Chapter 11: Lost in New York

(June 1865)

The ferry bumped against the Manhattan dock with a hollow thud that echoed through the pilings. Around us, passengers pressed forward—businessmen with leather cases, working men with tools slung over shoulders, women with market baskets. They moved with purpose, with destination, with the easy confidence of people who knew where they belonged in the world.

Tiny and I stood at the rail and watched them go.

"Well," he said finally. "Here we are."

"Here we are," I echoed.

The city rose before us like a wall—buildings stacked on buildings, smoke from a thousand chimneys darkening the afternoon sky. I could hear it from here: the rumble of wagons, the shout of vendors, the constant hum of too many people pressed too close together. It sounded nothing like home.

We shuffled down the gangplank with our bundles—everything we owned in the world tied up in army blankets. The new clothes they'd given us at the prison felt stiff and wrong, the fabric scratching against skin that had worn nothing but Confederate gray for three years. We looked like what we were: strangers in a strange land, carrying nothing but parole papers and ten dollars apiece that wouldn't last a week.

"Food first," Tiny said, practical as always. "Then we figure out the rest."

But figuring out where to get food in a city this size when you didn't know a single street name was harder than it sounded. We walked for what felt like hours, following the flow of people without knowing where they were going. The streets all looked the same—cobblestones and brick, shop fronts and taverns, alleys that smelled like rot and desperation.

Nobody looked at us. Or rather, they looked through us, the way you look at furniture or lampposts—things that take up space but don't matter. A woman in fine silk stepped around me without breaking stride, her skirts sweeping the dust I'd kicked up. A man in a top hat nearly knocked Tiny into the gutter, never even noticing the mountain he'd bounced off.

"I don't like it here," Tiny muttered, his eyes darting from face to face like he was back on picket duty. "Feels wrong."

"City folk," I said, though I didn't understand it either. "They're different."

Different was one word for it. Cold was another. Back home, even strangers would nod as you passed, ask after your health, comment on the weather. Here, you could drop dead in the street and people would just step over your body on their way to wherever they were rushing.

We found a street vendor finally—an old man selling hot corn from a cart, the smell so good it made my stomach clench. I handed over a precious coin and got back two ears wrapped in paper, the kernels sweet and buttery and gone too fast.

"That's a quarter of our money," Tiny said, staring at the empty paper in his hand.

"I know."

"We need to find work. Or a charity house. Or..." He trailed off, the possibilities as thin as the corn had been filling.

I pulled out the parole paper, read it again like the words might've changed. Furnished transportation as far south as military rails run. That meant Louisville at best, maybe Nashville if we were lucky. But from there to Danville was another hundred miles, and we'd be walking it with nothing in our pockets and less in our bellies.

"We could try the docks," I said. "Day labor. Enough to get us some supplies for the road home."

"How long you figure that'd take?"

I did the math in my head. If we worked every day, if we could find work every day, if we saved every penny and didn't eat more than scraps... "Month. Maybe six weeks."

Tiny's face fell. Six weeks was a lifetime when you were hungry and had nowhere to sleep. Six weeks was long enough to give up, to disappear into the city's cracks like all the other lost souls wandering these streets.

"Let's at least find a place to sit," he said. "Think things through proper."

We ended up in a small park tucked between two rows of brownstones—probably meant for the residents, but nobody stopped us from sitting on one of the benches. Trees filtered the late afternoon light, making dappled patterns on the ground that reminded me of home. For a minute I could almost imagine I was back in Tennessee, sitting under the oak by the creek, waiting for Samuel to finish his chores so we could go fishing.

But Samuel was dead, and I was a thousand miles from that creek, and the only fishing I'd be doing was trying to catch enough work to keep from starving.

I pulled out the leather pouch, held it in my hands. Pa's watch. The photograph. The unfinished letter. The pressed lavender that had lost its scent but still held its shape, barely.

"You thinking about him?" Tiny asked quiet.

"Always thinking about him." I turned the pouch over, felt the weight of it. "I should be taking this home. Should be standing in front of Ma and Pa, handing them Samuel's things, telling them how he died brave."

"You will. Just takes time."

"How much time? We got ten dollars and no way home. We can't work the docks for six weeks—we'd get robbed or worse before then. Look at us, Tiny. We're easy marks in a city full of wolves."

He didn't argue. Couldn't. We both knew it was true.

I thought about Emma's letter, creased and soft from reading. I will wait as long as there is breath in me. How long would she wait? How long could she wait, with Danville in ruins and winter coming and no word from the man she'd promised herself to?

"Maybe we could sell the watch," Tiny suggested, though his voice said he knew it was wrong even as he spoke.

"Can't. It's all I got left of him. All I got to give Ma and Pa." I tucked the pouch back inside my shirt, felt it settle against my chest where Emma's sachet used to ride. "There's got to be another way."

But sitting there on that bench with the city humming around us, indifferent to our trouble, I couldn't see what that way might be.

The sun was getting lower. Soon we'd need to find somewhere to sleep—somewhere that wouldn't get us arrested or beaten or worse. I'd heard stories about what happened to Confederate soldiers in Northern cities, the ones who didn't have money or protection or sense enough to keep their heads down.

Tiny was staring at nothing, his face tired in a way that had nothing to do with the body and everything to do with the soul. We'd survived the war. Survived the prison. And now we were going to founder on something as simple as being broke and lost in a city that didn't want us.

"Excuse me, gentlemen?"

The voice came from behind us—accented in a way I couldn't place, neither Northern nor Southern but something else entirely. I turned to see two men standing on the path, both dressed plain but clean, their faces weathered by sun and wind rather than city smoke.

They were clearly brothers—same broad shoulders, same square jaw, same eyes the color of slate. The older one had spoken, and now he gestured at our clothes, our bundles, the way we sat on the bench like men who'd run out of road.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said, "but I couldn't help but notice..." He paused, choosing his words careful. "You've recently been released from confinement, haven't you? Union prisoner-of-war camp?"

My hand went to my pocket instinctive, checking for the parole papers. Beside me, Tiny had gone still and watchful.

"Maybe," I said cautious. "What's it to you?"

The man raised both hands, showing he meant no harm. "Nothing sinister, I assure you. My name is William Francom, and this is my brother Joseph. We're travelers ourselves, newly arrived from South Africa." He had a slight smile now, almost apologetic. "We've been watching the ferries all week, you see. Looking for men with certain... qualities. Skills that might prove useful on a long journey."

"What kind of journey?" Tiny asked, his voice a low rumble.

"West," the younger brother—Joseph—said simply. "All the way to the Utah Territory. And we could use men who know how to ride, how to shoot, how to stay alive in country that doesn't forgive mistakes."

I looked at Tiny. He looked at me. This could be anything—a con, a trap, or just a couple of fools with more money than sense. But it could also be something else. Something that might solve the problem we'd been chewing on all afternoon.

"We're listening," I said finally.

William's smile widened a fraction. "Excellent. Have you eaten? Perhaps we could discuss this over a proper meal. I have a feeling we have much to talk about."

My stomach answered before I could, growling loud enough to make Joseph chuckle. Tiny's did the same a second later.

"A meal sounds fine," I said, standing slow. "But if this is some kind of trick—"

"No tricks," William said, his face earnest. "Just two men who need help, and two men who look like they could use an opportunity. Fair trade, nothing more."

I studied him for a long moment. There was something in his eyes—something honest, or at least honest enough. And what choice did we have? Sit on this bench till dark and then go looking for an alley to sleep in? Try our luck at the docks and hope we didn't get our throats cut for the few coins we had left?

"Alright," I said. "Lead on."

As we followed the Francom brothers out of the park and onto the busy street, I touched the pouch under my shirt one more time.

Sorry, Samuel, I thought. The road home just got longer. But I'll get there. I promise I'll get there.

Whether he could hear me or not, wherever he was now, I had to believe he'd understand.

Sometimes the only way home was the long way around.