OBIE'S TRUTH-Book One
AMERICA WAS REAL
(Joining the adventure in progress)
Hangtown Bound
Arrival in Philadelphia
Episode One
Jarrin’ Bones & Rattlin’ Teeth
As the sun climbed gradually into the brilliant autumn sky, a purple horizon rose from a dreamlike mist and took on recognizable forms. First the forests in their breathtaking fall foliage, then the houses and buildings, and eventually the dock and crowds of people became distinguishable on the shore. Our hearts pounded and filled with myriad emotions: joy, excitement, uncertainty, and apprehension. Those people on the dock were Americans. Soon we would be Americans too.
To our west was the eastern boundary of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and as the vast forests of oak and hickory gave way to farmland and fields of ripening grain, the port city of Philadelphia came into view. The port itself was clearly distinguishable by a forest of towering masts. Countless tall ships were at anchor along the expansive docks, now crowded with swarming masses of people of all nationalities. Beyond lay the historic city itself; basking in the brilliant rays of a gorgeous fall day I’d not soon forget.
Our longboats were lowered and manned, our decks filled with cheering pilgrims, and our gallant ship, in full canvas and flags flying, sailed proudly into the harbor. From the docks the crowd waved and cheered, a group of kilt clad gentleman promenaded across the wharf with bagpipes blaring, and all at once our normally reserved crew, in cadence with their rowing and in a wide variety of colorful accents, burst into a rousing chorus of “Blow the Man Down”. My pulse raced, my spirit soared, and my heart, fit to bust, pounded like never before. Well, there was the time I discovered the Counts teenage daughter skinny-dippin’ in the castle cistern, but that was different.
Many of our fellow passengers were encumbered by steamer trunks, crates of family heirlooms, and paraphernalia of every conceivable shape, size, and description. Several families had brought along farm implements, and one couple had shipped a huge cast iron cooking range, complete with water reservoir, eight lids and a dandy warming oven. Their disembarkation would require time and arrangements, not to mention intestinal fortitude and huge quantities of elbow grease.
My family was traveling light. As per pre-arrangement, we gathered on the port side of the ship and lined up near the gangway. Christoph and I each carried one end of an old camelback trunk in one hand and an additional piece of luggage in the other. My shoulder satchel contained the journal, which I’d begun onboard the ship. Mother carried a small leather satchel containing family papers, the manumission granting us the Count’s permission to sail from Germany, and assorted valuables. Father, still weak from his illness but in high spirits, led the way.
It’s difficult to describe my feelings as we left the ship and first set foot in an unfamiliar new country. Germany had been my family’s homeland for generations. Throughout our long and often miserable voyage, I’d harbored deep within myself a dull ache and an ever-present anxiety. I’d often awakened during the long nights at sea to a dry mouth and a churning stomach. Even on the good days there’d been a discomforting sense of leaving something irretrievable behind.
This morning, as we faced the challenges of a new day filled with opportunity, all those feelings of loss and disenfranchisement were replaced by an overwhelming sense of excitement and adventure. This was a new start in a new world, and everything about it seemed fresh and inviting. I realized that a chapter in my life was ending, and intuition told me that life as I knew it was changing forever. Right now though, my family and I were sharing the adventure of a lifetime, together.
Barring complications and miscommunications, Father’s elder brother Gus was to meet us at the port. Uncle Gus had arrived in America seven years previously and had kept in touch as well as possible considering the lamentable state of overseas mail service at the time. His crossing had been plagued by misfortune, and his wife Margaret had succumbed to disease and been buried at sea long before reaching America. His life here in Pennsylvania had been marvelously blessed. Both of his sons had married well, and their unions had produced nine Grandchildren. He’d arrived in this country as an apprentice cobbler and now owned his own thriving shoe shop. In seven years, he had established himself well in this country and was now a prosperous and respected member of his community.
I wouldn’t know Uncle Gus from Adam. I was only two when my uncle and his family received the Counts permission to sail for Philadelphia. Nevertheless, I joined my family in searching every person in the crowd for a familiar face. I’d occasionally had the pleasure and privilege of meeting people of different nationalities as a child, but I’d never experienced anything like this. Created in 1682 as ol’ Bill Penn’s “holy experiment” Philadelphia was a major port and received ships from throughout the world. Subsequently it was peopled with travelers from the four corners of the earth, each one contributing the customs, dress, tastes, and traditions of their mother country. This port city was a melting pot, and the result was a unique blend of the best and the worst.
The dock with its open-air shops and adjacent market, along with the inns, eating establishments, and taverns, all reflected this amazing diversity. The cool fall air was brisk and invigorating, and saturated with the violently competitive fragrances of hickory smoke, tobacco, wet poultry and boiling seafood. Down toward the northern end of the pier, the open-air shops endeavored to cater to every conceivable appetite, and what little they couldn’t provide was usually available in vast quantities, infinite variety, and discrete anonymity at the inns and taverns just across the street.
By the time a twenty-minute search had proven fruitless, that ol’ trunk weighed a ton and Christoph, and I were exhausted. We dropped our cargo and collapsed, sitting on the luggage and staring at the ground in despair. After a moment, I realized that I was looking at the feet of either a small mountain or a very portly gentleman. I craned my neck and gazed up into the kind and beaming countenance of an elderly gentleman with a huge white beard and a belly to match. He grinned at me, eyes twinkling for a moment, and then in a markedly German accent announced, “You must be Obadiah.”
Mother spun around instantly with a big smile. Father, who’d been anxiously scanning faces in the opposite direction, paused momentarily, and then, turning slowly, gazed into his brother’s face with rapidly moistening eyes. Father had been a little teary eyed as we bid farewell to my grandparents in Germany, but I’d never seen him actually break down and cry. Father took Uncle Gus by the hand, and gazed straight into his soul, his eyes reflecting a range and depth of emotions incapable of conveyance in mere words. Then, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Father drew a long faltering breath, and convulsing with emotions, sobbed quietly right out loud. I held my mother’s hand while fighting back the lump in my own throat, and my mother searched desperately for her handkerchief. After a moment, Christoph, unable to deal with all this unbridled emotion, cleared his throat and began collecting our luggage. Uncle Gus embraced Dad for a moment longer, kissed my mother ever so gently on the cheek, and then grabbed that camelback trunk by one handle and hoisted it up on his shoulder. “Shake a leg,” he encouraged, “or we’ll all miss dinner.”
It took several minutes to maneuver through the crowds and reach my uncle’s wagon. By then the emotions of the reunion were beginning to subside and tongues began to loosen. Mother had begun to fill my uncle in on the events of our long voyage. The luggage loaded, my brother and I climbed into the back of the buckboard and found a seat next to our trunk on a blanket that our uncle had provided. The three adults squeezed into the driver’s bench, Uncle Gus spoke to the team of mules, and Christoph and I got our very first taste of riding a springless buckboard down a cobblestone street. As we proceeded, Gus pointed out Independence Hall and related what I’m certain was a wealth of interesting local history, but I missed it all. Other than the sounds of the buckboard, all I heard were jarrin’ bones and rattlin’ teeth!
To be continued, pending any interest.
OJHC/SC
