Cadwallader Tisbury
New Bedford, Massachusetts
From the diary of Aine Faergahl, 1833
Fables Foibles & Follies
An Irish Odyssey
Our passage from the Travelers Inn was uneventful. In fact, we saw only a few children, two, perhaps three ragamuffins altogether, and two wayward souls who appeared to be nothing more than vagrant. We walked past shops of all sorts: butchers, bakers, haberdashers, cobblers, grocers and tinkers.
Cadwallader and I rounded the corner at Howland Walk. Suddenly, as if sent down from somewhere in heavens above, there before me was a wondrous, large stone building, fully four floor levels tall with yellow brickwork on the street-side façade. It was indeed a sight to behold. The morning sun set the yellow brick alight in stark contrast to the other red brick and wooden structures along the cobbled street. Its windows reflected and sparkled in the rays of daylight.
A heavy wooden sign, adorned in bright yellow letters, protruded from above the blood red, double entry doors that read: Jonathan Allen, Purveyor of Contracted Maritime Employment.
Below the sign stood five contemptible reasons for which I hired the landlord as my guide, spent five dollars, and thereby agreed to part with one of my four gold eagles. A quiver coursed up my backbone and across my shoulders. Five rugged curs, one for each of my dollars, came to life.
To a man, each dastardly dog was wrapped in clothing unfit for a corpse. We were fully ten yards down the street when their putrid stench struck me. If it was a foreboding of the fumes of Hell, then Hell it certainly was and you would hear no argument from me.
To my shocked surprise, Cadwallader drew a long pistol, a shining brass flintlock from his street coat and brandished it about. There came an indiscernible growl from his throat. He lifted his walking stick and crashed it thunderously downward onto the cobbles underfoot. Another growl and all five devils sprang from the doorway, down the stoop and toward the docks. My bodyguard Cadwallader growled in their direction yet again for good measure and graced me a wide grin that included all of his black and brown teeth. A vulgar chortle followed as he put the pistol back inside his coat.
I blame it on the mayhem and I cannot truly recall, but I most certainly thanked him. Likely disturbed by the ruckus, dogs began barking somewhere along the wharf. A cat wailed from an alleyway.
The dust of the devils’ departure settled and Cadwallader opened one of the heavy red doors and motioned me inside. There were three or four desks in a spacious room. It smelled of tobacco, lamp oil, wet shoes and men. Upon each desk was a rounded stack of papers and bound books that partially concealed a young man seated upon a stool. Truly, they were young and two appeared to be boys, and not fully men, but they wore spectacles, each and every one.
© 2018 Edward R. Hackemer
From the diary of Aine Faergahl, 1833
Fables Foibles & Follies
An Irish Odyssey
Our passage from the Travelers Inn was uneventful. In fact, we saw only a few children, two, perhaps three ragamuffins altogether, and two wayward souls who appeared to be nothing more than vagrant. We walked past shops of all sorts: butchers, bakers, haberdashers, cobblers, grocers and tinkers.
Cadwallader and I rounded the corner at Howland Walk. Suddenly, as if sent down from somewhere in heavens above, there before me was a wondrous, large stone building, fully four floor levels tall with yellow brickwork on the street-side façade. It was indeed a sight to behold. The morning sun set the yellow brick alight in stark contrast to the other red brick and wooden structures along the cobbled street. Its windows reflected and sparkled in the rays of daylight.
A heavy wooden sign, adorned in bright yellow letters, protruded from above the blood red, double entry doors that read: Jonathan Allen, Purveyor of Contracted Maritime Employment.
Below the sign stood five contemptible reasons for which I hired the landlord as my guide, spent five dollars, and thereby agreed to part with one of my four gold eagles. A quiver coursed up my backbone and across my shoulders. Five rugged curs, one for each of my dollars, came to life.
To a man, each dastardly dog was wrapped in clothing unfit for a corpse. We were fully ten yards down the street when their putrid stench struck me. If it was a foreboding of the fumes of Hell, then Hell it certainly was and you would hear no argument from me.
To my shocked surprise, Cadwallader drew a long pistol, a shining brass flintlock from his street coat and brandished it about. There came an indiscernible growl from his throat. He lifted his walking stick and crashed it thunderously downward onto the cobbles underfoot. Another growl and all five devils sprang from the doorway, down the stoop and toward the docks. My bodyguard Cadwallader growled in their direction yet again for good measure and graced me a wide grin that included all of his black and brown teeth. A vulgar chortle followed as he put the pistol back inside his coat.
I blame it on the mayhem and I cannot truly recall, but I most certainly thanked him. Likely disturbed by the ruckus, dogs began barking somewhere along the wharf. A cat wailed from an alleyway.
The dust of the devils’ departure settled and Cadwallader opened one of the heavy red doors and motioned me inside. There were three or four desks in a spacious room. It smelled of tobacco, lamp oil, wet shoes and men. Upon each desk was a rounded stack of papers and bound books that partially concealed a young man seated upon a stool. Truly, they were young and two appeared to be boys, and not fully men, but they wore spectacles, each and every one.
© 2018 Edward R. Hackemer
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