Dark Chaos (# 4 in the Bregdan Chronicles Historical Fiction Romance Series) (22 page)

             
The wind picked up, whipping Robert’s hair and causing him to squint into the salt-laden air.  Excitement coursed through his body as he gripped the railing and peered through the darkness.  Suddenly he stiffened.  A massive, dark outline loomed just to their right. 

             
“Straight ahead,” Captain Bueller muttered into the speaking tube to the pilot.  “They don’t even know we’re here.” 

             
The Phantom glided by noiselessly.  The Union blockader remained still and silent.  Robert let out his breath as Bueller chuckled quietly.  “Like taking candy from a baby.” 

             
Robert tensed again as another boat came into view. 

             
“Port.”  Bueller instructed.  “Port.  Hard a-port,” he said urgently. 

             
Robert gripped the railing again as the Phantom swung to the port and eased by yet another boat, almost close enough to touch it.  His pulse hammered, his breath coming in quick gasps.             

             
A sudden call split the night.  “Heave to, or I’ll sink you.”  Lights flashed on the Federal boat as the engines came to life.

             
Captain Bueller threw back his head and laughed defiantly.  “Full speed ahead!” he shouted, all need for silence gone.  “Now the game begins!” he called gaily. 

             
Robert looked at the man in fascination.  He was actually enjoying this! 

             
Shouts could be heard from the Union boat as the Phantom leapt forward, her engines roaring at full speed.  Robert grabbed for the railing again and threw his head back in exhilaration.  Suddenly he laughed loudly.  “Yahoo!” he hollered. 

             
“Show ‘em what we got, boys,” the captain hollered, his commanding figure casting an impressive outline against the sky. 

             
Boom!   Boom! 

             
Robert looked back in alarm but then laughed louder as the shots of the pursuing boat fell far to the rear and the right. 

             
Boom!  Boom! 

             
The next shots were even farther behind them.  Robert relaxed, knowing the Union warship didn’t stand a chance of catching them.  The Phantom advanced at full speed for close to thirty minutes before Captain Bueller spoke into the tube again.  “Half-speed, Billy boy.  We showed them our heels again,” he chortled.  Now that they were safe, his cocky arrogance was back.  “Score another one for the Phantom.”  He winked at Robert.  “Take us on to Nassau, boys.” 

Abby Stratton leaned against the railing of the passenger boat carrying her from Philadelphia to New York City.  She never tired of coming through the Narrows on her way to the grand city.  Dawn was just lighting the sky, casting a rosy hue over the white mansions lining both sides of the waterway.  Green trees towered over sweeping emerald lawns.  In the distance the city emerged from the bay, church spires mingling with the masts of anchored ships.  The city stood in stark contrast against the water, spotlighted by the morning sun. 

              “Beautiful!” she whispered to herself, pushing back a strand of soft brown hair flecked with silver, her gray eyes flashing with excitement.   She was traveling alone this trip and was finding it quite enjoyable.  She had only been to New York City a couple of times since she had lost her husband several years ago, and always with a friend.  Her heart pounded with excitement as she envisioned the freedom of exploring the city on her own. 

             
“I find I never get tired of the sight myself.”  Abby started as a voice behind her spoke. 

She turned and smiled at the elegantly dressed man behind her.  “I don’t know how one could get weary of it.  It’s so exciting, so...
,” she searched for the right word.  “Alive!”   

             
“That it is,” the man chuckled.  “Please allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Marcus Clipper.”

             
“Hello, Mr. Clipper.  My name is Abigail Stratton.”  She turned once more to the view.  “Is New York your home?”

             
“Since I was just a boy,” he replied.  “Has it been long since you’ve visited our fair city, Mrs. Stratton?” 

             
“At least three years.”

             
“I’m afraid you’ll find our city much changed,” he said sadly.

             
Abby stared at him curiously.  “That doesn’t sound very positive.”

             
Marcus shrugged his stooped shoulders.  “I shall always love the grand city, but I’m afraid she’s outgrown herself.  The population has boomed out of control.  Poverty is rampant - in spite of the grandeur you see from here,” he said, waving his hand toward the opulence they were gliding through.  “There are still parts of New York that are as luxurious and artistic as Paris.  Too much of it, though, seems to have been surrendered to barbarian types.”

             
Abby hid a smile as he sniffed disdainfully.  It was obvious which part of New York he hailed from.  “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that.”

             
Marcus tipped his hat and moved from the railing.  “I will allow you to make your own judgments,” he said casually.  “You are obviously a lady of fine breeding and taste.  If you are traveling alone, I urge you to exercise all possible caution.  I’m afraid our city has become quite dangerous, especially for lone women.”  He smiled.  “Welcome to New York City, Mrs.  Stratton.”

Abby looked around her in astonishment as the carriage that had met her at the wharf wove its way through the packed streets.   She had always loved the
hustle and bustle of New York, but a strange urgency and tension in the air gripped her and made her uncomfortable. 

             
She leaned forward to talk to the driver, Cyrus Paxton.  “Please do bring me up-to-date on the city,” she asked graciously.  When he nodded pleasantly, she settled back.  It would take them quite a little while to meander through the city.  Paxton had already told her that Mrs.  Livingston, the friend she was visiting, had been called away to a meeting but would return by dinner.  They were in no hurry.

             
“The city is changing faster than most of us can keep up with,” Paxton began his narrative.  “The population is booming.  The completion of the Erie Canal, the railroads going west, and cheap transportation from Europe has made it easy for folks to come here.  Once they’re here they just seem to stay.”

             
Paxton turned the carriage.  “The people with money are moving farther out.  The fancy shops and restaurants are following them.”

             
“It doesn’t look that much different,” Abby observed.  “Just more crowded.”

             
“We’re in the better part of the city,” Paxton agreed.  “You’ll be wise to stay out of the lower wards.  That’s where all the trouble is.”  He spoke softly to the horses to calm them as children ran shrieking in front of them before he  turned back to her.  “They call that area the “great workshop of the city.”  There are factories and manufacturers everywhere you look.  Most of the city’s industry is packed down there.  So are most of New York’s people.”  His voice was grim.

             
“Doesn’t that make living conditions rather tight?”  Abby asked.  Philadelphia had some of the same problems, but instinctively she knew New York’s were considerably magnified.

             
“You could say that,” Paxton said angrily, then apologized.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

             
“Do you have family down there?”  Abby asked quietly.

             
Paxton nodded.  “Yes, ma’am.  Most of my family lives down there.  I’m lucky.  I have a place with the Livingstons.   I was the first of our family to come over from Ireland about twenty years ago.  I was fortunate enough to get a job as a driver for the Livingstons.  I saved my money to help the rest of my family get here.”  He shook his head.  “I almost wish I hadn’t.  Even though the potato famine would have killed them.  At least they would have died in their own country.”  His voice was bitter.

             
Abby realized they had drifted far from a narrative of the city, but she was intrigued by their discussion and filled with compassion because of the pain in Paxton’s voice.  “Is your family ill?”

             
Paxton clucked to the horses again and maneuvered around several wagons stopped in the middle of the street.  “They’re living in squalid poverty down there.  At least in Ireland they had space and fresh air.  They’re no better than rats in a sewer down there in the East End.  Irish and Germans are coming to New York in swarms - looking for an opportunity to make a life for themselves.”  His voice became hopeless.  “But they don’t have any skills and can’t make enough money to improve their situation.  I’ve been to London and seen the rookeries there.  They don’t have anything on New York slums.”

             
Paxton looked back.  “If you’re a friend of Mrs. Livingston, I guess you’re one of those women who care about people.”

             
“I certainly am,” Abby agreed firmly.

             
“You want to see how New Yorkers really live, you go down and look at some of the places they have the gall to charge money for.  People are crammed in tiny, dark rooms like so many roaches.  Some of the buildings are seven or eight stories high.  Back behind them, you’ll find a whole row of stalls they call lavatories.  They aren’t ever cleaned - filth is everywhere!  The roofs leak whenever it rains.  They’re freezing cold in the winter and suffocating in the summer.” 

             
His voice grew hoarse.  “I have little nieces and nephews growing up in those pig holes!” he said angrily.  “There aren’t any sewers down there.  The filth just runs in the street and poisons the water supply.”  He was forced to stop to wait for an omnibus to rumble past.  “Have you ever heard what they give the children to drink down there?”

             
Abby, already horrified at what she was hearing, was almost afraid to ask.  She shook her head mutely.

             
“They call the stuff pure orange county milk,” he said disdainfully.  “It comes from spavined old cows stuck in dirty, dark stalls.  Those cows are fed on swill, the residue of grain left from the distillation of whiskey.  When they milk them they get this sick, whitish fluid, so they fix it up a little by adding starch, plaster of paris, chalk and magnesia.  That’s what they call pure orange county milk!”

             
“That’s terrible!  Surely the city is doing something about it,” Abby protested. 

             
“Maybe,” Paxton shrugged.  “But I think there is going to be trouble before the city does anything to help.  I have a feeling it’s too late.”

             
“What kind of trouble?” 

             
Paxton lowered his voice before he answered her.  “I’ve heard some of the fellows talking.  They’re real angry.  Have you heard about that Conscription Act, Mrs. Stratton?”