Glory Over Everything (9 page)

“But where will I go?” My voice rose high.

“You got to get yo'self into the city, look around. Not gonna find no work sittin' out here. There's lots a streets full of places where white people got business. We get over there and you go on in, tell them you lookin' to work. Any kinda work you good at?”

“I'm good at reading and writing, and I can do numbers. And I know how to draw and paint. Grandmother had two of my paintings framed.” Sparks flew when Henry rearranged a log. I rubbed hard at my temples, trying to stop the thoughts from pushing through. “But they were burned up. Everything was burned up!” My voice trembled as I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory of the great flames that had taken our home. I whimpered, remembering how I had scanned the smoldering rubble for remains of Grandmother, a woman I had always thought of as my mother.

“Boy,” Henry said, “you got to let go a those things an' keep movin' on, or they take you down.”

“But I keep thinking of the fire . . . of the pain she was in!” I tried not to cry.

“She don' feel nothin' now. She gone. It's you that feelin' somethin'. You think that's what she's wantin' for you? Feelin' the hurt that she's not feelin' no more?”

My throat was too choked to answer.

“I bin through enough to know you can't carry nobody's hurt. Hard enough to carry your own.”

I nodded.

“Now we got to get back to figurin' out work for you. Is there any kinda work you can do with all that learnin' in books?”

“Well, I can paint and sketch pretty good.”

Henry grunted. “I don' know nothing 'bout that. Best we jus' get you in there. It not gon' be hard for a boy that look white as you to find hisself some work.”

The next evening Henry came home with news of a pawnshop where I could go to sell my piece of jewelry. “How 'bout we go in the morning?” he said, as easily as that.

I was so scared and angry with Henry for pressuring me to leave that I couldn't sleep that night. What if Rankin and the patrollers were still looking for me? Until now, out in the woods and under Henry's protection, I hadn't worried about anyone finding me, but what if they came looking for me in the city?

As dawn broke, Henry had me roll my few belongings inside a burlap feed bag. We were deep in a forest, and as Henry led us out through the towering oaks and pines, I started to mark a trail, bending back twigs as he had taught me to do in case I needed to find my way back, but Henry moved so quickly that I soon had to turn my attention to keeping up. We traveled for a good while before we arrived at the outskirts of the forest, where lay a well-traveled road that led into the city. There we set out on what would have been a long walk of some miles had a farmer, driving a one-horse cart, not stopped. “You wanting a ride?” he asked.

Henry nodded to me and I answered, “Yes, we would.” The driver waved me up to my rightful place on the seat beside him, while Henry found room for himself in the back of the cart.

The driver slapped the reins and the horse moved out. Once under way, he glanced over at me. “You and your man going into town?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You from these parts?”

“No, I'm from Virginia,” I answered nervously, until I remembered Henry's coaching. “If they start askin' too many questions, you start askin' some of your own.”

“Are you from here?” I asked. “I mean, is this where you were born?”

“Yessir. Born and raised, but my parents come from Germany. They're gone now, but they left me a small farm. Me and the boys, I got two of 'em, we raise some cattle and crops like these potatoes.” He nodded back toward his cargo. “We make out all right, bringing carrots and potatoes into the market whenever we got some.”

The man pulled his battered hat low over his head to shade his weathered face, and he gripped the brown leather reins as he guided his horse over the rut-filled road. “That rain last week didn't help this road,” he said. “Lucky it's dry today, though. That mud can be rough to get through.”

I bobbed my head in agreement, though I had no experience with driving or difficult road conditions. Until my recent flight from Tall Oaks, I had been so sheltered by Grandmother that in all of my thirteen years I had never left our farm.

“First time in this city?” he asked.

I nodded again. Seeing that I had little to lend to a conversation, the man began to whistle, leaving me free to look about. The wagon bounced down the rutted road that cut through a dense forest, and I was soon sorry for having no gloves, fearing splinters as I gripped tight to the side of the wooden cart. We passed by a number of small farms where the fields had been cleared and chickens wandered about the gardens and apple orchards. The farmhouses were solidly built of stone or brick, and though most were not of large size, they looked sturdy.

However, my interest soon shifted as we came closer to the outskirts of Philadelphia. Large coaches raced by our small cart, and when our driver picked up the pace, joining the pandemonium, more than once I anxiously glanced back to make sure that Henry, clinging tight, was still with us.

As we entered the city, we slowed again to merge onto the gray cobbled streets, where I gaped in disbelief at the towering three- and four-story brick buildings that lined the streets. On my flight from Tall Oaks, I had been so frightened and then so ill that I had scarcely taken note of any town that our coach drove through. But now, wholly alert, I stared about at the frantic pace of the city as we passed row upon row of vast buildings, most of which had overlarge signs announcing their wares: tobacco and segars, coffee, boots and shoes. I had never imagined so many offerings all in one place.

When we arrived at Market Street, huge green awnings stretched out over brick walkways to shelter what was offered for sale. Men, women, and children, many burdened with multiple baskets, called out to one another, adding to the bedlam as they scurried among the stalls. We passed first the fishmongers, the smell of fish ripe in the air, and then the farmers selling their vegetables, heaped high in barrels and boxes. Next to them, women wrapped in white aprons sold butter, cheese, and brown and white eggs. From my wagon seat, I could see butchers in bloody aprons farther on down, cutting away at slabs of red meat while customers waited in line.

Our driver pulled his horse to a stop under one of the awnings, then leaped down to hitch his horse in such a way that the back of the cart could serve as a stall for his produce. After we thanked the driver for the ride, Henry led us away while I stumbled over my own feet as I gawked.

It took a while before we found Lombard Street, but the storefront sign displaying three prominent balls, the mark of a pawnshop, was easy to find. I hesitated at the door when Henry insisted I go in alone. Fingering the ring in my pocket, I felt a sudden reluctance to sell it. Would Grandmother be angry with me for doing this? Yet I needed to find work and a place to stay. I reminded myself that I had other pieces of her jewelry sewn into the lining of my jacket, so I took a deep breath and stepped into the shop.

The vendor was eager to have the ring, and any hesitation I had quickly left when a good-sized purse was offered in exchange for the jewelry. It felt like a small fortune, and on my exit, I greeted Henry with a smile as I held up my gain.

He frowned. “You bes' put that away!” he said, and though I quickly put it in my pocket, he scolded, “What happen to you back at the tavern? You don' learn nothin'?”

“I just wanted you to see—” I said.

“I don' need to see nothin',” he said.

At another time I might have felt the sting of his criticism more acutely, but since I had achieved success with the sale, my mood was light. “Let's go back to where we came in—to Market Street,” I said. “There was so much to see.”

“Don't forget, you lookin' for work,” Henry said.

“Today?” I said.

“Winter comin',” he reminded me.

Even though his words sobered me, I could not stop my growing excitement as I stared at all there was around me.

“Look at this!” I pointed out to Henry over and over again, and more than once Henry quietly reminded me to keep moving if I stopped short to observe shoppers or tradesmen at their work.

We were not far from Market Street when I caught sight of a beautiful window display. Through a large pane of glass, sun shone in on two silver birds, posed as though they were strutting about, their long tails dragging down behind them. “Look!” I said to Henry. “Silver peacocks!”

Henry moved in for a better look.

“Grandmother had two silver birds just like these. They always sat on our dining room table, but when I was younger, she let me play with them. She said that they had been purchased in Philadelphia!” I thrilled at the sudden remembrance. “Do you think they made them here?” I asked, but Henry only shrugged indifferently.

I looked up at the sign overhead. “Burton's Silversmith.” Then I noticed a sign set to the side of the birds. “The sign says that they need help,” I said.

Henry brightened. “You got to go on in,” he urged. “I wait out here.”

“You want me to go in there? Now?”

“Good a place as any.”

With no job skills to offer, I was embarrassed to present myself, but I decided to at least make a show of it to appease Henry.

A bell startled me when it rang on my entry, and an older man, seated at a table behind a counter, looked up. Though he continued to polish a silver object, he glanced at me over spectacles that sat on the end of his short nose. He was seated beside a window, and the sun shone through his white hair that circled out from around the pale bald top of his head. I turned to the display case in front of me, filled with snuffboxes and watch chains, but something else had caught my eye. I went closer in and saw the same tubular whittling knife that I had taken from my home at Tall Oaks and now carried in my pocket. I leaned down to get a better view.

The man put down his polishing tool. “May I assist you?” he asked.

“I have one just like that,” I said, enthused to see another familiar object.

“The apple corer?” he asked, giving it a name.

“Yes,” I said, tapping on the case, “an apple corer. One such as this. I use it to whittle.”

He scraped back his stool as he stood. “Would you like to see it?” he asked.

“No,” I said, stepping back, alarmed that I had misrepresented myself. “I . . . I saw those birds in the window. They are splendid! My grandmother has the same, although hers are smaller. Did you make them here?”

“We did,” he said.

“How did you do it?” I asked, shaking my head in wonder.

“Are you interested in becoming a silversmith?” he asked, peering at me over his glasses.

“Is that what your sign is for? You want someone to help you make silver?”

“One doesn't make silver, young man, one works with silver. We pour it, we shape it, we hammer it, but we do not make it.”

Though he was direct, there was a kindness to the man, and because of it, I dared ask my next question. “Could I learn how to make birds like that?” I asked, pointing back toward the window display.

“You are seeking employment?” He scanned my clothing and gave a quick look at my affected eye.

“Yes,” I said. “I need to work.”

“And what, sir, do you have for education?” he asked.

“I am good at reading and writing and mathematics. Oh, and I know some Latin.” His close scrutiny made me uncomfortable, and I glanced back at the birds in the window. “And I can carve a true likeness,” I said, quickly withdrawing from my burlap bag two miniature birds and a rabbit I had whittled recently. I placed them on the counter.

“Oh!” he said in surprise. He picked them up and held them to the light to study their silhouette. “These are quite remarkable,” he said, but again he looked at my affected eye. “Does your eye give you trouble when you do close-up work? Does it tire easily?”

“No,” I said, “my eye is good.”

He set the rabbit down on the counter, then positioned the birds on either side of it. He fussed with their placement until he was satisfied, then stepped back to look at them again. “As miniatures, these are quite exceptional,” he repeated.

Quickly, I dug out my sketchbook. “I'm good at drawing birds, but I can draw other things as well.”

He took the small pad from my hand and slowly paged through, then closed it and handed it back to me.

“I didn't have paint,” I said, “they would be much better—”

He raised his hand to stop me. “You have quite a talent, young man.”

I saw hope. “Could I work here, then?”

“Tell me, where are you from?” he asked.

The question so startled me that my mouth went dry. “I'm from Virginia,” I said, “and I need to work.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, let me put it to you this way. You say you wish employment, and it appears you have a great talent. I believe you could be well suited to this work. Your speech and dress suggest a certain refinement, but the scent of you and the outright dirt on your clothing have me questioning what you are about.”

I looked down at myself. I had always been particular in my clothing and fastidious in my personal grooming, but in these past weeks out in the woods, I had forgotten my careful habits. I reached up and smoothed back my long hair, which had not seen water nor a brush since I had lost my satchel. What had I been thinking, to present myself this way? My face was hot when I turned away, but as I hastened for the exit, he called out, “Young man!”

I stopped to look back, my face burning.

“Cleanliness is what I am after. If you are interested, do as I suggest, then come back to see me before the week is up.”

Wanting only to escape, I nodded, then made a quick exit. Henry caught up to me as I briskly walked ahead. “The man got no work?”