The Red City: A Novel of the Second Administration of President Washington

by S. Weir Mitchell

Off the mouth of Dock Creek they came to anchor, the captain advising them to wait on shipboard until he returned, and to be ready then to go ashore.

When their simple preparations were completed, De Courval came on deck, and, climbing the rigging, settled himself in the crosstrees to take counsel with his pipe, and to be for a time alone and away from the boat-loads of people eager for letters and for news from France and England.

The mile-wide river was almost without a sail. A few lazy fishers and the slowly moving vans of the mill on Wind Mill Island had little to interest. As he saw it from his perch, the city front was busy and represented the sudden prosperity which came with the sense of permanence the administration of Washington seemed to guarantee for the great bond under which a nation was to grow. There was the town stretching north and south along the Delaware, and beyond it woodland. What did it hold for him? The mood of reflection was no rare one for a man of twenty-five who had lived through months of peril in France, amid peasants hostile in creed, and who had seen the fortunes of his house melt away, and at last had aged suddenly into gravity beyond his years when he beat his way heartsick out of the grim tragedy of Avignon.

His father's people were of the noblesse of the robe, country gentles; his mother a cousin of the two dukes Rochefoucauld. He drew qualities from a long line of that remarkable judicature which through all changes kept sacred and spotless the ermine of the magistrate. From the mother's race he had spirit, courage, and a reserve of violent passions, the inheritance of a line of warlike nobles unused to recognize any law but their own will.

The quiet life of a lesser country gentleman, the absence from court which pride and lessening means alike enforced, and the puritan training of a house which held tenaciously to the creed of Calvin, combined to fit him better to earn his living in a new land than was the case with the greater nobles who had come to seek what contented their ambitions—some means of living until they should regain their lost estates. They drew their hopes from a ruined past. De Courval looked forward with hope fed by youth, energy, and the simpler life.

It was four o'clock when the captain set them ashore with their boxes on the slip in front of the warehouse of Mr. Wynne, the ship's owner. He was absent at Merion, but his porters would care for their baggage, and a junior clerk would find for them an inn until they could look for a permanent home. When the captain landed them on the slip, the old clerk, Mr. Potts, made them welcome, and would have had madam wait in the warehouse until their affairs had been duly ordered. When her son translated the invitation, she said: "I like it here. I shall wait for you. The sun is pleasant." While he was gone, she stood alone, looking about her at the busy wharf, the many vessels, the floating windmills anchored on the river, and the long line of red brick warehouses along the river front.

On his return, De Courval, much troubled, explained that there was not a hackney-coach to be had, and that she had better wait in the counting-house until a chaise could be found. Seeing her son's distress, and learning that an inn could be reached near by, she declared it would be pleasant to walk and that every minute made her better.

There being no help for it, they set out with the clerk, who had but a mild interest in this addition to the French who were beginning to fly from France and the islands, and were taxing heavily the hospitality and the charity of the city. A barrow-man came on behind, with the baggage for their immediate needs, now and then crying, "Barrow! Barrow!" when his way was impeded.

De Courval, at first annoyed that his mother must walk, was silent, but soon, with unfailing curiosity, began to be interested and amused. When, reaching Second Street, they crossed the bridge over Dock Creek, they found as they moved northward a brisk business life, shops, and more varied costumes than are seen to-day. Here were Quakers, to madam's amazement; nun-like Quaker women in the monastic seclusion of what later was irreverently called the "coal-scuttle" bonnet; Germans of the Palatinate; men of another world in the familiar short-clothes, long, broidered waistcoat, and low beaver; a few negroes; and the gray-clad mechanic, with now and then a man from the islands, when suddenly a murmur of French startled the vicomtesse.