Chapter 9
The Meadowlark docked at last in Hamburg, after the rest of the journey had been uneventful. The seas had relaxed somewhat as the weather warmed, though never attained the ease of silk that her brother had promised her. At least, the spring day was bright and sunny, with only a few billowy clouds decorating the sky. The ailing Netherlanders were helped ashore by a group of barefoot deckhands. These kindly kept any comments to themselves, and wished the pair a good journey home. The man, much thinner than he had been at the outset of the voyage, offered small coins to each of them. He and his wife had never emerged during the pirate attack, and had queried why the ship had felt as though it had bumped into something while plying the Irish Sea. The captain was very glad to see them go.
James himself led other hands in helping Margaret and Hettie to debark with all their luggage. He reached into his own pouch to distribute tips to his fellow crew. Margaret thanked them all warmly. Hettie said fond farewells to a few, including Ian and a couple of the other Irish soldiers. Margaret was amused to watch them swarm her. Her maid may have been considered plain of face, but her charm brought her numerous admirers and friends, more than Margaret had, if truth be told. She loved Hettie dearly, and was pleased to see others appreciate her.
“This way!” James said. “Your bags will follow us when the carter is free.” He had put on shoes to come ashore, and his clubbed hair was freshly washed in seawater. Margaret couldn’t wait to reach her hostelry and have a bath.
The quay teemed with men and a very few women, all in workaday woolens and linens, mostly dyed in shades of brown, dark green, ecru, and black. Here and there, Margaret spotted some clothes in surprisingly vivid colors, almost always on the backs of folk who walked with an air of inner confidence that she had come to associate with the Americans. She even spotted three who wore the blue denim of Rita’s enviable skirt. Margaret assessed the locals as she passed. They couldn’t all have been folk from the future, as Rita and her family each seemed to have brilliantly intact smiles, and most of the people here brandished teeth in shades from yellow to black, often with large gaps in between. She made a note to ask what the connection might be between the two groups when she had a chance to sit down with her friends.
Little fashionable clothing was to be seen in the busy streets immediately adjacent to the port, nor inland a street or so to where the inn was located. These domiciles housed people of the working class. The gentry must have been farther inland and uphill. Margaret stuck close behind her brother, keeping her cloak from brushing the narrow stone walls, daubed as they were with grime and lichen. A donkey-drawn cart that looked far too wide for the passage came barreling toward them with a stout, red-faced man on the seat. James pulled both of them up a stone stoop and into a doorway to make way. The gray-feathered geese in the woven cages on the wagon hissed at them as he passed.
“It’s as bad as the Shambles!” Margaret exclaimed. The legendary maze of streets in York had been one of her first trips out of Stoke with their father.
“Smells nicer, though,” James said. “You’ll learn soon enough that England falls behind the continent in cleanliness. Here we are.”
Washington’s Crossing was the name of the inn, and the image on the large painted hanging sign was one that Margaret had seen reproduced in a penny paper: a man in a tricornered hat and wrapped in a fluttering cloak standing in the bow of a rowboat. Although histories that had come from the future identified the man as the first president of the United States, she didn’t truly see how Mike Stearns connected to George Washington. Again, more questions. She hoped she could remember to ask about everything she wanted to know. Lady Mailey would be put to the test, in sooth. Apart from that, it was nothing fancy at all. Inside, a host of men, some in naval uniforms but most of them in the same kind of garments as James, sat at long, rough-planked tables, drinking from tall ceramic cups that had hinged lids, and pulling bread and meat from platters to eat in hearty mouthfuls.
“Herr de Beauchamp!” A round-cheeked woman with blonde braids wound over her ears beamed at James and set her tray down on the nearest table. That was the last of the words that Margaret could understand as the lady swooped down on James and enveloped him in a powerful hug. James emitted a few phrases in German too rapid to follow. The lady let him go and wrapped her arms around Margaret in a rib-cracking embrace. Hettie stayed a pace behind, as was proper, but the lady hugged her, too.
“Wilkommen!” the blonde woman boomed, setting them back on their feet.
“I didn’t know this was a custom in the Germanies,” Margaret gasped, getting her breath back.
James laughed. “Frau Engelmann is an old friend! On my first voyage here, she took pity on a poor, confused English sailor boy who got lost in these streets, gave me a square meal and my first words in Deutsch. Her cooking’s well known in these parts. It’s plain but very good.”
They took seats at a table that was under the open window. Though a brisk and cool breeze came in from the direction of the sea, Margaret was glad to sit on something that wasn’t moving. The sturdy wooden bench underneath her had been worn smooth from use, and the tabletop bore the results of countless bored patrons with knives. “Ich lieve Freya,” which even Margaret could tell was misspelled, lay at the edge closest to her right hand.
Frau Engelmann arrived and set down a tray with a thump. She dealt out three of the massive earthenware cups and placed a platter between them laden with food.
“Wurst, sauerkraut, bread of course, and roasted potatoes,” James explained. He took his knife from his belt and speared a mighty grilled sausage on the tip. He bit into it with every expression of pleasure. “Have some!” he added, through a mouthful. Margaret didn’t bother to chide him for poor table manners. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” had been quoted to her time and again by Lady Pierce. Though it originated from a Papist saint, it seemed very sound advice.
She and Hettie had their own utensils they carried wrapped in a cloth in Hettie’s reticule. With careful knife and fork, Margaret sawed a piece from one of the sausages and sampled it. The spices were unfamiliar but very savory.
“It is delicious,” she declared, urging Hettie to help herself. The maid reluctantly took a small piece of meat. Her eyes widened as the flavor touched her tongue. Hettie needed no further urging, and though she waited for her mistress to take food first, she dined heartily. Even the sauerkraut, spiced with caraway seeds, was met with wordless sounds of approval.
“Their bread is heavy, but it is as good as anything Mistress Barden makes in Barlaston!”
Hettie’s words emerged in a sudden lull in the conversation. Many people glanced her way. Almost all of them went back to their private talk.
A couple of rough-looking men had come in about that moment, and took seats near the door. One had longish black hair, framing a hawklike face, and the other was rounder with fair hair. The two kept glancing at the Englishwomen. Margaret felt alarm. She remembered how vulnerable she and Hettie were, alone in a strange country. James could defend against one or two assailants, but he wasn’t going to accompany her on her onward journey. She hoped that Rita’s promise of safety wasn’t an empty one.
Margaret swallowed her fear along with a draught of the innkeeper’s ale. Her father’s daughter was not going to be put in dread by a couple of strangers, who were no doubt minding their own business. She trusted that, with normal precautions, she and Hettie would find the Germanies to be as civilized as Rita promised, and that they would arrive in Grantville safely.
She lowered her voice and leaned close to James. By now, the two men had looked away, but something about them troubled her. She made a mental note of their faces.
“Do you know them?” she asked.
James essayed a casual glance toward the door.
“No one I’ve ever seen before. I’ll ask Frau Englemann.” He sauntered to the bar with a coin held between his fingers. The innkeeper met him with a smile, and exchanged a few words with him. He came back, looking relieved.
“She said they’re regular customers,” James explained. “They’ve been in for a meal the last four or five days. They give no trouble.”
“That’s a relief,” Margaret said, and dismissed them from her mind. “Where do we find the steam tug that Mistress Rita mentioned?”
James tilted his head toward the door of the inn. “It’s half a street’s length downhill from here. Sooner or later, you’ll hear the screeches of the ship’s whistle, sounds like tortured souls. It’s the great beast coming in to dock. It’s one of the wonders of the world, a boat driven not by oars or wind, but by steam! It can cover ground faster than a horse can gallop and carry fifty men for miles without stopping.”
Considering the tiny flashlight that she carried in her hidden pocket Margaret didn’t doubt for a moment that her brother was right. She knew the Americans were capable of miracles.
The next day, after a refreshing bath and a change of clothes, James led Margaret back to the waterfront to meet the merchants with whom the Meadowlark traded and receive the shipment that they had brought from England. One of them, Herr Christiansen, a small, fussy man with a bulbous nose and a florid pink complexion, was dismissive of the sister of a mere ship’s mate, but Herr Schwartz, long-faced and dressed all in somber black, offered her a friendly smile, and even praised her attempts to speak German and Amideutsch. Schwartz showed them around the warehouse. It had a surprisingly narrow front, but the building extended a very long way back, much like the townhouses in London. Margaret guessed that the businesses were taxed on their frontage. No limit seemed to be placed on height, though, as the ceiling swooped up at least thirty feet. The smooth wooden floors had been freshly swept, and the inventory on hand sorted with neat placards written in black ink in the difficult but beautiful German hand.
“Hey-up!” A worker looked up from assisting a customer and gestured toward the double doors.
“The delivery is here from the Meadowlark!” James declared. He ran to help the merchants’ boys open the doors wide. A couple of oxen ambled slowly inside, drawing a heavy goods wagon laden with muslin-wrapped bales. The potent smell of lanolin rising from the fresh cloth reminded Margaret of home. Jacky, one of the deck hands, grinned at Margaret from the board and pulled the brake. The oxen, dull-eyed, came to a stolid halt.
James clambered nimbly up to the top of the pile and cut the ropes holding the bales in place with his belt knife. Together, he and the ship’s hands tossed them to the ground. Each of the bales represented a legal weight of cloth as marked by the import officials, and Margaret was proud of the contents. Her family’s weavers were among the best in England.
Herr Schwartz nodded to one of the employees, and the young man undid the burlap wrappings on one of the bales. Lengths of smooth ecru cloth slithered out. Schwartz and Christiansen walked around the contents, picking up one or another piece to examine it.
“You will see that this is very fine fabric,” James said, holding out one length and displaying the tight weave. “Suitable for fine ladies’ wear, soft even for babes. We’ve managed to make it as light as eiderdown.”
To Margaret’s dismay, the merchants seemed unimpressed, even dismissive of five months’ work of forty weavers.
“It is…good enough,” Schwartz admitted at last, although his face said otherwise.
“What would please you more, mein herr?” Margaret asked with concern. “I can inform my father to make whatever changes you would wish to see in future shipments.”
Schwartz turned to her with a kindly expression. “Fräulein de Beauchamp, no offense is meant. It is as good as anything the local weavers make can. But the shipping from England to us to the price adds muchly—much.” He smiled, wrinkling his nose as if ashamed of his imperfect grasp of English. “From Holland same, similar cloth comes, over the land. Useful and plain it is. But more cost we welcome it not.”
Margaret nodded. “I understand, sir. But we offer the experience of centuries and the fleece of the finest sheep in Europe.”
“Yes, yes,” Schwartz said, with an impatient wave. “But our customers with their purses speak. They not the sheep nor the weavers see, only the value. Expenses and obligations we have.”
By then, the bales had been offloaded. Margaret felt defeated as Herr Schwartz and Herr Christiansen turned away to the wooden desk next to the door. James joined them and began to speak in a low voice. From the drawer, Christiansen brought out a leather bag. He spilled coins into a tray and began to tell them over with careful fingers. James looked hopeful, then dismayed, even a little angry. He didn’t raise his voice, but his pronunciation became more clipped. Margaret couldn’t follow the rapid spate of German, but it seemed as though the merchants were trying to shortchange the sum that had previously been agreed. The discussion became heated, though no louder. It went on for a good, long time, then James glanced over his shoulder toward his sister. To Margaret’s surprise, she heard the word “Americans” emerge from the unfamiliar language. The merchants’ gaze followed his, and their eyebrows went up. Schwartz murmured something to his partner and gave him a fierce glance. Margaret was horrified that he would invoke her friends. He must have a good reason, or so she hoped.
With an evident show of reluctance, Christiansen pushed more coins toward James. Her brother kept his eye on the pile until it was of a size that satisfied him, if not completely. He swept the money up and tied it into a leather bag that he stowed in his belt pouch. He bowed to the two merchants and came to offer his arm to Margaret.
“What was that about?” she whispered. Keeping a smile plastered on her face, she curtsied to the two men as James drew her out to the street. “Why did you mention the Americans?”
James grinned. “I told them you are a friend to them, that you are here to visit Frau Simpson. They aren’t a secret or a foe here, only at home in England. They have done a great deal of good to the people in Europe, especially in the Germanies. They’re not merely a curiosity; they’re neighbors, and a small merchant house like this cannot afford to make enemies of them. You have the ear of one of the most powerful of them, and that impressed Schwartz, who was able to persuade Herr Christiansen to keep his word. It might even work again next time, though I’m going to persuade Father to find another brokerage with whom to trade.”
Margaret opened and closed her mouth with a snap. She had kept the story of her experiences in London so far away from her lips except among immediate family that to have them discussed openly, feared, maybe even loved, unlike at home, that it pulled her from one set of thoughts into another, newly formed one. She fell so deeply into it that James poked her in the side with a forefinger just in time for her to wake up and avoid treading into a puddle.
“What happened when you were in London is long forgotten,” James said. “No one recalls the why or the wherefore, only that the Americans performed more of their magic and vanished like the myths that some still insist they are. As far as I or you know, they did it all with their mechanical wonders. Isn’t that right?”
His eyes insisted, and Margaret wanted to agree. And James was right: no one needed to know how she came to become acquainted with them, only that she had. Secrets were not limited to the strangers from the future. Everyone had some things that were never discussed, yet continued to have an influence on things far from them like…like gravity. Sir Isaac Newton was yet to be born, if the future history books were accurate, but things fell to earth even without his intervention. Or hers. She hoped fervently that no one would question her connection too closely, or make assumptions that would put her and her family in peril.
“Come!” James said, taking her hand. “We will go up and buy you tickets for the boat.”
Margaret doubled her pace to equal his, and Hettie hurried along behind.
* * *
She heard it long before she saw it. A plume of white steam rose over the red-tiled roofs of the buildings, and the screech of a terrified and lost soul evinced a like moan from her. She and Hettie halted, to the great annoyance of the people behind them.
“It’s just the ship coming in,” James said, pulling them close to the side of the walkway. The acrid smell of a tanner’s shop made Margaret’s eyes tear, even as she admired the colorful leathers that hung from lines looped across the doorway. “How I wish we had marvels like this in Staffordshire. Never again to be troubled by becalmed winds, or concern that the currents are not with us.”
Another shriek interrupted him, and Margaret clapped her hands to her ears. This part of the future she did not like.
Her discomfort was forgotten as soon as they threaded their way down the street through the crowd to another part of the quay, where the Elbe River met the waters of the bay. This structure resembled a longhouse in the moorlands, except that it was constructed of sound red brick, similar to the warehouses that stood a little farther back from the waterside. One long door stood open to receive passengers. The other opened out upon a narrow dock. In the river adjacent sat a monster of a machine. The noise that they had heard came from an open metal mouth at the top of a tall pole at the stern of the vessel. Below it, instead of an ordinary rudder, the ship had a wheel, one half submerged in the water. It had mighty metal arms attached to it, and those led to a huge cylindrical tank.
“That’s full of water,” James explained, indicating the tank. “There’s a furnace underneath it that is fed by coals. It produces steam that drives those arms, which propel the ship through the water.”
Now that the vessel was docked, it seemed as though the crew, strong young men in dark blue coveralls, were dampening down the fire to clean out the burning chamber. A tall, bulbous chimney perched above all, belching black smoke that left smuts of soot on everything close by. On the prow was the vessel’s name, Metahelios.
Apart from the soot, the steam tug was cleaner than her weavers’ workroom. The shallow-draft vessel had a large cabin behind the wheelhouse. Margaret guessed that that was where they would stay during their journey upriver. Men in neat, dark blue wool uniforms with red flashing on the shoulders busied themselves about the ship, assisting a few important-looking passengers ashore, offloading bundles and crates, and bringing supplies, including a hefty load of coal, onboard. Their black boots were polished to a gleam, and they wore round blue caps with black bills above their eyes.
“Are they soldiers?” Hettie asked.
“Sailors,” James said. “They are part of the USE navy. It’s a good job for men without many skills, as long as they’re willing to work hard and learn manners.”
He led the way to a glass-fronted booth labeled “Information” and “Auskunft.”
“Guten tag, fräulein,” he said to the young, brown-haired woman seated behind the glass. He held up two fingers and indicated his sister and her maidservant. “Zwei billete for Fraulein de Beauchamp, bitte.”
The woman smiled politely at him, then glanced at Margaret. Her eyebrows went up. “Ist du Fraulein Beechmann der Englischer?”
“De Beauchamp,” Margaret corrected her. “Yes, I am English.”
“Ja, ja.” The ticket seller opened a wooden box on the desk to her left and flipped through the papers inside. With a triumphant flourish, she produced an envelope. “Zwei billete, Mit freundlicher Genehmigung von Frau Simpson. Vith compliments,” she added, pronouncing the words carefully. She pushed the white card through the semi-circular hole at the bottom of the pane of glass. “Am morgen, acht ur, Bahngleis Zwei.”
“Eight o’clock of the morning,” James said, passing the envelope to his sister. “But you should arrive earlier, of course.”
Margaret opened the envelope to reveal gleaming white pasteboards that had been beautifully impressed so that the print could be felt on the reverse, like the finest invitations to great houses. In English and German, they read, “One (1) Passenger, One Way, Hamburg to Magdeburg.”
James’ eyebrows went up. “Looks like Mrs. Simpson is treating you to a fine journey,” he said. “Travel aboard these launches is not inexpensive.”
Margaret could hardly find words. Once again, the Americans were showering her in generosity.
“Will we have to procure provisions for the journey?” Hettie asked. “How many days will the train take?”
“Less than two,” James said, his eyes twinkling. He pointed to a framed notice printed in black with gold and red capitals. “There’s the timetable. About forty hours. You will arrive on the second day by the dinner hour. You will dine with the officers and the other important passengers.”
“It’s a wonder!” Margaret exclaimed.
“You’ll find that the United States of Europe is full of wonders,” James said. “You’ve barely seen a glimpse.”