sorghum from Louisiana, musky hemp from Mexico, fragrant Virginia tobacco, Mexican cocoa with cinnamon, and coffee beans roasted New Orleans-style with chicory.
Mac had let himself in the back way because he wanted to remember for a moment before seeing his uncle, to stand here and drink it in. He was taken aback by how sharp these smells seemed, how overwhelming to a nose accustomed to the plains. Standing here in the half light, he felt a little tremulous, a shy eight-year-old again.
He went out into the main store. Uncle Hugh had expanded it—he must have bought the little milliner’s shop next door and taken out the wall. The store seemed to Mac a dazzling show of the wealth of the white man—bolts of calico, ticking, wool, kegs of nails, hammers, planes, drills, mirrors, needles, awls, oil lamps, ready-made canvas pants, even some with a buttoning fly instead of a drop front. Uncle Hugh didn’t miss a step.
Though the display was casual and matter-of-fact to St Louisians, to Mac it was breathtaking opulence. In the mountains these goods would be the gold of Peru. He planned to take such things to Indian country—with his uncle’s help.
He walked gingerly through the aisles. A clerk, showing a matronly customer some damask, looked up at Mac in consternation—Who’s coming out of the storeroom? Mac strode by toward his uncle’s cubicle. The customer said something like, “But Madame Labbadie wants…” If the housekeepers of the old French families were trading here, Uncle Hugh’s business was improving.
Hugh Maclean was working at his rolltop desk, as usual. He seldom left the desk except to go to the levee to get shipments. His long body was bent over papers, his half glasses well down his nose, his reddish hair a little thinner. His pipe was clamped hard in a corner of his mouth, and Mac knew it was stem-bitten.
Mac said softly, “Uncle Hugh.”
Hugh looked up abruptly, taken by surprise. He looked blankly at Mac for a moment, and then slowly smiled and pulled his long frame, bed-slat skinny, out of the chair.
In that smile Mac could see a glimmer of a younger and more playful man. It was a family joke that people thought Hugh looked like a leprechaun stretched to double length. And Hugh would grumble something about how they had their Celts mixed up, and the leprechaun was his nephew Bobby anyway.
Mac stepped into the cubicle and shook his uncle’s hand, hard as a walnut, like the rest of him.
“You’ve come back, Bobby. Are ye ready to give up roaming to be an honest tradesman? I could use ye, lad.”
Just like Hugh. Mac hesitated. “Yes, Uncle. I’ve come to borrow money from you to set up my own store.” Mac added a big grin.
Hugh Maclean got a shrewd look in his eye. “Coin from a Scot, lad, is blood from a stone.” He made a little cough of a laugh.
“Would you care to take dinner with me at Mansion House? After we get you into some decent clothes?”
2
First they walked to the levee, Mac in ready-made pants and shirt, which felt strange, and his comfortable old moccasins.
St. Louis was changing dizzyingly. The streets were better paved now—you no longer had to choose between tripping over the cellar doors of the old French houses or walking in the mud. In front of some of these houses gas lanterns stood like sentinels. And now these expensive homes were starting to look old and a little worn. The new houses, built by American businessmen, those were the opulent ones.
The big change was the sense of energy in the streets. When Mac was born, in 1819, St. Louis was a frontier backwater, fundamentally French. When he left for the mountains in 1840, it was floundering deep in the quagmire of economic hard times.
Now all was changed. St. Louis was a bustling American hub of commerce. The levee alone showed the difference. Steamboats were lined up everywhere, bringing products from Cairo, Louisville, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, New York, and Europe, or from Memphis, Natchez, New
Mac had let himself in the back way because he wanted to remember for a moment before seeing his uncle, to stand here and drink it in. He was taken aback by how sharp these smells seemed, how overwhelming to a nose accustomed to the plains. Standing here in the half light, he felt a little tremulous, a shy eight-year-old again.
He went out into the main store. Uncle Hugh had expanded it—he must have bought the little milliner’s shop next door and taken out the wall. The store seemed to Mac a dazzling show of the wealth of the white man—bolts of calico, ticking, wool, kegs of nails, hammers, planes, drills, mirrors, needles, awls, oil lamps, ready-made canvas pants, even some with a buttoning fly instead of a drop front. Uncle Hugh didn’t miss a step.
Though the display was casual and matter-of-fact to St Louisians, to Mac it was breathtaking opulence. In the mountains these goods would be the gold of Peru. He planned to take such things to Indian country—with his uncle’s help.
He walked gingerly through the aisles. A clerk, showing a matronly customer some damask, looked up at Mac in consternation—Who’s coming out of the storeroom? Mac strode by toward his uncle’s cubicle. The customer said something like, “But Madame Labbadie wants…” If the housekeepers of the old French families were trading here, Uncle Hugh’s business was improving.
Hugh Maclean was working at his rolltop desk, as usual. He seldom left the desk except to go to the levee to get shipments. His long body was bent over papers, his half glasses well down his nose, his reddish hair a little thinner. His pipe was clamped hard in a corner of his mouth, and Mac knew it was stem-bitten.
Mac said softly, “Uncle Hugh.”
Hugh looked up abruptly, taken by surprise. He looked blankly at Mac for a moment, and then slowly smiled and pulled his long frame, bed-slat skinny, out of the chair.
In that smile Mac could see a glimmer of a younger and more playful man. It was a family joke that people thought Hugh looked like a leprechaun stretched to double length. And Hugh would grumble something about how they had their Celts mixed up, and the leprechaun was his nephew Bobby anyway.
Mac stepped into the cubicle and shook his uncle’s hand, hard as a walnut, like the rest of him.
“You’ve come back, Bobby. Are ye ready to give up roaming to be an honest tradesman? I could use ye, lad.”
Just like Hugh. Mac hesitated. “Yes, Uncle. I’ve come to borrow money from you to set up my own store.” Mac added a big grin.
Hugh Maclean got a shrewd look in his eye. “Coin from a Scot, lad, is blood from a stone.” He made a little cough of a laugh.
“Would you care to take dinner with me at Mansion House? After we get you into some decent clothes?”
2
First they walked to the levee, Mac in ready-made pants and shirt, which felt strange, and his comfortable old moccasins.
St. Louis was changing dizzyingly. The streets were better paved now—you no longer had to choose between tripping over the cellar doors of the old French houses or walking in the mud. In front of some of these houses gas lanterns stood like sentinels. And now these expensive homes were starting to look old and a little worn. The new houses, built by American businessmen, those were the opulent ones.
The big change was the sense of energy in the streets. When Mac was born, in 1819, St. Louis was a frontier backwater, fundamentally French. When he left for the mountains in 1840, it was floundering deep in the quagmire of economic hard times.
Now all was changed. St. Louis was a bustling American hub of commerce. The levee alone showed the difference. Steamboats were lined up everywhere, bringing products from Cairo, Louisville, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, New York, and Europe, or from Memphis, Natchez, New
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