions and large glass windows lined the sidewalks; women in fine dresses and men with top hats and suits scurried from one mysterious destination to the next.

  Eventually, they were moving through much less imposing sections of the city. The buildings were lower, few over two stories. There were trees here and there and the walls of the structures were separated by several feet of space, rather than connected along an entire face of city block. The city-like feel of neighborhoods began to change, brightened by the green of occasional small yards. The blocks became clearly more residential and a three- to five-yard separation became commonplace between the houses.

  The carriage turned off the Kingsbridge Road onto 157th Street. The lawns were larger; well-kept masonry homes were set back five to ten yards from the curb, and rows of mature, perfectly spaced oak and elm trees lined both edges of the narrow, gravel street surface.

  “I think this is it, driver,” Reuben called out. The driver tightened up on the lines and the horses came to a halt in front of a two-story brick home with large stone ledgers under tall, arched windows with panes separated by bright, white, painted mullions.

  They unloaded their bags, and as Reuben was paying the driver, the front door opened. A man with a build similar to Reuben’s and the same wavy hair but peppered with gray, walked out on the covered porch with a noticeable limp.

  “Is that your uncle?”

  Straightening up from the bags, Reuben nodded. “Uncle Hermann,” he called out to the man who now stood outside the front door.

  Uncle Hermann waved and then beckoned at them. Reuben smiled when he spoke in German, “Good to see you, Reuben. You were no higher than my thigh the last time I visited. I see you brought a friend. Good. Good. Come in.”

  Reuben and Johannes lugged their bags through the front door. The home was comfortable but not ostentatious. Fine, distinctly European furniture and stuffed chairs in medium floral designs, along with several woven rugs, were scattered about. Subdued oil paintings of Villmar and the farm adorned the walls. One portrait was of Uncle Hermann and Ludwig standing with their arms over each other’s shoulders on the banks of the Lahn. It hung in a scrolled gold frame over a brick fireplace with a heavy, dark stained, oak mantel.

  Introductions were made. Johannes walked back to the front door to move the duffels. Reuben noticed Uncle Hermann studying Johannes carefully, his uncle giving the slightest nod of his head as if satisfied with the answer to some internal question he had posed to himself.

  Since the death of Uncle Hermann’s wife, Gertrude, he had lived alone except for one servant, a very heavyset Negro woman, Mae, who was cheerful and attentive. Mae prepared a huge dinner of pheasant, mashed potatoes, gravy and corn bread, and stood off to the side of the table with a broad smile as the three men consumed huge quantities of food, occasionally smacking their lips, raising their eyes up from their plates, and nodding approval to her.

  After dinner, Reuben turned to Johannes as they were getting up from the table. “Johannes, I need to spend time with my uncle to review some family matters. Can you keep yourself amused?”

  “I think I will take a walk through the neighborhood to see the sights and sounds. Perhaps there will be a tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed maiden out there for an evening stro
ll.”

  Reuben and his uncle spent a half hour talking in the parlor over cognac. Uncle Hermann finished his third snifter, reached over and put his hand on Reuben’s knee. “Ah my boy, you do remind me of my brother in many ways. It has been wonderful to hear the news of the farm but we have business to attend to. Come up to my study.”

  Uncle Hermann’s study was almost identical to Ludwig’s. Floor-to-ceiling black walnut bookcases crammed with volumes occupied three walls. Three great, overstuffed chairs were gathered around a walnut coffee table. A roll top writing desk was centered under the one window. Reuben felt a nostalgic pang. “Uncle Hermann, this reminds me of home.”

  Sinking down in one of the chairs, Uncle Hermann chewed on the stem of his cherry pipe, peering sharply at Reuben. “This country is now your home, nephew. Now, tell me what you know. What has your father told you?”

  He listened intently to Reuben’s understanding of the family’s aspirations for expansion of the cattle business in America, and they pored over the maps. Then his uncle fell silent.

  Paying studious attention to the bowl as it tapped against the ash box, Uncle Hermann knocked the ashes from the pipe. He finally looked up. “It is a very dangerous and unforgiving place that you are going to,” he said quietly in German. “There is no law. There are great tracts of land but there are Indians, extreme weather, thieves and men without conscience. I fear this country may come to arms over the slavery issue. The conflict could spread even to the remote west. No one has adhered to the Compact of 1830. There are many who want to extend slavery north of the 30th Parallel, which the compact set as a boundary for legal use of slaves in commerce. The 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act passed just last year and has merely stirred a deeper rift over the issues. There has been violence in the east half of the Kansas Territory over the last six months.