The port of New York City on the Island of Manhattan was a muddy grim place in 1851. Not yet refined by generations of industry and luxury. Built over the foundations of its colonial origins they city had just emerged from the bedrock. As is the case with all cities its shape was constituted and reconstituted in layers, one on top of the other. Intricate buildings densely packed together rolled north down unpaved streets. The largest buildings only seven stories tall New York had forged itself as the economic hub of the United States with burgeoning influence around the world. Its skyline no less impressive then it greeted passengers with a sense of wonder, especially those lost souls who had left behind a life of macabre certainty. In countless masses immigrants would shuffle down the gangplank to disembark before fanning out across the city, then the country.
The Brooklyn Bridge still two decades away, the Model T half a century, the city was firmly rooted in the transitionary period between the advent of industrialization and the revolution it would bring. Horses, some with carriages others without, still galloped down unpaved streets while wooden cranes hoisted cargo from sailboats on rough timbered docks. This was the city so many had, and would flee to, over the centuries in pursuit of something larger then themselves. Abraham Daly no different.
Disembarking into the chaotic muck of the harbor he was greeted with the foul stench of the city baking in the summer sun. Hundreds shuffled off the boat behind him, jostling and kicking to be the first at every turn. First to what Abraham could not be sure, from conversations with most of his fellow travelers he knew that for the majority true arrangements had not been made. There was a general understanding of what they would do once they arrived in the new world, though little else. So their hastened rush to the city was somewhat of a mystery to him. With the sole exception that after a month at sea anyone was glad to set foot on solid land.
In contrast to the crowd he moved lackadaisically, his gaze fixed on the seemingly endless row of frigates, schooners, cutters, and every other type of ship imaginable. Most amazing was the tall stacks of the steamboats with their broad paddles which left a string of black smoke and freshly churned water in their wake.
He apologized nearly colliding with some of the wealthier passengers who were waiting at the aft of the sailboat as ornate leather trunks with all the fineries of the world were lowered down to them in nets. Abraham traveled with a single leather satchel, comprised mostly of supplies. Slung over his head it hung crossways on his back to make it harder to steal. He had longed for New York, for Manhattan, but he had no illusions about her character. He set out on foot north into the heart of the city.
Lower Manhattan had already been carved into neighborhoods interspersed amongst the densely packed warehouses, markets, and commercial areas. In the heart of the city, where shimmering neon Midtown now stands, was Five Points heaving with the masses of the working class. The wealth of the city would gravitate north along the parks, where it still resides. Eventually even the grand houses would fall away into the countryside. The northern most part of the island covered in fields with farm houses dotting the rocky hillsides that would someday become Harlem and Washington Heights. The first wave of urban settlers would venture here then into the unincorporated boroughs, building their own villages which would gradually tie into the ever expanding metropolis.
Abraham Daly would make it no great distance, fatigued by the trip and no longer buoyed by the exhilaration of arrival he drug himself up Broadway. Pausing in the shadow of Trinity Church, still the tallest building on the island, he slumped against the faded exterior of a brick building which sat on the diagonal from the hallowed ground. His head cradled by one of its tight boxed windows. On the verge of sleep he closed his eyes a tide of surrender washing over him.
The tapping of bone on glass directly behind his ear set him upright with such a start that he leapt forward into the street to nearly be crushed by a passing coach. Once on his feet he cocked his head in the direction of the postage stamp sized window to see a woman with a mass of grey hair streaked with hints of fading red staring back at him. “You want to sleep you go somewhere else, you want a drink you come inside!” She bellowed so clearly it was as though they were in the same room.
Dusting himself off Abraham nodded blithely then meandered through the slit of a door. The tavern was worn in with a familiar feel, the walls plaster with grand timber supports the ran across to form the ceiling. He took a seat at the bar, a long plank of wood, made smooth yet warped by the continuous use.
“Sorry to startle ya but there is no sleeping in our eves, we keep a kindlier establishment than such behavior would permit.” Said the woman already pouring a drink. “Names Netty.”
“Good Evening Netty, I’m Abraham Daily.”
“Polite, I like that.” Netty sat the glass of khaki liquid in front of Abraham with a nod. “Ya got family?”
Abraham ran his hand over his chin. “Thank you, and a sister I haven’t seen or heard from in some years lives in the city, she would be the last of them.”
“Well I am sorry to hear it but based on your accent you’re Irish, plenty of you round here to make friends with, more by the day.” Netty had the cheerful tone of a grandmother about to present gifts on Christmas Eve. It was the subtle knitting of her brow which betrayed any concern.
“I see.” Abraham’s face must have betrayed his shock because for he could press further Netty had bridged the narrow distance between them to place her hand on his.
“I don’t mind it none but lot of ya pouring in, not a popular thing right now so be wary now.” She tapped his hand then returned to her work.
“There is a famine.” Abraham had never thought of America as anything other than a land of opportunity. He could only concede that a number had sought out that bounty in the wake of impossible hardship. “There is a famine, a lot have died.” He said at last.
“Tragic. But it don’t matter none to the scoundrels that walk them alleys.” Netty nodded to some invisible danger.
“I see. Well I will not trouble you.” Abraham said blankly, unable to comprehend any danger greater than that of starvation or the lengths a starving man would go to.
“Oh no trouble, as I said we run a kindly establishment. My husband won’t take none of that nonsense. Not good for business this close to port.” Netty tapped at the bar beside his glass.
“Thank you.” Abraham lifted the glass to his nose to determine its contents. There was a familiar smell of whiskey mixed with an unnatural sweetness.
“Think nothing of it now, warm your bones with that and let’s have a toast.” She smiled down the bar. Abraham looked down the long plank of wood to see other countless tired faces.
“So this is where I begin.” He thought as he raised his glass.
Frieze: the part of an entablature between the architrave and the cornice; a sculptured or richly ornamented band (as on a building or piece of furniture); a band, line, or series suggesting a frieze
Author’s Note: Day 19 of 365: I had the idea for this story actually some time ago but hadn’t written anything down. The concept of examining the arrival of an immigrant to New York City during the Great Famine was something I found really interesting. The more I looked into it the more I saw correlations between the current era and that of the 1850s New York. I actually wanted to post this the other day but when it became clear I was going to do a series of short stories one right after the other in the same universe I really wanted to compress the time.
The Flask/Pen 
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