can be running a lathe or making molds. Earn a decent living without the temptations of the sea."
They were all waiting for my answer, looking at me. Finally, I explained, "I have to go to sea, ma'am."
"And who is forcing you to do that?"
"I expect I am," I replied, as earnestly as I could. "It's in my family blood."
"You should drain it out."
The railroad men laughed.
"I can't, ma'am."
In fact, it was Reuben who had talked about that glorious moment when the last line separates from the dock and the ship becomes a world of its own; that moment when it lifts on the first ocean swell, outbound. "I just can't do it," I repeated.
Mrs. Crowe let out an exasperated sigh and tapped a fork by her plate in annoyance. She did not like to be overruled. "Well, if you must go on and expose yourself to the most wicked people on earth, you go to J. M. Jordan's in the morning and tell him Ethel Crowe sent you. He's a fine Christian man, honest as a creek pebble, and won't steer you to a hellship."
J. M. Jordan's.
I nodded gratefully. I'd heard of Jordan's, the foremost ship chandlers. They provisioned vessels, supplying food and all manner of things.
"Moreover, I suppose you'll enjoy listening to sea stories around his Heatrola, hot or cold, though I wouldn't give a whit for a sea story. Sailors are all terrible liars as well as drunks. But all the best captains come to Jordan's, over Oscar Smith or D. S. Baum."
Reuben had mentioned Jordan's, and that Heatrola, a big, barrel-like stove, come to think of it. I thanked her kindly.
Mrs. Crowe then nodded permission to Mr. Stone, who resumed his discussion of fast locomotives to pull hotshot freights on the N&W line.
After dessert, of hot peach dumplings doused with thick cream, Mrs. Crowe cleared the table, served coffee, opened the windows to let smoke out, and retired to the kitchen with a curt warning to drop no ashes on the parlor rug and a reminder to me to "think about it."
"I will, ma'am," I promised.
Twilight had spread over the port.
Red and green running lights, white mast lights, were moving around the branches of the Elizabeth River, hulls almost hidden in the gloom, though the ship whistles and tugboat toots from the harbor were not as frequent now.
Six bells, seven o'clock, was rung down on the ships as Mike and I paused briefly on the fourth-floor landing, which had a wide window affording a good view.
"That's Portsmouth over there, and the ferries dock here at the foot of Commercial. Those are the Merchant & Miner docks down there. Old Bay Line. Over there is the naval hospital."
Paddle-wheel ferries, their walking beams rocking like steel seesaws, churned the water between Portsmouth and Commercial Street. Small boats crisscrossed the wakes, bucking and plunging. Almost dead ahead of us, a white vessel, aglow in every window and port, moved slowly upriver.
"She's from the nations capital. Norfolk & Washington Steamboat Company. They dock at the foot of Water."
She blew hoarsely as a small oyster dredger crossed her bow.
Ah, the life in a bustling port city, I thought, my feet almost floating up with contentment. On the morrow there go I, were my thoughts.
In the room, Mike settled down and lit up a white clay pipe, giving me the notion that I might possibly want to spend some money on a pipe and sack of tobacco. It would make me seem older, I concluded. With my lifelong companions on the Banks, Kilbie Oden and Frank Scarborough, I had tried tobacco, both the shredded kind and chewing plug, with not much instant pleasure and some later illness. Yet sitting there and puffing, Mike looked very mature.
"Sure you don't want to think about that N&W machine shop? Mrs. Crowe knows the foreman."
I shook my head. "Made up my mind this morning on the
Neuse
to try and find Reuben down in the Caribbean. He's my big brother, mate on a brig running between Trinidad, the Barbadoes, and Port Fernandino. That's in Florida. He doesn't even know Mama's dead."
"No one
They were all waiting for my answer, looking at me. Finally, I explained, "I have to go to sea, ma'am."
"And who is forcing you to do that?"
"I expect I am," I replied, as earnestly as I could. "It's in my family blood."
"You should drain it out."
The railroad men laughed.
"I can't, ma'am."
In fact, it was Reuben who had talked about that glorious moment when the last line separates from the dock and the ship becomes a world of its own; that moment when it lifts on the first ocean swell, outbound. "I just can't do it," I repeated.
Mrs. Crowe let out an exasperated sigh and tapped a fork by her plate in annoyance. She did not like to be overruled. "Well, if you must go on and expose yourself to the most wicked people on earth, you go to J. M. Jordan's in the morning and tell him Ethel Crowe sent you. He's a fine Christian man, honest as a creek pebble, and won't steer you to a hellship."
J. M. Jordan's.
I nodded gratefully. I'd heard of Jordan's, the foremost ship chandlers. They provisioned vessels, supplying food and all manner of things.
"Moreover, I suppose you'll enjoy listening to sea stories around his Heatrola, hot or cold, though I wouldn't give a whit for a sea story. Sailors are all terrible liars as well as drunks. But all the best captains come to Jordan's, over Oscar Smith or D. S. Baum."
Reuben had mentioned Jordan's, and that Heatrola, a big, barrel-like stove, come to think of it. I thanked her kindly.
Mrs. Crowe then nodded permission to Mr. Stone, who resumed his discussion of fast locomotives to pull hotshot freights on the N&W line.
After dessert, of hot peach dumplings doused with thick cream, Mrs. Crowe cleared the table, served coffee, opened the windows to let smoke out, and retired to the kitchen with a curt warning to drop no ashes on the parlor rug and a reminder to me to "think about it."
"I will, ma'am," I promised.
Twilight had spread over the port.
Red and green running lights, white mast lights, were moving around the branches of the Elizabeth River, hulls almost hidden in the gloom, though the ship whistles and tugboat toots from the harbor were not as frequent now.
Six bells, seven o'clock, was rung down on the ships as Mike and I paused briefly on the fourth-floor landing, which had a wide window affording a good view.
"That's Portsmouth over there, and the ferries dock here at the foot of Commercial. Those are the Merchant & Miner docks down there. Old Bay Line. Over there is the naval hospital."
Paddle-wheel ferries, their walking beams rocking like steel seesaws, churned the water between Portsmouth and Commercial Street. Small boats crisscrossed the wakes, bucking and plunging. Almost dead ahead of us, a white vessel, aglow in every window and port, moved slowly upriver.
"She's from the nations capital. Norfolk & Washington Steamboat Company. They dock at the foot of Water."
She blew hoarsely as a small oyster dredger crossed her bow.
Ah, the life in a bustling port city, I thought, my feet almost floating up with contentment. On the morrow there go I, were my thoughts.
In the room, Mike settled down and lit up a white clay pipe, giving me the notion that I might possibly want to spend some money on a pipe and sack of tobacco. It would make me seem older, I concluded. With my lifelong companions on the Banks, Kilbie Oden and Frank Scarborough, I had tried tobacco, both the shredded kind and chewing plug, with not much instant pleasure and some later illness. Yet sitting there and puffing, Mike looked very mature.
"Sure you don't want to think about that N&W machine shop? Mrs. Crowe knows the foreman."
I shook my head. "Made up my mind this morning on the
Neuse
to try and find Reuben down in the Caribbean. He's my big brother, mate on a brig running between Trinidad, the Barbadoes, and Port Fernandino. That's in Florida. He doesn't even know Mama's dead."
"No one
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