against us for whatever reason, it would be a disaster.”
Lincoln shook his head, walking away from Welles. “Then we must intercede. For I believe this poor nation is just one disaster short of defeat.”
Chapter 6
Crehan and Sons, Watchmakers
Brooklyn, New York
Politics held no interest for Robert Owen. For that matter, nothing did except acting and the South. The two had combined to captivate him, to seduce his soul and turn him into the worst possible romantic—the passionate youth. He had gone to Richmond as the lowest member of an itinerant band of actors and, on the fourth performance of an unwieldy melodrama, had been approached by the Januarys. His help was needed, and he would be expected to travel.
Strangely, the journey began in Brooklyn some months ago.
The doorbell announced Owen’s entrance into the cluttered watchmaker’s shop, and signaled the tall Negro behind the counter that he had a customer.
“Good day,” the Negro said, nearly obscured by the gloomy interior of the shop. “I am Crehan.”
Owen nodded in return, uncertain about how to proceed feeling, despite the fact that January had sent him to Crehan, foolish and very nervous.
The watchmaker stepped from behind the counter, visible now in the light of the afternoon sun that filtered through a grimy window.
There was a heavy closeness about the cramped confines of the shop. Owen was surrounded by counters and shelves—cluttered with watches, clocks, mainsprings, keys, faces, plates, and frames. And the man himself, Crehan—the black skin on his face sagging, his shoulders barely supporting his head, and his eyes, lumps of coal amid fields of snow, gave no sign of life. The man was stupid, Owen decided, and yet did not have the sense to realize it. It was the nature of his race. Owen found his courage, and stiffened it with arrogance.
“Mr. January sent me,” he said, looking for any sign that the mention of the great actor’s name would rouse the watchmaker’s interest.
It did not. “I thought you would be along shortly.”
Owen was startled. “How did you know I—”
“Someone,” Crehan corrected Owen’s misunderstanding. “He told me he would have someone come by.”
“My name is Robert Owen.” He was careful to state his name in a slow manner, keeping his diction clear. Be proud of every word, January instructed. Deliver your lines so that each word stands as importantly as its neighbor. Your audience will note how each is prized and presented to them.
“How do you do, Mr. Owen?” Crehan said.
“Very well,” Owen returned, and then grew impatient. He should not be passing the time of day with this Negro. He was here for a purpose. “I am instructed by Mr. January to retrieve a package.” He felt he was being stern enough.
Crehan did not bother to respond. He returned to the counter, searched through some cabinets, and carefully removed a box hidden among a nest of parts. He placed it on the counter, gently opened the box, and looked at Owen—a signal to approach.
Owen kept his face expressionless. He had no idea what to expect, was too timid to ask January what the device was, but was certain he did not want a Negro questioning January’s trust in him.
Crehan lifted the machine—it was a clock of sorts, Owen could see that—and set it on the counter. He held up a brass key. “Insert this key here, in this keyhole.” Owen was irritated to note that Crehan moved with deliberation, as if teaching an idiot. “Rotate it four times.” The Negro did so, counting. “One, two, three, four. Remove the key.” He pointed at a tab jutting from the frame. “Engage the gears.” There was a muted click as his finger slid the mechanism forward. “Set the clock, and the timer.”
“Timer?” Owen said, forgetting his vow.
“I followed the drawing exactly,” Crehan said.
“Yes,” Owen replied, embarrassed he knew nothing of the machine. It galled him that a Negro had to instruct him. The act violated every notion of his superiority.
Crehan returned the clock to its box, closed the lid, and pushed it toward Owen.
The young man took it, trying to look confident, and said, “Our business is done, then?”
“Except,” Crehan said, “for the others.”
“Of course,” Owen said, feeling foolish. He fought to retain his dignity. “I meant this device only.”
“We are done, yes.”
Owen turned and left the shop, relieved to be out in the sunlight, away from the dull nigger, out of the dusty shadows of the watchmaker’s hovel. He despised men who did not know their place—men who did not have the common decency to accept the task that God had laid out for them. He did not acknowledge it—Owen was too young to accept the responsibility of life’s truth—but men such as Crehan threatened his superior role. There was no question that his class as a gentleman entitled him to deference from the coloreds, and the Irish. His color, the skin of the ruling class, his God-given role as guardian of humanity, guaranteed his station above his inferiors.
Then why, Owen allowed the troubling thought to slip through, did he find that nigger’s manner insulting? He corrected himself—why did he feel that Crehan was, in that brief exchange, superior?
Owen retreated to the familiar territory of his instructions. He would travel to Quebec, carrying the strange device that was so important, to Royal January, and in doing so prove himself worthy of January’s favor. The warmth of Victoria January’s smile, rising as the sun over her brother’s shoulder, filled Owen with expectation. She captivated him with her beauty—he was thrilled when she spoke to him, unashamed to blush when her hand fell lightly on his as she sought his attention. Owen knew that Royal January was pleased with his interest in Victoria; he had seen the famous actor out of the corner of his eye, smiling. Yet he was careful to observe the proprieties when he spoke to Victoria. She was a lady and could not be approached except with all the courtesy due her class.
Owen fumbled for his watch, aware that he had lost himself to a swirl of intoxicating daydreams. He must find a cab and get to the station. He slid the watch into his waistcoat pocket, smoothed the material, and set out.
Crehan went through the routine of closing his shop. He pulled the flimsy green shades and unfolded the louvered shutters across the windows. He lowered the lamps, turning the keys until the last glimmer of flame disappeared from the edge of the wick. He lit the remaining lamp, the one that always sat on a small, round table near the stairway, and carried it up the steps. His footfalls were slow, burdened, the steady thump of a heart that had nearly reached its end.
He entered the second story of the shop, stopping in the first of two adjoining rooms. Setting the lamp on the floor, he opened a window facing the street. The sounds of carriages, wagons, and the clack of horses’ hooves striking the paving stones flooded the room. The cool air followed, dispersing the stench of sickness that hung in the dark room.
He did the same in the other room—the bedroom—used to the stink of soiled bedclothes. He knew that the smell would soon dissipate,
