It was good to be out alone. From our cabin in Sassafras Street I walked down to Second Street, where several small businesses – a tailor, a hardware seller, a draper – had set up rudimentary shops. Everything looked new – fresh-painted wood, trodden dirt paths. I turned south, noting the names of the streets roughly painted on the sides of buildings: Cherry Street, Mulberry Street. The names amused me. They seemed unreal, not like the street names in London that had roots going down into history. Market Street was broader, and here I turned left and saw the harbour sparkling ahead of me: merchant ships anchored out in the river; brown sails furled; sunlight glinting on ripples.
All around was activity, the chance of work. Men were loading sacks into a waiting boat tied up at the jetty. An overseer on the dockside shouted orders, while a merchant and his clerk, list in hand, supervised the operation. I saw that they were sending goods out to be loaded onto one of the large ships waiting in the river. Further along the waterfront, men with shovels were emptying a cart of something that looked like gravel.
The shops along the front appeared more finished than those on Second Street. I noted a cooper’s, a ship’s chandler’s, a large general store, an ironmonger’s, a carpenter’s – all with customers going in and out. An inn sign swung in the breeze – and I almost laughed aloud: the Blue Anchor. The same name as the inn I’d been in trouble for frequenting in Limehouse. Perhaps I should seek work there as a pot boy? Work of that kind should be easy enough to find. But I’d said I would try for something better. I supposed I should approach one of the shopkeepers – see if they needed a clerk. I hesitated, realizing now that it would have been sensible to have taken up my father’s offer to talk to Friends at Meeting. An introduction would have made everything easier. And yet I wanted to be independent, not to rely on my father or to be restricted to working for Friends.
I became aware of a stir of movement and talk along the quayside. People were staring out across the water, where another large ship had come into view. I heard the name “Chepstow”. A man – the merchant I’d seen earlier attending to the loading of his ship – called out to me, “Boy! Canst’ take a message?”
“Yes – for sure!” I said.
He gave me a coin. “Dost thou know Walnut Street?” He pointed. “George Bainbrigg’s house. Up there, near the corner of Second Street. Big house with a blue door. Tell George the Chepstow’s here.”
I nodded, and turned to go. He called after me, “Tom Appleyard’s my name!”
“I’ll tell him.”
I found George Bainbrigg’s house easily, but its appearance daunted me. It was a large clapboard house of several storeys with a wide front and a balcony over the street. Should I grasp the sturdy brass knocker on the blue door, or go up the side passage, like a tradesman?
I decided on the door, and knocked. A maidservant opened it, but the master was already stepping into the hall. He was a man of middling age, not tall but sturdily built, his fair hair beginning to recede at the temples, his eyes sharp blue. I knew him for the master by his manner and his sober but well-cut grey coat.
“George Bainbrigg?” I asked.
“Aye, lad.”
“Tom Appleyard sent me. He says to tell thee the Chepstow’s coming in.”
At once he was alert.
“I must get down there! Mary!” The servant reappeared. “Ask Izzie to delay dinner. And tell Kate the ship from England is in, that I’ll be in the counting house.”
He opened the door, and we stepped out together.
“Thou work for Tom?” he asked.
“No. I was passing by. I’m fresh from England—”
“Oh, aye! I see that now. Thou hast those pale London looks.” His own complexion was fair and ruddy, and he spoke with a north-country accent. “Thou came with thy parents?”
“Yes. They’re printers—”
“Ah! I heard there was a printer come. That’s good. What’s thy name?”
“Josiah Heywood.” I seized my opportunity, and added, “I’m looking for work. As a clerk, or some such.”
He cast an appraising glance at me. “Art thou? Well, Josiah, I could do with an extra pair of hands right now for an hour or two, unpacking. I’ll pay thee. It’s not much, but I know what it’s like when folks first arrive – especially folks like your father, with a family. Every penny helps.”
“Yes! I thank thee,” I said. Perhaps, if I showed willing and he liked me, he might offer me a permanent position, or recommend me to a friend. I’d taken to him already; I liked his straightforward way of talking.
“Here’s my counting house.”
We had walked only a few yards from his home, to the back entrance of a building on the west side of Second Street. George Bainbrigg led me in, calling, “Matt!”
We stepped into an office, where a young man was writing in a ledger. He got up, and I felt his gaze on me.
“The Chepstow’s been sighted,” George Bainbrigg said. “We must get down to the quay.”
“Ah! That’s good!” The news seemed to energize the young man. He finished his note in the ledger, blotted it, snapped the book closed and stood up. He looked again at me, and his employer said, “This is Josiah Heywood. Josiah – my apprentice, Matthew Peel.”
We nodded to each other warily.
“Josiah will help with the unpacking,” George Bainbrigg told the other man. “He’s newly come from England – from London – and looking for work.”
The three of us walked the short distance to the quayside together, where a small crowd had gathered. Tom Appleyard’s ship was now laden and ready to leave, and the sailors were raising the anchor. We all watched the ship move slowly out into the current as the wind took her sails.
“God speed,” said George Bainbrigg.
The approaching Chepstow was much closer now. I could read her name on the side and see men on the decks moving about.
Tom Appleyard turned to George Bainbrigg. “She’s made good time.”
“Aye. Let’s hope Arkwright’s brought what we need. Folks I speak to are all after chisels, hacksaws, nails. And they’ll be wanting woollens and sewing stuff with winter coming.” He turned to me. “Thou might as well come back later, Josiah. It’ll take them a while to unload the ship.”
He explained that he’d had a part share in the trading voyage with Tom Appleyard, and I agreed to return when the goods had been transferred to his counting house to be divided up.
I used the intervening time to continue to look around for places where I might find work, but I did not search over-zealously. I wanted to be free to take up employment with George Bainbrigg if he should ask me. I liked the man, and knew my father would be impressed if I found myself work with a merchant.
Rather than go home, I went into the Blue Anchor and bought a measure of small beer and a pie. I sat in a corner watching the people around me – the Philadelphians. Not all the merchants and townsfolk were Friends, though most wore sober dress of one kind or another. I saw a man who looked like a trapper or backwoodsman, drinking slowly and steadily, alone except for a dog that lay across his feet. Two merchants were deep in conversation, a creased map spread out on the table in front of them. There were sailors of all nationalities – Dutch, Swedish, German, French. One of them winked at me, and I glanced hastily away.
When I emerged into the sunlight, the last of the crates from the Chepstow’s boats were being loaded onto a cart, supervised by Matthew Peel. I made my way to the front entrance of George Bainbrigg’s counting house on Second Street. The doors were wide open, and the two merchants and Tom Appleyard’s apprentice, David Severs, were inside, surrounded by crates, boxes and barrels. The only other person there was an older man, Zachary Rowe, who seemed to be employed as a general handyman.
Matthew arrived soon after with the final delivery, and we all set to work. The crates were roughly labelled, and Zachary and I prised them open so that the contents and quantities could be checked against the bill of lading. The two apprentices made lists, noting everything in detail, while the merchants discussed how it should all be divided up.
“No chisels,” George Bainbrigg grumbled, “and I’ve been promising them to folk. But we have nails a-plenty. Thou’ll take half, Tom?” He signalled to me. “Push that crate over there, Josiah. We’ll have Tom’s stuff that side.”
“There are four dozen scythes,” said Matthew, scratching away with his quill.
George grunted approval. “They’ll sell, with all these new folk coming in.”
To my surprise there was not only woollen cloth and tableware but furniture in the consignment: a few dozen chairs and stools, finely finished and decorated, not like the furniture we’d had back home. We opened another crate and found thirty Bibles, several dozen ledgers and journals, some almanacs, ten reams of paper and a box full of jars of ink powder.
“Might thy father be interested in some of this?” George Bainbrigg asked me.
“I think so, yes. He wants to set up shop as soon as possible.” I’d been looking around the storeroom upstairs, with its shelves stacked with goods. “Dost thou have a shop?”
“No. Some of the merchants do, but Tom and I, we both prefer to sell at public vendue. You can get rid of stuff fast, once word’s gone out. And folk enjoy an auction. I sell wholesale to shops, though; tell thy father I can quote him a good price for stationery.”
We continued our work, and I saw why extra help was needed, for there was a lot of lifting and stowing, and stacks of boxes to be carried upstairs. It was hard work, and my back and shoulders soon began to ache. We divided up the goods, loaded Tom Appleyard’s share onto a cart, and stowed George Bainbrigg’s away on shelves and in cupboards. Everyone worked together, even the masters. Matthew Peel was rather aloof, but David was friendly enough. Zachary, strong and quiet, chewed tobacco as he worked, and occasionally nudged me away from a particularly heavy box, saying, “I’ll take this one.”
It was early evening when I went home with money in my pocket and a feeling of satisfaction at work well done and connections made. My father would no doubt visit George Bainbrigg and buy stock from him. And the merchant had told me, when I left, that he might be able to offer me “something in the way of permanent work”.
I walked back to Sassafras Street with a spring in my step.