That’s when I remembered a passage from one of my books: Never trust a gentleman with a black eye patch. Shaking off the notion, I moved to the sideboard for his rum.
As I poured, I asked, “What are you a captain of… sir?”
Shaking his head, he slurred, “Right now… nothing. But I still have my purse, thanks to you.”
Returning to his chair, I handed him the mug. After taking a large swig, he slowly reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin, which he flipped into the air in my direction.
Reaching out instinctively, I snatched it just as he added, “That’s for you, lad, for your help. But I’m still in your debt. You’re a hell of an alley fighter. You can run along now. Mr. Morrison will care for my needs.”
Looking down at the coin, I saw a new, silver Continental Dollar, a week’s wages for just a few moments of help. I was overwhelmed by his generosity.
Just then, the proprietor returned with a tray of soap, water, and towels. Nodding to the captain with a surprised smile, I thanked him and rushed out of the boarding house, clutching my good fortune.
Shortly, I was climbing the stairs to our small flat above my father’s blacksmith shop. Still excited about the events and the reward, I wanted to share the news with my family. However, when I opened the door, I found the drab main room lit only with firelight, and my father, Samuel, seated in the shadows at the eating table. In the dim light, I could see a clay jug next to him.
When I entered, he looked up at me and snarled, “Where the hell you been, boy? There’s still some stew in the pot, but it’s cold by now. You’re just too damn late.”
Taking off my coat, I hung it on a wall peg. “Why is it so dark in here? Why aren’t the lamps lit?”
Samuel snapped back, “Oil costs money, boy—money we don’t have, with the lousy wages you bring home.”
Taking a punk from the fire, I lit the candle on the mantel, and then used the candle to light the oil lamp next to a chair and the other lamp on the eating table. As I did so, I noticed a flagon in front of my father, half full of rum, with his dirty paws wrapped possessively around it.
With the light on his face, I realized just how old and pathetic he looked. He smelled of sweat, and his clothes were dirty and worn. His eyes were deep-set, with dark rings beneath them, and his black hair was matted, showing strands of gray. Not many years before, he had been regarded as a handsome and vigorous man, but now he was full of self pity. His quick downfall frightened me.
“What are you staring at?” he asked angrily.
“Father, you need to get washed up. You’re filthy.”
He took a swig from the mug. “Watch your tongue, boy. You don’t know anything. You’re not my equal.”
Just then, the bedroom door opened and my brother Frederic came into the room.
Moving towards the fire, he said, “Joseph! I’m pleased you’re home. I was getting worried. What kept you?”
In answer to his question, I told him the tale of the alley fight and the reward that I had received. Finishing, I handed the coin to him, and he examined it in the firelight.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a Continental Dollar before.”
At those words, Father surged out of his chair and snatched the dollar out of Frederic’s hand. He looked at the bright coin in the light, and then closed his large, filthy fingers around it.
When he turned to move back to the table, I blocked his path. “It’s my coin, Father, and I’ll have it back now.”
Without hesitation, Frederic joined me. “Yes, Father, it’s Joe’s money. Give it back to him.”
Father turned his head and looked at us in the flickering firelight. What he saw was my brother and me standing shoulder to shoulder, staring back at him, blink for blink. After a moment, a strange expression crossed his face; it wasn’t his usual look of anger, but one of nervous uncertainty. For the first time, I think he realized that standing before him, making this demand, were two men, not two boys.
Opening his hand, he gazed at the coin again and then flipped it to me. “Foolish pay for a foolish deed. Helping strangers is not your business. Just remember, boy – if you get hurt, I ain’t caring for ya.”
Grabbing the coin, I grinned at Frederic, thanking him silently for his support. He nodded back and returned to the bedroom.
I kept my face straight as I ate warmed up stew, while my father sat at the table in complete silence, consuming his spirits. Eventually, without another word, he got up and staggered to his bedroom.
Moving to the fire, I stoked the remaining wood, then sat and watched the flames. It had been an eventful evening. It wasn’t just the scuffle in the alley, although my quick reactions and powerful fist had surprised even me. And it wasn’t just that the mysterious captain had rewarded me so well. No, the most important thing had been how Frederic had stood up to father. This was the first time that I had seen such courage from him. Maybe – just maybe – there might yet be a future for us both.
PROSPECTS
OF ALL THE SEASONS, MY MOTHER LOVED spring the best. She called it a time of new life and of hope for new prospects. As winter faded and the flowers of spring started to bloom, I had to agree with her. It was an exciting time of both colors and smells. Now I prayed for those new prospects, as well.
Unfortunately, no new opportunities were apt to come from where I worked, as I hated my position. The job was monotonous and offered little chance for promotion. The merchant Joseph Barrel was a major importer and exporter in Boston, and I was one of five clerks that worked for him. Our task was to keep detailed accountings of each shipment in and out of port. Working with the ship manifests, we wrote out long columns of items, and then placed a value on each entry. From that total, detailed expenses were deducted so that a shipment value could be determined. I had wanted to resign many times, but Father would not hear of it, as the little money I brought home was gravely needed. So I was marooned at Barrel’s under the watchful eye of the head clerk, Mr. Crumwell.
All of the clerks worked in a cramped nook of the main offices on Commercial Street, just across from the piers. Here we had three high windows that provided light during the day; at night, we used oil lamps. Even my young eyes found the light insufficient for the detailed entries we were required to make. Many a night, I would walk home with a roaring headache from eyestrain. Further, the drab offices were part of an old brick warehouse that was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer.
Despite all of my silent complaints, there were two aspects of my position that I enjoyed. The first was reading all the ports of calls from the ships’ manifests. The places they traveled sounded exotic, and I daydreamed for hours about those ports. Someday, I hoped to travel the same sea lanes and experience the unknown.
The second aspect was more personal; her name was Becky. She was the daughter of Mr.
