Blowing weather

by John T. McIntyre

XX

February passed, and, midway in March, the ice broke in the river and bay, and ships began to move up and down. But while waiting for this Anthony had gone on with his study of the old books of Rufus Stevens' Sons; and the deeper he got into them the more thoughtful and puzzled he seemed, the more elaborate were the notes he took, the more he frowned as he went about his business during the day, and the more he felt a desire for some one with whom to talk and compare judgments.

But, also, there was another interest looming during the late winter and early spring. This was the first of the new ships which Charles had ordered; all winter the work had gone forward at the Siddons yard in Shackamaxon; shipwrights, joiners, blacksmiths, worked under the sheds and in the open; the huge ways were the wonder of the waterfront, and as the oaken hull grew and began to rear people formed parties of a Sunday or a holiday and drove up the river road to see it. The work had reached this stage about the time the ice broke up; and then, with the sight of the moving shipping to stir his blood, Charles began to urge haste.

"The Rufus Stevens must be launched, have her masts placed, the rigging bent, and be in the dock receiving cargo by the last week in June," said he.

"That will be six months' building time," said Siddons. "I know vessels have been put into the water in that space, but they were not of this one's quality and substance, seasoned timbers and excellent joining. Six months! Why, sir, the like has never been done on this river. Here we've gone through a severe winter; come wet or dry, cold or snow, we've not missed a day; if we couldn't work on the structure, we've worked under the sheds at making ready the timbers or forging the ironmongery. My calculations were the middle of September at the earliest, and that was promising much, Mr. Stevens."

But Charles insisted; and so the hum of the Siddons yard increased as the spring warmed. Such a hammering and sawing as there was; such a chipping and shaving and boring and fitting the clever old place had never seen before. It had been Anthony's practice, at least twice a week, all winter through, to make a visit to the yard, for the growing might of the Rufus Stevens fascinated him. He had been there the day the keel was laid—a keel of solid, seasoned, toughened oak, as surely fitted, as strongly braced as old Rufus' spine had been. And to this grew the ribs, powerful, graceful, bent cunningly to waste the impact of the sea and to give space to the ship's cargo. Then the beams went in to brace the frame—mighty, weighty, strong beams, of live-oak that was like iron; beams that had been nursed and molded and cut to fit by shrewd joiners. Live-oak had been Charles's highest demand—live-oak that had been felled in proper time, and seasoned in the sun and rain and wind. The stem was made of it—a great, cutting stem that would throw the seas lightly apart; the stern-post was of it, and also the transoms, aprons, knight-heads, hawse-timbers, and keelson; and it was all clean and without defects.

And now, in April, the hull towered like a monster against the background of low sheds; workmen swarmed eagerly over it; their hammers rat-tat-tatted like the beaks of woodpeckers; the clean smell of wood was everywhere. In a dock at one side floated huge round timbers; the dark mouth of a shed opened down to the water's edge, and here other timbers of a like kind had been drawn out, and workmen, each with a deftly used adze, were shaping the new ship's masts.

Anthony would walk among the chips and shavings, breathing in the fragrance of them: the level drumming from the hollow body of the making craft filled his ears; the smiths in their dusky forges fashioned red bars into bolts and clamps and hooks as he stood in their doorways; and from the depths of the yard he caught the glint of the full river in the sun; he saw spread sails creeping down to the sea; the smoke of the city floated across the blue sky; the trees were green along the shore; and the spring filled his body as it had when he was a boy. And there was the island, the green, long, narrow island, midway in the river, with the spur of sand shooting out toward the south, which the rising tide would cover.

And then as his mind went back he would see the bobbing head of a youthful adventurer above the water, a naked, white, boyish body breasting the crosses of the current, drifting to leeward of a market-seeking sloop, climbing the bow-chains of an anchored schooner; and then he would see him, slim, exultant, alone, on the rim of the island, waiting for the tide to turn, that he might slip back with it to the dock which had been his starting-place.

But, also, the spring brought other things than the new ship and thoughts and feelings of boyhood. The shackles of winter having fallen from the port, matters sharpened remarkably. Glum faces gave place to eager ones; markets were exceedingly active; merchandise flowed in with gratifying steadiness; cargoes were rich, rare, of unexpected quantity. There seemed scarcely a day but a ship, home-bound from the East, from the West Indies, from the Spanish countries, rounded the bend in the river, her sails full and her decks alive with her company. Each time one appeared a watching merchant thrilled with opportunity; and this thrill found its way into the crush and scuffle at the City Tavern, in Walnut Street, where traders and dealers and merchants met and arranged their affairs, and bought and sold and drank and smoked. It was a low-ceilinged place, with wide windows, sanded floors, square-setting chairs, and oaken tables. It rattled with tableware and glasses; and it clacked with tongues, offering and accepting, protesting and praising, promising and rejecting. Captain Weir transacted most of the business for Rufus Stevens' Sons that was done here, but Anthony frequently visited the place to get the touch of the market and watch the temper of the moment.