PLUS
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NO ONE HAD warned Diana about boats. More precisely, no one had warned her about boats captained by an incompetent bent on drinking a New York tavern keeper's consignment of cider.
First one keg and then another was broached by "accident," and soon either the boat was running aground or the captain and his scurvy crew were cursing and poling madly away from imagined shoals. The captain swore these were uncharted menaces, thrown up by the Hudson to test a poor packet man who only wanted to scrape his way through this world of dry crusts and toil. Diana thought if Charon were as bumbling as her captain, the River Styx would be impassable from all those reefs of piled-up lost souls.
Diana's trek from Cherry Valley was routine. It didn't prepare her for what lay ahead. The passage to New York from Albany was reputed to be an easy journey. No more than four days—five at most. Instead they were nine days on the river. Even then, Diana and the other passengers had to abandon the packet and hire canoes to make complete the voyage.
Even when sober, the captain was an odd villain who seemed cobbled together by a mischievous demon. He had an amazing torso which could have served as a model for an ancient sculptor, stacked upon short legs as thick as barrels. He was as bald as a copper kettle and wore an undersized, dirty patch over a gaping hole in one cheek; the rest of his face was cider-shot with purple veins that spread like a fishnet set to catch the blemishes around them.
Other than Diana and her two boys, there were eight other passengers aboard the packet—all men. Conditions were crowded. Besides luggage, the little craft was piled with goods bound for the city. Two of the passengers pitched an awning between a bundle of hides and a stack of timber to give Diana a measure of privacy. The awning was no use against the purple language and vulgar acts of the crew, when a few hours out of Albany the first keg of cider was "dropped" and the captain ordered all hands to partake, so there would be no danger in it being wasted— "surely one of the great offenses in God's Kingdom."
Diana had heard worse in her years as an innkeeper, but it soon grew wearisome to pretend ladylike shock at every obscene utterance. But it was a pretense she dared not drop. No more than she could let her shawl fall from her shoulders to get relief from the river's midday heat, or pluck her dress away from a perspiring bosom. As a young— and, yes, beautiful, she had to grudgingly admit—widow of twenty-six, her mask of sanctity was her only means of control. Not that anyone would physically abuse her. If that happened, even the fool captain would know he'd be hanged at the wharf in New York. But her treatment aboard the packet would be rougher, and her opinion considered not a whit if anyone thought her less than a respectable woman of means.
Then they discovered that most of the food the passengers had brought had been forgotten in the confusion at the Albany docks. Along with the victuals for the captain and crew. There were no livestock aboard, only a few scrawny curs who snapped at anyone who came near them. The men held a conference with the captain, and it was decided to push on. They would rely on purchased charity from the small farms and settlements sprinkled along the river. Everyone agreed this was a routine matter, and the stops would only lengthen their journey by a day at most.
Under other circumstances this might have been true. But the captain was no better a skipper of the canoe he carried for shore excursions than he was his packet. Smoke would be sighted—a sure sign of settlement. The captain and two of his men would cast off in the canoe. Invariably they would either (a) immediately overturn, (b) be swept miles past the farm by the current, or (c) take drunken alarm at imagined Indian sign and paddle back like devils fleeing the wrath of their dark Master.
Farrell, meanwhile, remained his usual stolid self. At fourteen, he had the bearing and dignity of a middle-aged man. He had a cold look of disapproval that would pierce the conscience of the foulest villain, and a superior manner which sometimes drove Diana to distraction. Just now she thanked him for it. He was also the keeper of the family fortunes. Diana was traveling light. She had sold or traded for promissory notes everything they owned. All they possessed—mostly city clothes of latest fashion she had made for the three of them—was in three large horsehair trunks, bound with copper for strength.
The treasure chest, containing the gold from the sale of the inn and their other coin and paper money, had been Farrell's idea. It was a battered carpetbag he'd purchased for a few pennies from a wayfarer. He carried it as his own— and for anyone who knew Farrell, its raggedness was quite out of character. The leather sacks of money were at the bottom of the bag, covered with cast-off boyhood treasures. Farrell kept it near at all times, turning away the curious with his chilly look. Where money was concerned, and the future of the family, Farrell was a better guard than a squad of soldiers.
It was James Emmett who scattered her wits like ants milling about before a thunderstorm. At nine, he had a charming manner far beyond his age, and a quirky sense of adventure that drew him to the strangest people. He and the captain became fast friends. Diana wasn't sure if it was the salty stories or his tricks—like lifting the patch to expose the hole in his cheek, then smoking his pipe through it, all the while expelling fumes and foul language from his mouth.
One day the captain spotted a likely farm. Off he and his men went. To Diana's amazement, there was not a mishap all the way to the rickety landing that tilted in a crazy raking angle down to the water. The men disappeared to raucous scolding from three great swans cruising the dock-side waters. Diana went back to her sewing. A furious shout from. Farrell snapped her head up. He was screaming for James Emmett. Diana looked about the packet. No boy. Where could he be? Then it began to dawn. Farrell was pointing frantically at the shore. Diana raced for the side of the boat.
The captain was making his way back from the farm. Perched on his shoulders was James Emmett. His shrill laughter echoed across the river, along with the mad cacklings of the two fat hens he held in either hand. The swans wearied of the noise and took flight. There was nothing Diana could do. She watched as the captain lifted the child into the craft and then clambered in with his men. Muffled, drunken arguments and fumblings with paddles and rope. They pushed off, setting an erratic course for the packet. They skimmed forward a few yards, then jerked violently to the side with shouts of fear. This scared the holy bejesus out of Diana, until she realized they were only entertaining James Emmett.
She was planning the licking she was going to give the boy and with which strap, as the canoe drew close to their boat. Another mock shout of fear. Another lurch of the canoe. Then the mock fear went out of their voices and turned real as the craft tilted slowly over, tumbling out supplies and men and boy.
After ten years on the frontier, not a scream existed in Diana, only the strangling in her throat as she watched her son disappear. Then he was bobbing up to the surface, still holding on to those damned hens and splashing and shouting in what Diana believed to be terrible fear. The current swept him agonizingly close to the packet, skimming along the side and almost gone, when one of the men got him by the breeches with a boat hook. He went under again, but came back up swiftly as the man lifted him out. The crewman held him at arm's length for a moment, shifting his
grip-It was then Diana realized James wasn't frightened at all. The screams were shouts of laughter. The hens still dangled by their necks from each tiny fist. The man swung him aboard like that great clothed fish from myth, and the boy tumbled to the deck, hooting laughter and waving the poor half-drowned fowl at Diana. To James the entire incident had been one grand adventure. The fact the adventure even provided dinner made it grander still. All the men laughed and clapped him on the back and complimented him on what a game lad he was.
The next morning Diana hired a canoe and they left the packet. It was an easy thirty miles for all concerned. Except James Emmett Shannon. Who rode the whole way in silence, nursing a blistered rump.
* * * *
Diana almost wept when she saw New York. Not from joy at the promised marvels of one of the greatest cities in the new nation, but in despair. She had met travelers from this city, and knew them to be boasters. She did not expect streets paved with precious metals. Nor did she really believe every shop would be filled to overflowing with treasures the envy of the Great Mogul of China. Or that there was plenty of bread and cheese and ale for the meanest gristmill laborer. But still . . . But still. . . . The desolation spreading before her was nearly as awful as the day she and Emmett had hurried through the ruins of Kingston. Actually, it was worse, because people lived in this place by the thousands.
To begin with, if it were not for its watery boundaries, it would be difficult to tell where the city began and ended. Mostly, New York was a swampy wilderness, pocked with a few scrubby farm plots. The better houses were thinly scattered along dozens of creeks and kills that ended in swamps or meadows.
There were a few orchards and fields of buckwheat, which was a pleasant break for the dimmer view deeper into the city. Basically, the city—and it was a great stretch to call it that, compared to Albany—seemed to end at Anthony Street on the north; Harrison, the last street before the Hudson; and Rutgers, the final byway before one reached the East River.
Not many of the streets were flagstoned. On those that were, the stones had been laid so roughly a stroller had to adopt an odd kind of shuffle in his walk, or go sprawling to his death in front of a farm wagon. A few pebbles were scattered with a miser's hand on some roads, but these were only useful as missiles when the young sportsmen of the region defied the law and threat of fine by thundering along on their fancy steeds. The swagger of these dandies set Diana's teeth on edge. She was not alone in her view that their behavior was far from the Republican spirit of the times, and smacked of the bleak British class system America had overthrown.
Sanitation consisted of a few open sewers running down the middle of these streets, privy vaults to make the most hardened campaigner shudder, or simply pots of filth tossed out doors and windows. At the end of a market day the streets were strewn with the unsold spoils: animal heads and entrails, fish parts, fluttering robins with broken wings and feet scorched by the lime that captured them, grain and coffee so sour Diana just knew by the odor that a great plague must only be days or weeks away.
New York looked as if the Revolution had only ended yesterday. In fact, it had never recovered from the wrath of the king. A fire had broken out during Lord Howe's occupation, and five hundred buildings were lost to the inferno that raged for days. Even after all these years, the entire area around Washington Market was a blackened heap of charred plaster and broken brick. From the appearance of the city and its poverty-haunted inhabitants, Diana thought it was no wonder people believed the future of the state lay in Albany, which had prospered mightily after the war. From the downcast spirit of the residents, she saw no reason why it would ever change.
The letters she'd received from Ruth painted no better picture of Boston, where grass was springing up in the streets, and the once bustling shipbuilding yards were silent. The waterfront was choked with decaying wharfs and rotting wooden hulks. Emmett's assessment of Boston was as true today as it had been years ago when they wandered the country roads. He said it was an unlucky city with mean-spirited masters. The great merchants and bankers had determined there were greater fortunes to be made lending money than building ships or investing in anything that required honest toil. Diana wondered how satisfied they were in their great homes, their treasuries filled to the groaning, while the city created by their ancestors lay about them in ruin.
But she had never considered seeking her future in Boston. As for New York, if she had pinned her business hopes to this town, she would have immediately turned her back on it and—packet boat ordeal or not—returned to Cherry Valley. She could foresee no time—no matter how distant— New York would ever be a place where a person could consider opening a business with confidence. At the moment, however, all she could do was pray that things were better in Philadelphia, the city of her birth.
* * * *
Diana found lodgings in a genteelly shabby boardinghouse with a huge, tangled garden, tended by an old woman whose mind was as oddly cluttered as the grounds surrounding the home. There were countless flowers of every variety, all planted without rhyme or color scheme amid thorny weeds that were as carefully nursed as the flowers. There were no paths through the garden. One pushed through the undergrowth, taking care not to tumble over an old bed frame, or rusted stove parts, or what James insisted with great excitement was the barrel of a Brown Bess.
The woman said her name was Irene Jones, but she shuffled around in old carpet slippers mumbling what Diana was sure were Dutch curses. She heatedly denied she was even distantly related to the great Van Dam family, although Diana hadn't asked, and with a last name like Jones, didn't suspect. But when James dragged the bed frame to one corner to become a fort, Irene grew agitated and lectured the boy about the evils of fornication, especially fornication with the rich, and even more especially the rich Dutch. Since James thought she was talking about "fortification," Diana didn't think it necessary to intervene.
A moment later Irene was enticing the child into her kitchen and filling him full of confections and stories of the British occupation. She pointed to the attic stairs and told the story of the long nights she spent hidden by the window, waiting with a charged rifle for the redcoats to come into view. None ever did, although she assured the boy she would have shot any of them " 'tween their lights"—a feat well within her abilities, Irene said, because of her time as a circus performer.
This brought a shower of questions from James Emmett, but the old woman drifted into reminiscing about her days as a singing and music instructor to the daughters of the rich "up by Harlem Creek." Diana wanted to hear more, but her questions were turned aside by dark comments on the handsome sons of these folk, and how they twisted their word as easy as a smith draws a sliver of white-hot steel through a screw form. This was followed by another string of cursing in Dutch and a heated denial of kinship to the Van Dams.
What all this had to do with the old lady's present circumstances, Diana could only guess. Her guesses were wild thrusts into the dark. Most of them involved a little weakness and a slight amount of recklessness on Irene's part. And a great deal of sin and even greater betrayal on someone else's. Did the boardinghouse itself offer some kind of clue? At one time it must have been worth much. Did a young man's family—the Van Dams—buy silence with it? Was there a child involved? She could never bring herself to ask, and Irene would never say.
Diana did not make the error of thinking Irene's wits were addled by age. There was information here of far more value than gossip fuel harvested from a poor old woman. If Diana was to make her way through this new wilderness called Civilization, she would have to take advantage of every scrap she could glean. She determined to start by wooing the strange old woman.
So, Diana got out her lace maker's pillow and most colorful thread, then sat quietly by the fire, laying out a pattern with her needles. Irene pretended indifference at first, but as Diana's fingers began flying and the silent room filled with the click-click-clickings of her bobbins, the old woman drew her chair close. She watched the shape take form, and grunted with satisfaction when she saw the flower emerging. It was a duplicate of the apple blossoms in her garden. Diana snipped off a loose thread with her teeth and almost absently held the lace up toward Irene's dress. Then just as absently, she nodded in satisfaction at how the colors matched. She dropped it back in her lap and began working again. Diana shot Irene a look, and saw the little smile playing on her face. The woman knew the lace was for her.
The words started flowing again. But this time they lay sharp and bright in the present. Life in New York was even worse than Diana had imagined. While most of the states generally prospered from the war, New York found itself in a limbo.
Prior to the Revolution, travel to and from New York was an easy accomplishment. Irene told of the days when stage owners could boast a trip to Philadelphia would take no more than three days. This was shortly cut to two, and on carriage springs "so soft you could place an egg on your lap and there it would remain intact until the journey's end." Now it was more of an island city than ever before. Roads in every direction were a ruin, with nothing but wilderness where once villages and hamlets had prospered. Travel by water was a nightmare—Diana could attest to the truth in this—with a journey to Philadelphia an uncertain nine days to nearly three weeks.
"Even the ferries are not to be trusted with your safety," Irene said.
New York had become nothing more than a place for goods and gold to flow through. What little money stayed, remained in the hands of the rich few. The most skilled laborer was fortunate to earn two shillings a day, and was cursed for demanding this amount. It was barely enough to keep him from debtor's jail and his family from starvation. Corn was three shillings a bushel—before it reached the miller—wheat eight and six pence, a pound of salt pork tenpence. The laborer saw fresh meat on his table about as often as he saw coal for his stove, which was never. Instead, the coarse food was cooked over a fire of collected debris: broken bits of boxes and barrels, lit by a spark from a flint, a burning ember borrowed from a neighbor.
A laborer's daughter was destined to serve the rich, if she were lucky, and besides this—since her mother almost certainly labored as many hours as her father—she was forced to run all the family errands, mend the clothing, milk the cows, if they had any, churn the butter if the cows weren't afflicted with dry udder, spin flax for the family linen, and walk ten blocks for a pail of water. Her dream would be to save a few shillings for a dowry and hope to catch the eye of a tradesman's son.
No, Irene said, New York was no place for a bright young woman like Diana. Certainly not for her sons, if she wanted any future for them. Diana couldn't agree with her more. Especially after she saw more of the town.
One expected a modicum of culture in any city. In this place, books were even more expensive than the high prices they brought in Albany. In fact, paper of any kind was so expensive, not even the tradesmen who catered to the elite would dream of wrapping their goods in the stuff. The theater—Irene hooted at the term even being used here— consisted of imports from England, playing to strangers who had the misfortune to wander down Broadway. Before she left the city, Diana saw a revival of Richard Brinsley Sheridan's School for Scandal, which she found silly and hardly scandalous except for the price of tickets, and Hamlet, which she would have liked to enjoy, except the actor was so irritatingly English, she found herself wishing the audience would rise up and tar and feather the obscene child for daring to look down his high-peaked nose at the audience across the candlelights.
Two weeks to the day from her arrival in New York, Irene came to Diana with news. She had found a means for Diana to complete their journey in safety and style.
"How much?" was Diana's first question. She was determined to make her store of cash last for as long as it would take to set them all up in style. If that meant waiting three years, or more, she was prepared.
Irene cackled at her question, held a finger to her lips in a half-remembered gesture of demure naughtiness. "Just the wisp of a smile, dear," she said. "And that given like a miser hoards his grain."
The words were as mysterious as Irene's past. But not for long.
* * * *
His manner was as big and blustery as the early winds that broke the Hudson ice packs. He was unashamedly Irish Catholic, but spoke Dutch like a son of Amsterdam. He was rich, but was committed to Republican values: admitting, while in his cups, he saw logic in the view of the Radicals, that all men should have the right to vote, not just those of property, or in kind coin.
Michael Walsh was a man who knew how to make an entrance. There was a thundering at the door as the hour of his appointment struck. Diana remained by the fire in the big main room while Irene shuffled off to answer. She heard his voice boom in greeting, then heavy footsteps. Diana watched the doors in anticipation. They came open and for a moment she thought there must be a ghost in the house, for she couldn't see a soul.
She looked down. And down. And down. Wearing his pointiest shoes with the highest heels, and carrying himself in the utmost military manner, Mister Walsh barely scraped an inch over Diana's height. He was as slender as a cabinet maker's nail, with oddly long arms, a big nose sharp enough to cut a copper hoop, and a protruding Adam's apple, which accounted for the rich timbre of his voice. Diana thought she had never seen a full-grown man so small. She rose while Irene made the introduction. It was difficult to pay attention, because she wanted badly to laugh.
Mister Walsh was a middle-aged Philadelphian, who seemed at constant war with his physical nature. He dressed in the height of Chestnut Street fashion, which meant too young by many years and too gaudy for a man his size. He carried a bright green three-cornered hat, heavily decorated with fancy lace. His hair—which included a long false queue wrapped in ribbon, dangling down his back—was thick with pomatum, and so heavily powdered the dust came off in little puffs when he moved, giving him a tendency to sneeze. He wore a light-colored cape, cut short in front—revealing the little middle-aged bulge of his belly—and long in back.
It was clasped with silver buttons engraved with his name. His small clothes were cut above knobbly knees, which his tight striped silk stockings merely accented. Then there was the green vest with enormous flap pockets—again decorated with silver buttons, and finally the pointy shoes with the silver buckles. His cuffs were so firm and perfect, Diana knew they were loaded with enough lead to stagger a Goliath. All this was set off by an ebony cane, with a sculpted silver lion's head mounted upon it.
It was almost too much for Diana. Especially when he repeated her name with a sultry murmur and bowed with a Frenchified flourish. Despite his size, he took up nearly half the room when he bowed, because here he made use of the oversize arms. His cane went in such a long, raking angle, it nearly knocked over the coal bucket by the fireplace, while his other arm stretched so far in the opposite direction his knuckles grazed an oil lamp. Diana curtsied. There was nothing else for her to do. She lowered her eyes modestly, let the scarf about her shoulders slip not so modestly, caught the hem of what she knew to be a dress of stunning brocade and dipped. The red face Mister Walsh wore when she rose again let her know the curtsy had been a great success.
A moment later they were settled in Irene's big soft chairs sipping tea and chatting nonsense. Walsh made some not-so-subtle jokes about the spicy books of Lady Julia Mandeville. Diana laughed to let him know she was a modern woman and certainly no prude. But she did it with a charming blush, hinting all of this was strictly theoretical.
He asked her if she had shopped any of the finer wares in the city. She said she had. He asked if she had been to the theater. She said yes. And he asked if she had sampled some of the tastier dishes the town was known for. She said she had done this as well. Leaving no openings.
"How unfortunate for me," Mister Walsh said. "I would have enjoyed offering myself as escort." Irene barked a knowing laugh, and Walsh turned several shades of purple.
"Perhaps you could do me that favor in Philadelphia," Diana said, then added quickly as she saw his face brighten, "You and Mrs. Walsh, that is." She could almost see the man's heart lurch in his chest as the arrow Irene had prepared struck its target.
In less time than it took for gunpowder to burn in a pan, the man was burbling about his wonderful spouse, her equally wonderful mind and spirit, a woman of such taste and gentility, she would shame the mistress of a great manor. And yes, he—that is to say, they—would be delighted to see her set right in Philadelphia, so her visit would be unspoiled by any kind of unpleasantry, so help him God, and he crossed himself, giving away his Catholic roots.
As Irene had predicted, Walsh was as disarmed by the mention of his good wife as a Hessian deserter come begging for scraps at the Patriots' cookfires. But he proved to be such a nice man, Diana couldn't help but feel a little irked with herself for the little ploy. After years as a struggling young woman of business—in a world ruled by men-she had learned to use any means to win an edge. She didn't like it, but that didn't keep her from using them.
Irene had clued her well about Walsh, although she hadn't mentioned his small size and odd appearance. Walsh was a native Philadelphian. A trader who had won a fortune by relentlessly hunting the best goods at the best prices. For more than twenty years he had stopped at Irene's boardinghouse when business took him to New York.
This trip had been a failure, he confessed, in a desperate attempt to shift the subject from his guilt. A shipload of coffee at bargain prices had proved no bargain. It was so sour, the coffeehouse had refused to allow it to be unloaded, fearing the odor would draw some dread disease. He smiled the weary smile of a businessman who has seen greater disappointments. But there would be other cargoes, with greater promise of profits and happier endings. . . . And may I have some more of those excellent tea cakes, Irene, my dear?
Mister Walsh's greatest weakness, Irene had told Diana, was his roving eye. A pretty face, a well-turned ankle, sparked the primitive in the little man. And he appears so bold about it, Irene had said. Salty talk. Leering eyebrow. If you didn't know his secret, you would show him the door the moment you met him. His secret was that Michael Walsh was an absolutely faithful husband. Irene was convinced if someday—the day, perhaps, when fish learned to crawl to the monger's stall—a woman purposely took him up on one of his hinted offers, the man would suffer a stroke. Hence the play scripted by Irene. Let the man wag his tongue freely. Ask to meet his lady. And let guilt carry the day.
Diana intended to do better. With pretended hesitancy she had asked his advice. In her ramblings about New York and her conversations with Irene and her friends, Diana had become aware of a minor scandal. Some months before, a rare wind of civic concern had swept through the town. It involved streetlights. Merchant pride had been tweaked by boasters from that dismal sister to the north—Boston. Diana knew even Albany had more streetlights than Boston, but there were fewer still in New York, which to the merchants was an obvious keystone for the lack of business opportunity. But there were no funds for lights. So a lottery was raised. Civic pride flagged before it reached its goal, and then the whole thing collapsed when one of the organizers absconded to the Indies with the funds. Sad story. Made sadder still, Diana learned, because a few trusting souls had bet a bundle on the success of the streetlighting program. They had bought many tons of whale oil in anticipation of the future nighttime glitter.
She had talked to a few of the captains of these ships, she told Mister Walsh, who leaned closer, knowing a good suspense story when he heard one. He knew whale oil went for twenty-eight pounds a ton all up and down the coast. Diana nodded. This was true. Twenty-eight pounds—or seventy-two dollars, Farrell had instantly translated as they stood on the docks—per ton.
But they seemed willing to sell for less. Far less.
"How much?" Abrupt, from Walsh.
"Ten pounds less." Just as abrupt from Diana. While Walsh pondered this, Diana sweetly poured more tea.
"I suppose you could introduce me to these captains?" he finally asked.
Diana said she'd be only too happy to. It was impossible for a woman of her limited means to take advantage of this opportunity. . . .
"Uh . . . perhaps a percentage . . . ?"
Which was exactly what Diana had in mind. Walsh sat back in his chair, looking at her with new interest. He knew business talent when he saw it, no matter that it wore petticoats and frilly lace. Of such things are friendships formed.
Four days later the Shannons thundered along the Lancaster road toward Philadelphia. Aboard a carriage with springing so smooth its maker called it "the flying machine." It was built to the exacting specifications of one Michael Walsh. Merchant, trader, and perfect gentleman.
* * * *
The day had begun like every other: pounding at her door at three A.M. A mad rush from the inn. Great oil lamps picking out brutes of horses—fresh and mean at this hour, and snapping and kicking at their masters. A lurch, and the carriage surging forward, and then hour after hour plunging through darkness. The endless crack, crack, crack of the coachman's whip. Challenging curses from Walsh's outriders, springing yet another teamster's trap. A bloody face in the window, and a black form clubbing it away. But Diana felt no pity because she had seen their work—the overturned carriages, the weeping passengers, belongings strewn in the ditch or hanging from slowly turning wheels.
But then it was dawn. And a light spring rain washing to morning on the road to Philadelphia.
It became a day like no other in her lifetime, so clear, it was like looking through a lens polished by Dr. Franklin himself. Images leapt at her, crystallized in memory, and were hurled aside to be replaced by others.
On the Lancaster Road a girl and her mother bound for market. Plodding beside a farm cart in their best clothes. Shoes clutched in their hands to keep them from the dust.
A boy astride an enormous pig, switching its flanks like a horse. Trailed by half a dozen piglets just butcher's size.
A dentist's wagon, false teeth painted fore and aft. On its sides, signs boasting one hundred percent success in transplanting live teeth.
A cockfight at the Schuylkill Ferry. Men and boys shouting encouragement and wagers. The shark-faced men in red stocking caps who held the bets, passing big jugs of punch so that cups remained full to overflowing.
A wagon full of flowers! No, two. No, three. Hollyhocks and irises, and sweet primroses, begging to sit upon a fine dinner table in a Philadelphian's home.
Aboard the ferry, a man with no arms, playing a fiddle with his feet. Around him, dogs dancing on their hind legs . . . whirling . . . whirling. A barker promising: "... this and more at the Southwark Fair!"
Wheelbarrow men crowding the opposite shore. Waiting to load huge piles of fresh oysters on beds of steaming seaweed.
The bell ringing them to market from far down High Street. Criers with the latest news, and people—so many people—crowding about. Heatedly debating points Diana barely knew existed. A great thundering of hooves along the Post Road and everyone making way . . . making way. More bells clanging for the entrance of the mail. And Mister Walsh gesturing at the marvels, and Diana not hearing a word. James Emmett chattering excitedly. Farrell silent in somber city clothes, but his eyes wide and his mouth open in a great big O.
Philadelphia, in the spring of 1788. A city like no other in the world. A city so wonderful, that Diana knew she would never see its equal.
She had been cast from it—the obscene child of an Irish serving wench. Now, twenty-six years later, she was returning, her purse fat with coin. Aboard a royal carriage—bearing her luggage bound up in brass like that of a noblewoman. Accompanied by two fine sons. Under the protection of one of the city's leading citizens. Yes, in triumph.
But there was no one there to know it. Except one very private person.
In the forest of her memory, hard by the glen, just at the edge of the brook, Emmett Shannon smiled . . . and blew her a kiss. ...
NEXT: Against All Odds, Diana Builds A New Life In Philadelphia
*****
S.O.S. ALLAN'S NEW NOVEL
Between February and May of 1942, German U-boats operated with impunity off the Florida coast, sinking scores of freighters from Cape Canaveral to Key West and killing nearly five thousand people. Residents were horrified witnesses of the attacks—the night skies were aflame and in the morning the beaches were covered with oil and tar, ship parts and charred corpses. The Germans even landed teams of saboteurs charged with disrupting war efforts in the factories of the North. This novel is based on those events. For my own purposes, I set the tale in the fictitious town of Juno Beach on the banks of the equally fictitious Seminole River—all in the very real Palm Beach County, a veritable wilderness in those long ago days. Among the witnesses were my grandfather and grandmother, who operated an orchard and ranch in the area.
*****
A DAUGHTER OF LIBERTY
The year is 1778 and the Revolutionary War has young America trapped in the crossfire of hatred and fear. Diana, an indentured servant, escapes her abusive master with the help of Emmett Shannon, a deserter from the desperate army at Valley Forge. They fall in love and marry, but their happiness is shattered and Diana Shannon must learn to survive on her own. From that moment on she will become a true woman of her times, blazing a path from lawless lands in the grips of the Revolution, to plague-stricken Philadelphia, to the burning of Washington in the War Of 1812.
*****
TWO NEW AUDIOBOOKS ONLY $4.95!
Tales Sometimes Tall, but always true, of Allan Cole's years in Hollywood with his late partner, Chris Bunch. How a naked lady almost became our first agent. How we survived La-La Land with only the loss of half our brain cells. How Bunch & Cole became the ultimate Fix-It
Boys. How an alleged Mafia Don was very, very good to us. The guy who cornered the market on movie rocks. Andy Warhol's Fire Extinguisher. The Real Stars Of Hollywood. Why they don't make million dollar movies. See The Seven Pi$$ing Dwarfs. Learn: how to kill a "difficult" actor… And much, much more.
THE TIMURA TRILOGY: When The Gods Slept, Wolves Of The Gods and The Gods Awaken. This best selling fantasy series now available as trade paperbacks, e-books (in all varieties) and as audiobooks. Visit The Timura Trilogy page for links to all the editions.
NEWLY REVISED KINDLE EDITIONS OF THE TIMURA TRILOGY NOW AVAILABLE. (1) When The Gods Slept;(2) Wolves Of The Gods; (3) The Gods Awaken.
*****
A NATION AT WAR WITH ITSELF: In Book Three Of The Shannon Trilogy, young Patrick Shannon is the heir-apparent to the Shannon fortune, but murder and betrayal at a family gathering send him fleeing into the American frontier, with only the last words of a wise old woman to arm him against what would come. And when the outbreak of the Civil War comes he finds himself fighting on the opposite side of those he loves the most. In The Wars Of The Shannons we see the conflict, both on the battlefield and the homefront, through the eyes of Patrick and the members of his extended Irish-American family as they struggle to survive the conflict that ripped the new nation apart, and yet, offered a dim beacon of hope.
*****
NEW: THE AUDIOBOOK VERSION OF
THE HATE PARALLAX
What if the Cold War never ended -- but continued for a thousand years? Best-selling authors Allan Cole (an American) and Nick Perumov (a Russian) spin a mesmerizing "what if?" tale set a thousand years in the future, as an American and a Russian super-soldier -- together with a beautiful American detective working for the United Worlds Police -- must combine forces to defeat a secret cabal ... and prevent a galactic disaster! This is the first - and only - collaboration between American and Russian novelists. Narrated by John Hough. Click the title links below for the trade paperback and kindle editions. (Also available at iTunes.)
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm- ravaged night.
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
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In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
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