Blowing weather

Anthony Stevens paused on the broad door-stone of the Black Horse Tavern, and looked up and down Second Street.

It was much changed since he had seen it, years before; it was now thick-ribbed and confident; there was an assurance in the way it protruded its store windows, like well-filled bellies. But, and the young man noted this with pleasure, there was nothing stodgy in its new fatness; rather, there was that air of readiness one sees on the ordered deck of a well-mastered ship.

Second Street had been the much known street of Anthony's boyhood; his racing feet had kicked up its dust; he had spun tops on its stones; he had often followed its length away into the Northern Liberties where the woods began; from where he stood, he could see the turn he'd taken into Vine Street of a hot afternoon, and then down to the river, to splash and shout with other young adventurers in the dock next the shipyard.

It was an autumn morning; the wind and sun were in the street, and touched one with a bright coolness. Accustomed to the heavy balm of New Orleans, Anthony felt oddly light, and brisk of foot. He crossed Sassafras Street; at the foot of Mulberry he saw the shallops tied to the corder's wharf, their lugs furled tightly, just as others like them had been, years before; and there were the same ranks of gum, and hickory, and oak, marshaled against the coming of winter, even then stirring in the North.

At Pewter Platter Alley, Anthony turned toward the river. From Front to Water Street the way narrowed, and there was a sharp descent by means of worn stone steps; the wind was chill and high on the river, and through the lessened throat of the thoroughfare whistled the reek of the docks; with it came the smell of trampled mud, of pitch and cordage, and the peppery, alien scent of cargoes from far-off places.

In Water Street, across the tops of the counting-houses, he could see the great masts of an Indiaman at Clifford's Wharf; two-wheeled drays, burdened with bundles and bales and barrels, trundled through the alleys; Anthony could hear the blocks creaking on a Liverpool packet, which shoved its sharp nose between two buildings. From the deck of a sloop-of-war taking in stores, a fife shrilled: "Come Away to Billy Cooper's."

Anthony spoke to a man engaged in heading up some kegs of salt fish.

"Where shall I find the place of business of a merchant named Magruder?" asked he. "He is engaged in the trade with New Orleans."

The man pointed with his hammer.

"He's at the head of Bickley's Wharf," said he. "Turn in here, then on past Crousillat's, and you are at his door."

Anthony thanked the man, and picked along through an alley whose stones were slippery with mud; then, on the waterfront, he made his way through the drays, the sweating horses, the piles of merchandise, to a square building standing by itself; over the door swung a faded sign: "J. Magruder, Gulf Ports and West Indies." Anthony pushed open the door, and found himself in a great, low-ceilinged room heaped with casks of rum, packs of hides, barrels of tallow, cheese, and salted pork. There were also stores of hemp and corded bales of buffalo-robes, boxes of dried fruits, and hogsheads of tobacco. The place was dim with the bulk of stuff that crowded it, and here and there a whale-oil lamp lighted the way among the narrow aisles.

A stout man came forward.

"Yes, sir," said he, expectantly. He valued the young man for a moment, and then said with an air of confidence, "I'll venture, sir, it is in the matter of the Bristol Pride."

Anthony smiled.

"Well," said he, "that good vessel has done its part in my being here; there's no denying that."

"It is a marvelous thing, sir," said the stout man, smilingly, "how news gets abroad. The Pride only rounded the bend an hour ago; and yet a score of gentlemen have been here already. But," and he pointed through the glass of the door to where a small brig was anchored in the stream, "it's a common saying, though, that good news travels fast; and that ship carries in her hold three pipes of as fine brandy as ever bore the stamp of the king of Spain."

"Well," said Anthony, good-humoredly, "I can well believe it. And not only the three pipes of brandy are under her hatches; there are also two puncheons of sherry that came by way of St. Kitts--a rare, brown wine, as I had occasion to notice on the levee at New Orleans, and with the sun in every drop of it."

The stout man looked at him with a changed interest.

"Am I to understand, sir, that you came as a passenger in the brig?" he inquired.

"Yes," replied Anthony. "She became windbound at Newcastle yesterday; so I left her and came on by chaise."

"Your name would be Stevens, then?"

"Yes," said the young man. "Do I speak to Mr. Magruder?"

"No; I am clerk to him." Beckoning Anthony to follow, he threaded his way along one of the dim aisles toward the back of the warehouse. "Mr. Magruder is beyond, here."

They passed into a dingy counting-room where there was a tall desk with a long-legged stool, some chests, a cupboard, whose open doors showed it crammed with invoices and bills of lading, and a litter of odds and ends of things the place trafficked in.

At the desk was a stoop-shouldered man with a mean face and a sidelong look. When he heard Anthony's name he put aside the ledger he'd had his nose in, and stood examining him in a furtive way that caused a creep of dislike through the young man's blood.

"Mr. Magruder?" asked Anthony, shortly.

The West Indian trader came forward and gave him a meager handshake.

"I have been expecting you," he said, "and but now sent aboard to ask after you. Word came back that you'd already come ashore; in fact," as Anthony sat down, "that you'd left the ship yesterday." Anxiety pinched his face into meaner lines than before. "I trust you have not been showing yourself a great deal in public places."

"I reached the city about dark," said the young man, stretching his legs, unconcernedly. "I took my supper at a tavern, and then went to bed."

Magruder seemed put at ease by this.

"That is as it should be," he said. He sat down facing Anthony; warmed by a thin glow of hospitality, he took from a waistcoat pocket a silver snuff-box, upon whose lid was engraved a schooner under full sail. He offered it to his visitor; when the young man refused, he took a spare pinch himself; he sat and snuffled over its bite for a long time, with great relish, meanwhile studying Anthony with the same furtive look as before.

"Your reply to my letter was handed me by the master of the ship Loadstar, about a month ago," he said.

"Yes, Señor Montufars said he gave it to him," said Anthony. "You see, when your word came concerning the affairs of the firm of Rufus Stevens' Sons, I was a week's journey up the river, and Montufars was in care of my affairs. As the matter seemed urgent, he wrote to you at once, it being his thought I'd return in time to take passage on the Bristol Pride."

The face of the West Indian merchant went a dirty gray as Anthony spoke.

"Do you tell me a third person answered my letter?" His voice lifted to almost a shriek; his hands were held out, clawing like talons. "Do you tell me that he read what I wrote for your eyes alone?"

The features of the man worked like one in a fit; startled, Anthony got up and went to him.

"What is it? Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?"

The frantic hands drummed upon Anthony's breast.

"Montufars is a damned Spaniard," said the trader. "He will talk. His like always does. He'll spread the matter all about New Orleans, and it'll come north on every ship. Good God, why did I undertake this matter!" He wrung his hands, and all but groveled in fear. "What madness induced me to put such a thing on paper--with my name to it, as a witness against me?"

The man's rat-like panic made Anthony's gorge rise, and he turned away, saying curtly: