The Right Hand Of The Father

chapter 15

“Daddy,” he huffed out as he hurried behind his daddy down the street. They’d stayed close to each other. Not touching precisely — relationships between men were still officially illegal in the Spanish colonies— but they stayed close. His daddy would put a hand on his back to direct him which way to turn. Or urge him into a store. The problem was his daddy was almost a foot taller than Alexander was and when the other man had a destination in mind Alexander had to run to keep up with him. “Sir,” he said louder and watched as his daddy slowed, letting him catch up.

“Sorry.” The lover smiled down at him. “But we’re here.” He motioned toward a small storefront. Large, well polished windows in a white clapboard house. Wisteria trailed along the sides with the last of the lantana blossoms. Revere’s the sign hanging out front said. Fine Silversmith, est. 1650 was painted in scrolled white script on the large window filled with wares. Below it was an assortment of finely worked candlesticks. A water pitcher similar to the one they had at home. Fine plate.

Alexander stared up at him. Why were they at a silversmith? They’d been to two tailors. One for day clothes and one for night clothes. He’d been stripped to his smalls and poked and prodded as bolts of fabric were draped over him. His daddy had ordered him a dozen pair of trousers for day and another six for nighttime. Twenty waistcoats from a simple broadcloth to an exquisite emerald green, embroidered with gold roses and flitting silver butterflies.

They’d gone to a cobbler and ordered four pair of shoes. Two were flat shoes he could wear about the house, the others had heels. One for day and others — higher— for night. Two pair of boots.

Then a fine hairdresser to have Alexander’s hair washed with a special soap that smelled of jasmine and then smooth backed into a queue. His daddy had bought bottles of the soap and the elixir that had made his hair soft and manageable. Bought him a shaving soap with the same scent. Fine milled soap for the bath. Silver backed combs and brushes.

What on Earth could his lover want to buy from a silversmith? They had plenty of candlesticks. Plenty of plate.

“Come.” His daddy urged him up the stairs and opened the door.

“General!” A man declared and Alexander felt his daddy’s shoulders tense. “How are you good sir?”

“Mr. Revere.” His daddy bowed his head to the other man. “I am well. And how are you?”

“Better now that I have such a distinguished customer in my humble shop. How can I assist you today sir?”

“This.” His master stepped to the side and nodded toward him. “Is my Alexander. We’ve come to buy him a trinket.”

“Your Alexander?” The silversmith raised an eyebrow as he studied him.

“Recently arrived from St. Croix,” his daddy said as the man studied him — obviously trying to decide if he’d seen Alexander in any of the molly houses or where General Washington had acquired him.

“I see.” The man nodded. “Well it is wonderful to meet you Alexander.” The man inclined his head. “And may I offer my welcome to New Orleans. Now, what sort of trinket were you thinking of young man?”

“I…” Alexander turned to stare at his daddy.

The other man cleared his throat. “We were thinking perhaps a ring. We’ve been at Derniere these past weeks and such socially significant trinkets have not been necessary but we have come to New Orleans for the season and—”

“It’s better if young Alexander does not have to deal with unwanted attention,” the silversmith said. “I agree.”

He moved over to a waist height wooden case and opened it. “Like the young men I just had in the store not an hour before. A crowd your Alexander won’t wish to be associated with.”