Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 5. Chapter 5: Into the Fray

Chapter 5: Into the Fray

At the concert, Jacob Jordan had his transient thoughts brought back to the moment.

The music transitioned from the dance rhythm via a clippity-cloppity slowdown. 'Perhaps,' Jordan thought, 'it was prelude to reindeer hooves appearing later on in the tone poem…?'

Soft kettledrum rolls slackened before a more melancholy tone in the bass strings said parting was at hand.

He glanced at his program.

The adults separate and head for their respective homes, while the children prepare for sleep by hanging stockings at the end of their beds for Santa Claus.

A brighter harmony carried by the clarinets and oboes followed the children away from the adult party-making and into their chamber for the night. The melody accompanied them as they placed their stockings with innocent hope; the melody shone with youthful dreams and optimism.

The older man again cast his eyes up and over the 'trappings' of the season. The glowing lights of the Exchange, the wondrous scent of pine and cypress, the glinting dots of red from clusters of holly. The tree behind the performers and its soft smudges of flickering brightness.

They were all part of a long, long tradition, and the hanging of stockings may have been newer, but it was a custom even he as a boy in Philadelphia celebrated. That was back in the economically unstable days of the 1820s.

'Some new traditions are good too. Only time will prove if they are worthy of becoming perennial favorites.' A small smile arose on his face; he knew he had something wonderful up his sleeve for Christmas 1880.

Once the children portrayed in the symphony were nestled safely in bed, it was time for Mina's solo.

Jordan straightened on his seat and watched his precious granddaughter perform Fry's enchanting rendering of The Lord's Prayer. It was accompanied by softly played strings only, which very lightly supported Mina's shining melody line.

As she approached the end, the entire "Our Father" was recapitulated by the full chorus. It was magical to Jacob Jordan's ears as the tone poem continued and put them in bed to await the visit of Saint Nick.

Hearing it swelled Jordan's heart with pride. He knew children should all be left to harbor hopes and dreams – not put to work.

'They are innocent, despite any grownup projections of fear onto them.'

In his day, an apple, a piece or marzipan – or 'sweetmeat,' as they called it – or a small sack of raisins was all any child could expect in his stocking. Now children could receive more heartwarming and pleasurable gifts meant only for play.

Jordan remembered Mina's face one week before the store's opening in the Julia Building, and Mr. Barr's wonderful gift….

˚˚˚˚˚

A child's picture book was spread open between them where they sat at the table in Jacob Jordan's office.

Mina enthusiastically relayed the points of the story, using her finger to draw her grandfather's attention to the salient illustrations. "Joseph's brothers hated him, beat him and threw him in a well. It broke their father's heart, so one brother rescued the boy, but sold him into slavery to a passing Egyptian caravan."

"My, my. You have a fine command of the bible story."

"It's my favorite. Miss Waverly tells it so well, it's easy to remember."

"Do you like her?"

"Yes, Grandpa."

"Well, don’t tell her, but I do too. She reminds me of your mama at that age."

The eight-year-old raised eyebrows and tilted her blonde head to one side, but otherwise had no response.

"Perhaps you will grow up into a fine young woman like the both of them."

She chuckled like it was a silly notion. "Oh, Grandpa – of course I will grow up."

The man alighted into pure delight and hugged her shoulders. "Maybe you're closer than you know, but do me a great favor and don't grow up too quickly, all right?"

"All right. I will try."

They turned, hearing a light rap of knuckles on the open door from the corridor.

A smiling voice sang-song: "Am I interrupting…?"

Jordan stood. "No, Mr. Barr. Were we making too much – "

"Good; good! I thought I heard the twitter of little laughter."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Barr frowned with cunning mirth. "It was not your laughter, Jordan, I was referring to. It was little Mina! How are you, dear?"

"I am fine. And you, sir?"

"Very well, young lady. You are very polite to ask."

Barr winked at Jordan and came into the room; the store's right-hand man thought he spotted a twine-wrapped brown paper package secreted behind his boss' back.

"Mina's mother is at lunch with her lady friends in the store, and then they will shop." Jordan explained. "I'm afraid our young guest here is stuck with her doting grandfather for the afternoon."

Jordan walked over to Barr, telling Mina, "You continue reading on your own while the adults go over some business."

Mina nodded and happily picked up her book to entertain herself.

The two men went to Jordan's desk; Barr sat in the guest chair and nonchalantly nestled his package in his lap.

"How's the schedule for the move-in looking?"

Jordan collected his thoughts. "The departments are settled and waiting the training of new staff, which is happening starting Monday next. The only lingering 'trouble' is with the electrics men. They had to get a man on the train from New Jersey, directly from Edison's laboratory. It seems our new store is the largest installation of incandescent lighting in the country. The local men may be overwhelmed, but we will have it operational by September 20th, opening day, sir."

"Yes, I have faith in our growing ability to solve problems. Good work."

Jordan felt a swelling of pride; after working with the man for more than three decades, he wouldn't expect a simple 'Good job' to still affect him so impactfully, but it did.

"Two weeks after that," Barr added, "will be the Veiled Prophet parade and open house."

"We'll be ready, sir."

"How go the promotions in the papers?"

"Ads are all lined up to announce the official move. They'll run in the Times, the Post-Dispatch, the Star, the Republican – and naturally, on the front page of the Globe-Democrat."

"Oh, yes. How goes it with that Globe color man, that Monk fellow?"

"I gave him a tour of the store and made sure he was up to date on all of the unique features. I believe his editor informed me he wants the piece ready for print next week, to precede the Grand Opening by at least a few days."

"Excellent."

"Yes, he and I get along, and he seems suitably impressed with all of our efforts."

"Efforts?" Barr laughed. "Is that what one calls thirty-one years of backbreaking work now-a-days?! Oh, well. So be it, I suppose. In any event we should – and do – make it look easy for our customers."

"Yes, that we do, and have since the beginning."

Barr leaned back, laced fingers atop his vest buttons, and a small nostalgic smile appeared. "Do you remember our first store? A twenty-foot-wide retail 'palace' at No. 80 Market Street."

"I remember cutting the first month's rent cheque; $58.33. In 1849 that was a frightening sum to face twelve times a year. I just hoped the funds would be in the bank to cover it."[1]

"Oh, they were, Jordan. They were."

"Yes, sir." The man shook his gray head. "From that humble start, and only eight years later, Barr's was the largest retailer in the West, and only topped by one other firm in the nation."

"Yes, '57 was the year I bought out my New York interests."

"A wise decision."

A wry grin foretold Jordan an accent was about to appear; when it did, it was pure, 'Bowery Boys' guttersnipe.

"Now we sure as couldn't have run this fine establishment via telegraph missives from far-removed hot-heads, could we have?" He cracked his knuckles.

"No, sir," Jordan chuckled. "It's true that we only grew after your making the business a fully hometown venture."

Barr became serious a moment, the intensity of his blue twinkle leaning forward a bit. "It's sad and a bit daunting to think of you retiring, Jacob. I could not have done it without you."

"Sir – "

"No. I was a brash Scotsman, still in my twenties, coming with a bankroll from Gotham to a well-established city where the word-combination of 'New York' and 'money' garnered only mistrust and suspicion. It was you who tamed my arrogance, and you who introduced me to the men who needed contracts filled. It was their trust in you that made the goods begin to flow."

"That it did. The great fire of '49 was a catastrophe, but we rolled up our sleeves and showed we were Saint Louisans first and foremost. The spirit of business here respected that, and they trusted you – even during the paranoid times of the War – because you, as everybody knows, are a man of integrity and charm."

"So many years ago. The growing metropolis I arrived in has now blossomed into America's third largest city. Only your Philadelphia and 'my' New York boast of more citizens and larger consumer markets."

Jordan scoffed. "Not so, sir. The Saint Louis marketplace is the entire West. The other two cities can boast of nothing so promising and expanding."

"That it is, and timing was on William P. Barr and Company's side. First supplying the goods needed by the Oregon Territory, and its wagon trains, then the California Gold Rush."

"And so much of that gold came right back to this city, gilding many surfaces with wealth and political affluence."

"Yes, indeed the money flowed. Now we're poised for the next chapter. But I'm not quite ready to let you go yet, Mr. Jordan."

"Sir?"

"I have one more assignment after the move is complete, one last 'bang' for you and our town."

Jordan heard hesitancy in his own voice. "I…."

"It's like this, we must build an appropriately grand and memorable Christmas this year. Establish new traditions. We must strike while the iron is hot, Jordan, and follow up our success to come on the night of the Veiled Prophet festivities and our move to become the world's largest department store with a holiday season no one will be likely to forget. It's a special challenge, I know, but there is no man on earth I'd trust with this assignment other than you."

"Um." Jordan hemmed and hawed, thinking of his sweet retirement dreams as a fading vision. Practical matters hit him then. "But time is short."

"As I say, no one I trust more."

As Jordan was silent, and the void in the room was filled with some self-entertained mumblings from Mina, Barr apparently decide to let the topic rest.

"How goes the progress on the VP float?"

"What…oh, fine. The men are erecting the figures in a borrowed tobacco warehouse on the North Side."

"Oh, clever. Most of our competition are building them out-of-doors, in space borrowed from lumberyards. I like the way you think; keep our entry under wraps till the parade."

"Yes, sir. The model makers are also set up and working in a building downtown, here on Second Street. They'll be ready for our open house too."

"Excellent, as always. I've come to expect nothing less from you, Jordan, old boy." The man's Scottish accent shone.

"Thank you." Jordan was still stunned by the notion of having to possibly take on the Christmas preparations as well.

"Oh, my goodness," Barr moaned loudly. "The night of the parade and ball will be exhausting for me, but it will be worth it. It's a great honor, and a chance to give back to the citizens who have given me so much."

Jordan silently thought, 'Yes, the ones who have made you a millionaire several times over.' What he said was "You're a true merchant prince, sir."

Never immune to well-placed flattery, Barr grinned broadly and sat more erect.

"Mr. Barr, IF I accept this new assignment, I will be severely hampered. By the time the VP celebrations are out of the way, I'll only have four or five weeks to organize and come up with an original Christmas theme."

Barr smiled, like Jordan had already said yes. "I know you can do it. As I said, one last 'bang' before you settle down to a country plot, your potatoes and peach orchard!"

The store's owner turned his attention to Mina all of a sudden. In a booming voice, he said, "Speaking of Christmas…." He rose and went over to the girl. "Young lady, I have a little something for you."

He pulled out a chair, and invited the girl to sit on his knee. Her pretty while ruffles fluttered as she did. Barr presented his brown paper bundle to her.

"What do you say, Mina?" Jordan asked.

"Thank you, sir."

She opened it. Jordan saw it was a colorfully painted toy monkey with jointed limbs, a red footman's uniform, and a black cap like a bellboy. Barr assembled a stick from parts in the bundle and inserted it through the toy's hands and feet. He then gave it a test run – pushing up on a bobbin – to make the monkey climb the pole.

Mina was enthralled and tried it for itself, eventually squealing with delight. The overjoyed girl played with it on Barr's knee as Jordan watched. His heart was touched; here was a girl being a girl, pure and simple, unlike the kids portrayed in the various advertising images.

As he glanced at Barr's enraptured face, Jordan knew he could not refuse this jovial man's request, and ended his thoughts with 'Four or five weeks, oh, my.'

"Christmas time it is, sir. Time is short, but there's still so much to do first."

"Use that Monk fellow. He'll help you get the word out."

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk sighed. He had his newspaper, pastry and coffee, and was ensconced comfortably in Dozier-Weyl's café. A few minutes ago he was inspecting the amazing supply of fine teacakes and sweets in the bakery's display cases. There were the 'Prize Jumbles,' coconut macaroons the size of a child's fist with or without chocolate toppings; cookies in fancy shapes, consisting of flavors ranging from butter, spice, sugar or chocolate; gem cakes in lovely faceted shapes, golden and tempting; French macrons, delicately hued buttons of ground almonds and egg whites; animal crackers for the younger set, in shapes as fanciful as parrots, bears and peacocks. In the neighboring case, Monk had drooled a bit at the sight of iced Napoleon slices; honey-soaked Lebkuchen, decorated with colorful scrap decorations on top; and the one he chose for today – a golden sponge-cake banana finger, split and filled with banana cream.

But, he sighed now. The display of luxury, with its unmistakable aroma of prosperity and indulgence, put him in mind of the last time he had seen a rack of similar pastry. And it had not been in a prosperous or even happy place at all.

He picked up the Globe as he stirred a dollop of whipped cream into his café.

In a moment, it was folded to his column.

In our purists of the Belles and Beaux of Saint Louis, impartial readers, we must also stop and consider the 'Shop Girl.' These young women represent all diversities common to their fair sex: brunettes and blondes, rosy cheeks and roguish eyes moving along in the great stream of the early evening hours. These are attendants in the great stores downtown, the milliners' assistants, the seamstresses in the clothing shops along Washington Avenue. Every pretty Shop Girl may calculate the certainty if being ogled by the next two types of Beaux we shall examine, and some of these fair creatures may choose an admirer for a little pocket money or out of 'love.' In any event, they keep those men of the tiny rattan canes and wax-pointed moustaches occupied until the real working girls come out later in the evening.

A close cousin to the Dawdy Dandie is the 'Sporting Swell,' only whereas the first class of "gentleman" has means and leisure to spare, the Sport has bluster and appetite. They dress alike, only the man in the sporting life is a shade shabbier, and a tone louder. He's apt to exhibit more shirtfront and ampler cravat, upon which resides diamonds and rubies in their most crystalline form of the glassblower's art.

Sporting Swells love nothing so much as leaning in the porticos of hotels. When not so occupied, they prowl the outskirts of downtown at night, or haunt the racetracks and gambling parlours by day – except, hunting the young on the make. Regardless of particulars related to age, race or gender, these men lure the attractive to Sample Rooms or no-questions-asked boarding houses where compensation is often traded for favors.

At least they pay. Which leads us to the seediest Beau to be seen in our fair city: 'The Mashers.'

Totally indiscriminate, they may loiter of an evening with their betters – the Dawdies and the Sports – but have a roving eye falling on anything that seems available to them. Night creatures who only begin to operate long after the Dandies and Swells have accommodated themselves, the Mashers bide their time till the lower-priced ladies of the evening roll out after eleven, or wait until a youth without a bed for the night comes along. Back alley and darkened lumberyard transactions suit their purpose, but they do not pay as a general rule. They also never visit the racetracks, for nothing's as sure a bet as a nickel spent on a shot of rye, their only true 'love' and comfort."[2]

Blurred motion of a multi-armed chatelaine distracted him. Firebrand plopped down in the chair across from him.

"Ah, I should have guessed. It seems I am not able to sit down and enjoy a quiet meal in public anymore."

"Very droll, but…" Elizabeth Waverly huffed. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Will you help them."

Monk inhaled deeply. "I will admit that I've not been able to get my visit to the House of Refuge out of my mind."

"Then help them escape."

"How?" He stirred his coffee and eyed his uneaten banana-cream sponge cake.

She perked up, putting her metaphoric thinking cap on. "We can get them out of the city on the night of the Veiled Prophet parade."

"Impossible."

"Why? The tumult of the city streets packed with crowds will be the perfect matrix in which to lose a pair of boys."

"Yes, and that's exactly why the warders will never let juvenile inmates out on the night of partying in the thoroughfares."

She considered the conundrum a moment in silence, and Monk chased a wayward thought out of his head about how attractive she looked doing it.

"Somehow," she said slowly, "I wonder if they'll let them participate in the other part of the VP festivities."

"The high society ball, in the Exchange?"

"Well…yes…."

He let the spoon click on the side of his pastry dish. The golden yellow color and the heady scent of the filling teased his senses for a moment. And then, inspiration struck. He picked it up and smiled at Waverly from behind the treat; his other hand massaged the dark curls of his beard at the same time.

"Mr. McDonough…?"

Monk was astounded at his own notion. It was both brilliant and simple. "I think I may have an idea, but it will take some work on both of our parts."

She was resolute. "I am ready, sir."