Father’s star descending. Handsome man. Straight. Black haired. People said was spoiled and idle but never believed same. Loved same. Made four voyages to East Indies. Proud. Cousins found work for him in gold-bead factory but he refused. Why not? He was a proud man, not meant to make gold beads. Many family conferences. Dark country of visiting relations. Whispering in the parlor. No money, no supper, no wood for fires. Father sad.
And a grand and glorious autumn that was too. Leaves coming down like old cloth; old sails; old flags. Solid curtain of green in summer. Then north wind takes it away, piece by piece. See roofs and steeples, buried since June in leaves. Everywhere gold. Midaslike. Poor father! Mind coarsened with sorrow. Trees covered with gold bank notes. Gold everywhere. Gold knee deep on the ground. Dust in his pockets. Bits of thread. Nothing more. Uncle Moses came to the rescue. Mother’s brother. Big, fat man. Uncouth. Ran wholesale business in Boston. Sold novelties to four-corner stores. Threads and needles. Buttons. Ginghams. A booming voice like a preacher. Shiny trousers. Threadbare. Walked the four miles from Travertine to St. Botolphs to save eight-cent horsecar fare. Famous walker. Once walked from Boston to Salem to foreclose on a creditor. Slept in livery stable. Walked home. Offered father house in Boston. Work. “The cities is where the money is, Aaron!” Father hated Moses. Had no choice. Moses always spoke of losses. Sad. Lost four thousand dollars one year. Lost six thousand dollars next year. Lived in big square house in Dorchester with For Sale sign on same. Wife made underwear of flour sacks. Two sons; both dead.
Good-by to St. Botolphs then. Let the tame crows go. Loaded few possessions onto wagon including Hallet & Davis rosewood piano. No room for swordfish spur, shells or corals. House for sale but no customers. Too big. Old-fashioned. No bathrooms. Furniture packed in Tingleys’ wagon night before departure. Horses stabled in barn. Slept last time in attic. Waked by sound of rain 4 A.M. Sweet music. Left homestead by dawn’s early light. Forever? Who knows? Brother and writer to ride on tail gate of wagon. Mother and father to travel by cars. Little wind before dawn. Boxed compass. Not enough to fill your sails. Stirring leaves. Good-by. Reached house on Pinckney Street after dark. Run-down place. Stair lifts rotted. Windows broken. Moses there. Shiny pants. Preacher’s voice. “The house is not in good repair, Aaron, but surely you’re not afraid of a little hard work.” Slept first night on floor.
Went to visit Moses in Dorchester following Sunday. Walked all the way. Horsecars running but mother thought if he could walk to Salem and back we could walk to Dorchester. Burden of poor relations to set good example. Late winter morning. Overcast. Wind from north, northeast. Cold. Out in farming country barking dogs followed us. Strange figures we cut. Dressed for church, marching up dirt roads. Reached Uncle Moses’ at two. Big house but Uncle Moses and Aunt Rebecca lived in kitchen. Sons, both dead. Moses carrying wood from shed to cellar. “Help me, boys, and I’ll pay you,” he says. Hamlet, father and me carried wood all afternoon. Got bark all over our best clothes. Mother was in the kitchen sewing. Night falls. Cold winds. Moses leads us over to the well. “Now we’ll have a drink of Adam’s ale, boys. There’s nothing more refreshing.” This was our payment. A drink of cold water. Started home at dark. Miles to go. Nothing to eat since breakfast. Sat down on the way to rest. “He’s a Christly skin, Sarah,” father says. “Aaron,” mother says. “He buys and sells on the exchange like a prince,” father says, “and he pays me and my sons with a cup of water for carrying his Christly firewood all afternoon.” “Aaron,” mother says. “He’s known everywhere in the trade as a skin,” father says. “He counts to make ten thousand and when he only makes five he claims to lost five. All the goods he sells are shoddy and damaged in the loom. When his sons were sick he was too stingy to buy the medicine and when they died he buried them in pine-wood coffins and marked their graves with a slate.” Mother and Hamlet walked on. Father put an arm around shoulders; held me tight. Mixed feelings, all deep, all good. Love and consolation.
Father. How to describe? Stern faced, sad hearted. Much loved, never befriended. Aroused pity, tenderness, solicitude, admiration among associates. Never stalwart friendship. Child of bold seafaring men. First tasted love in Samoa. Honest as the day was long. Perhaps unhappily married. Standards different in those times. Fatalistic. Never quarreled. Only Irish. Perhaps fastidious principles. Hatred for Moses deepened. Worked hard but complained of sharp practice. Mother’s sisters often at house. Whispering. Father complained of numerous visitors. “My latchstring’s always out for my relations,” Mother said. Father often played checkers with writer. Shrewd checker player. Faraway looks.
Writer entered Latin school. Stood at head of class of forty. (Report card attached.) Country boy in high-water britches. Delivered newspapers in winter before dawn. Moon still in sky. Played on Common. Lacrosse. Snowball fights. Skating. Some baseball. Vague rules. No river embankment then. Copley Square was a dump. Full of hoopskirt wires. River at low tide smelled of sea gas. Trust writer was cheerful. Happy. Excepting father no unhappy memories. Hard now to reconstruct. Epizootic epidemic. (1873.) All horses in city killed. Few oxen imported but little sound of wheels, hoofs. Only street callers. Coalie-oilee man. Knife sharpener. Played checkers late with father. Heard bells ring. Church bells but no church. Loud. From all corners of the compass. Praise, Laud and Honor. Among bells sounds of people running. Went with father to roof. Excitement fast growing. Bells louder on roof. Glory be to God on the highest. Clamor. Saw great fire at waterfront; Great Boston Fire.
Ran downstairs, down Pinckney Street with father. Boston’s burning! Joined hose company on Charles Street. Ran at father’s side all the way to waterfront. First more smoke than flame. Hellish smell of burning chattels. Shoes, wallpaper, clothes, plumage. Joined bucket brigade. Eyes sore from smoke. Coughing. Father made writer rest back of safety cordon, but rejoined brigade later. Worked most of night. Walked home at dawn. Dead tired. Smoky city. You could see from Washington and Winter streets through to the harbor. Old South Church was scorched. Way through to Fort Hill were smoking ruins. Dawn-light reddish in smoke. Bad smell. Tents on Common for refugees. Strange sight. Babies crying. Fires for cooking. Clink of water buckets like ghostly cowbells. Scenes of upheaval, suffering and humor. Down Charles Street the scavengers. Worse than Indians. Armies of thieves. Sewing machines, dishes, celluloid collars, two dozen left shoes, ladies’ hats. Barbarians all. Hit the feathers at sunrise.
Moses burned out. Heavily insured. Cleared ten thousand. Expected to clear twenty. Claimed to have lost ten. Crocodile tears. Well-known skin. Opened up new business six weeks later in new building. Continued sharp practice. Father complaining. Aunts and cousins in and out of house like dog’s hind leg. Whispering. Father not home for supper. Not home after. Never ask questions. No sign of father for three days. Church on Sunday. Took walk. Grand and glorious spring day after New England rains. Cheerful. Passed brick house near junction of Pinckney and Cedar. Heard woman’s voice calling, “Boy, boy, oh you!” Looked up to window. Saw naked woman. Big brindle bush of hair like beard. Plain face. Man enters picture. Strikes woman. Draws curtains. Went on walking to river. Resolved never to walk by house looking for woman again. Resolved to keep mind clean, body healthy. Ran a mile on riverbank. Had clean thoughts. Admired sky. Water. God’s creation. Walked straight back to junction of Pinckney and Cedar streets. All resolves broken. Shame faced. Looked in window and saw woman again. Dressed now in voluminous house dress. Picking leaves off geranium plants in window. Later found name was Mrs. Trexler. Member of church in good standing. Poor soul.