Chapter 7

~Erik~

I let my fingers caress the stone as I strode along the base of the quarry's shallow walls, their heights rising no more than a meter above my head. Limestone cutting into the top of the hill was the narrow scar left from the farmer's building projects and nothing more. By quick estimation, they had removed enough for a collection of farm buildings and perhaps to line the well I rode past on the dappled gray mare I had borrowed. It was a virtually untapped source of stone crowning a grassy picturesque countryside. In the late morning sun, the lush grasslands rippled in the breeze. In the distance a small untended orchard nestled in the crux of two smaller hills. Two large pole barns in fair condition stood off near fenced pastureland. I swore to the north the glint of a stream of water caught my eye.

That was lovely, but the stone was all that mattered. It was rough, but not brittle. The sedimentation was even from what I could see, leaving to a consistent pattern. Scrutinizing the stone I bent down and peered beneath a jutting shelf, narrowing my eyes into the shadow. Could it be? I reached down and was about to pull out a chisel from the bag of stone mason tools slung across my shoulder when I heard a shuffle of footsteps.

"You asked to see the deed and the boundaries of the acreage." Haverhill held out a few rolls of paper, his weary eyes cast down at the dry stone floor. The poor man was overworked trying to support more than he had bargained for. He had explained to me before going back to his farmhouse to fetch the paperwork how illness had devastated his family. Lacking the essential hands to maintain the family lands, this outcropping was far enough from his home that it was difficult for him to reach and with fewer sons to pass land onto he needed to sell that which was nothing more than a burden to him.

Abandoning my desire to pick at the stone, I feigned only mild interest as I reached out and plucked the documents from his hand. Unrolling the acreage map, I climbed up the embankment and matched the corresponding landmarks. It was true, the plot included a vast pastureland, both pole barns, the well, the orchard with a small forested glade beyond and did indeed stretch to the river bank nestled into the northern wooded boundary. Apparently this was called Spuyten Duyvil Creek, the very body of water that cut off the northern end of Manhattan island. The name nearly caused me to laugh, Dutch for Spouting Devil. There must be quite a story behind that.

This acreage was vast! The slope of the hill I stood on had me pondering how much of a cache of stone I was standing upon. This would be a gamble. There were no quarries available anywhere near the city proper. Getting the stone from this quarry, once it was worked free was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. Glancing over the paper spread between my hands, I spied the mare contentedly grazing on the lush grass. That problem may in fact already be solved.

Rolling up the map, I now looked over the deed thoroughly. My mind hesitated on how much of a gamble this was. The price was close to the bundle concealed in the bottom of the tool bag. The bundle I had fetched from the box in hopes of what I would find. If I was right, I fought my eyes wanting to gaze back at that teasing shadowed ledge—if I was right, this quarry held a bounty to be freed and shaped into monuments of stone.

But if I was wrong … there could be only a small deposit of workable stone and the remainder … dirt. I could never hope to earn that money back. I would lose any chance of my dream. Months. How many months? November of 1881 we had arrived, it was now July of 1882. I could feel the flex of my fingers longing to forge such beauty into these raw stones crying out for the transformation.

Haverhill plodded up behind me and muttered sadly. "Look, I understand if you're not interested. Enough have been here and walked away."

I felt for the man, but he needed to work on his business sense. Perhaps this was why the land had failed to sell. My eyes still looked at the deed. "This price, it includes everything detailed on the acreage, is that correct? It includes the buildings and the river access?"

He glanced over his shoulder toward the north. "Sure does, though if you are thinking of taking stone out that ways you best think otherwise. The current there is full of violent eddies. That was where I lost one buyer."

Ships and barges could sink. Waterways were fickle things that I personally did not trust. There were many ways to shift stone if one had enough ingenuity. The biggest drawback was being this far north. I inhaled deeply … and held my breath. Something was missing—the stench of the rotting inner city! Clean air!

Looking out over the land one more time from the top of the quarry wall, I swallowed deeply. I locked eyes with Haverhill and held out my right hand. "I will take the whole thing for the price you asked. It is more than fair."

The poor man blinked. His hand hovered in the air in disbelief not quite grasping mine. I had to close the distance myself. "You have the money?"

Reaching into my bag, I produced the bundle and tossed it to him without a word. He stared in awe, gently prizing the twine knot before counting the bills. At long last we commenced with the essential signatures and in short time he was on his horse, galloping off over the hills. Tucked into my bag was now the deed to the first plot of land to belong to me in America. The foundation of my empire … so I hoped.

It was time to see if my hunch was correct. Approaching the ledge, I pulled out my mallet and a chisel. Setting the bit against the lip, I gave it a sharp tap and watched a shard slip free to expose more stone beneath. But this stone was not limestone. My eyes widened as they beheld the white sheen of marble! Oh, this wasn't a prized travertine quarry like I had been trained in. In a way it was nearly better. It possessed a moderate quality of limestone that, with the proper designs, could become impressive edifices. Beneath it, precious marble for the wealthier clients. My heart was already pounding as I drove the chisel along the wall, peeling off a sizable window to let the sun blaze on the brilliant marble. The stone screamed at me. It cried out to be shaped.

Chisels leapt into my hands in rotations. Line by line, ridge by ridge the image took shape in the virgin marble. Lost in the patterns of the stone and feeling the raw power of creation, I succumbed to the familiar state of oblivion to the passage of time. It was already evening when my eyes returned to the present to find I had finished polishing the small frieze of Apollo triumphantly surrounded by his muses. It seemed a fitting tribute to the wise stone mason who had taught me how to coax the life from the stones all those years ago in Italy. Reverently, I lifted my eyes to the azure sky and silently offered my thanks, knowing by now where this man must be. Caressing the marble, I nodded my head. He would have been content to see such a fine carving marking the walls of the quarry.

My quarry.

I collected the mare from her grazing. She was reluctant to head south toward the smoggy distant outline. Under my urging, we cut through the fields and at long last trudged into the sucking mud of the Bowery. Steering the mare with my knees, I drew her to a halt just as Jacques came out into the twilight from his sodden stables. What straw there was was damp and mixed with excrement, a condition that was difficult to avoid with fewer places to discard. He had the challenge of about a dozen horses.

"My God," he declared, "you kept your word!"

Leaning over on the horse, I patted her shoulders, offering him a grin. "I am about to do more than that, Bayard Jacques. I told you I would be most grateful for the use of the animal today. That mare from earlier and much of your stable are in need some pasture grazing."

Reaching up, he grasped the rein I had never bothered to use. Dismissively, he replied, "There is no pastureland in the city for them to go to."

"That may be so." I let the paper unroll showing the acreage on it, watching as his eyes widened at the lines on the paper. Tears almost formed in his eyes. "Turns out I am in need of some horses and since I purchased this plot I lack the funds to purchase them outright. However … " Lifting my hand I pointed at one of the pole barns. "Turns out there is this beautiful building which I have nothing to put in currently. Would you look at the broad fields. I do believe this lady here enjoyed her trip up there. What say we discuss an arrangement. Shall we say a mutual trade?"

Jacques was quivering, his eyes still on the drawing. "May I live in that barn?"

Sitting up a little higher on the horse I smiled. This would be easier than I thought.

~VanHollus~

Cuthbert took a sip of my cognac from the Waterford crystal glass—my Waterford crystal glass etched with my initials JCBGV. Swirling it around, he lifted his pinky in that irritating fashion of an attempt to mimic the higher classes. Why Polstern had brought the poser to this elite social in my formal parlor I would never know. Cuthbert only thought he was clever. His remarks lacked any semblance of intelligence. Even now he was carrying on about something with a rude animation about his gestures, not that I was giving him the privilege of my ear. He wasn't even particularly well-to-do, unless one counted his connections with city hall. Something about having an uncle well vested in his seating. It didn't matter much to me, I had those officials I truly needed in my back pocket. What was this little flea bitten mongrel in a fine leather collar to me? People like Cuthbert and Reed did not belong with the social elite at our exclusive gatherings.

Holding up my glass, I had to swirl it twice before hearing the fresh splash of the Courvoisier cognac, the cognac that Napoleon himself drank. With a flick of my fingers, I snapped the servant on the wrist for his laziness, watching as his face contorted from the shock. The welt left behind would remind him to be smart about his duties.

" … And that was how I heard about the Haverhill quarry being sold."

In the high backed chair beside me Shaw laughed quietly, shaking his head as he discarded the ashes from the end of his cigar. "That tiny worthless quarry on the northern tip of nowhere? What fool purchased that?"

Before Cuthbert could speak, I inclined my head toward Shaw. "I take it you also examined the quarry? How many do you own by now; four or five?"

"Six." Shaw offered me an incline of his chin. He waved his hand in the air. The wink of a large diamond caught the lamplight. "Recently I acquired a new source of marble just north of the city. Given the number of projects you have been securing and how often you turn to me for your stone work, I only thought it fitting." He raised his glass with a wink before taking a sip. "The quarry of that Haverhill farmer was nothing but a common deposit of limestone. Everyone who is anyone is after marble these days."

"Must be some young upstart," I replied, sitting taller in my chair. "Thinking he can enter into our coveted society."

Leaning forward in his chair, Cuthbert shrugged. "Signature on the deed filed with the office about a week ago said his name was Erik."

"Erik who?" I quipped with a smile.

The reply was another shrug. What a vulgar diminutive man this Cuthbert was. "That is just it. That's all that was on the deed, it's why I remembered it so much. Four scrawling letters with elaborate curls." He was tracing his finger in the air making a series of spiraling shapes, rather like a child. "E. r. i. k. No other name."

Polstern shook his head before letting a single breath laden with a laugh escape him. "Oh, him. I do believe I have seen a signature of that nature, met an unfortunate man by that very name and no other."

My curiosity got the better of me. Who was this new name trying to build in my city? "Come, my good Polstern, describe this fellow."

"There isn't much to say, really," he remarked dryly. "Apparently he tries to fancy himself a Frenchman. He introduced himself as Monsieur Erik, though when he spoke English to me there was hardly a hint of a French accent about him. That was not the worst about the man. He presented himself in my home in a suit that must have come from the rag-pickers. Imagine the gall of a man to try and pose as upper class, wearing naught but fancy rags and covered in soot. I nearly inquired which train engine he had been shoveling coal into to earn his passage on the rail. But it would have meant being in his presence for the length of his reply."

From his chair, Stapleton adjusted his glasses. For the longest time he had been so quiet I had to wonder if the old man had fallen asleep as he often did this time of day. "Wait a moment." His shaky voice drew all eyes to him. "I think I have had a meeting with that fellow. Wore a mask, didn't he?"

Polstern nodded slowly. "I hardly got past the state of his attire, but yes I did vaguely note that."

"Ah yes, yes. Then it was he." Leaning forward as if to share a secret he whispered out. "Most unusual if the light caught his eyes. Did you see, Polstern? Did you see his eyes? They were two different colors."

Bursting into laughter, I held up my glass. "Impossible Stapleton. People do not have eyes of different colors. You must have been sampling your wines too much, my good man."

He held up a finger, looking straight at me. "I know what I saw in the light of my parlor. He had an eye of darkness and one of washed-out blue. Like he stole an eye from someone else."

The room was utterly silent until Shaw cleared his throat and nervously interjected. "If you met with this—Erik, you must have seen his work. What manner of designs did he present to you?"

Stapleton and Polstern exchanged a glance before they each held a hand up dismissively.

Adjusting the lapel of my smoking jacket, I nodded. "There, you see? Just an upstart, likely some unwashed immigrant trying to pose as something he is not and never will be. He won't get far here."

Not if I had anything to do with it. I had enough competition from legitimate architects here in Manhattan. This was hardly the first foreign trash I would have taken out. A smile played on my lips as I savored the fine imported cognac. Just one more burial ensuring the status quo.