: New Orleans, 1854
Having waited until nearly 6 o’clock for its arrival, Oskar Hammar now hangs on for dear life on the horse-drawn buckboard of the wagon he’s hired to transport his belongings from the swamps outside of town. Next to him is a large Creole man he knows only as Bill, driving the wagon in silence as the sun sets in the distance. The cobblestone and brick pavement at the end of Canal Street long gone, they bounce along the rutted dirt road leading to the location. In the floorboard, between his feet is the carpetbag containing the orb. Every bump grinds into his ankles, causing him pain. Still, he puts up with it. He cannot leave the orb anywhere. If someone else finds it, it would be disastrous. Only he knows how to use it properly, he thinks; a smug grin spreading over his expansive face.
Bill glances sideways at the strange little man grinning maniacally next to him, shakes his head and snaps the reins against the horses’ backs, picking up the pace a bit. Finally, his curiosity gets the better of him. He asks,
“Whaddya do there, Mr. Hammar?”
Oskar is caught off-guard by the sudden question, sputtering,
“Wha--:? W-why, what do you mean?”
Bill stares ahead, eyes on the road as he replies,
“I don’t mean to pry, sir. I was just wondering what a fellow like you is doing in New Orleans, that’s all.”
Intrigued, Oskar sits up a little straighter, and asks, cloyingly.
“A fellow like me, eh? What kind of a fellow do you think I am, Bill?”
Bill continues to stare ahead, then says,
“Well sir. I figure, since we’re going all the way out into the swamps at night to get your things, I’d have to say you were either a gun runner or one of those scientific fellows. And, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, sir. You don’t look like any gun runner I ever met.”
Despite his fear of being quizzed, Oskar can’t help but let out a large laugh, rearing back until he nearly fell off the wagon. Bill’s strong right arm dashes out, grabbing Oskar by the vest and pulling him back onto the buckboard. Oskar braces himself again, checking to be certain the bag between his ankles hadn’t fallen out. He steadies himself, and works up a cover story off the cuff.
“I’m happy to say you are correct, Bill. I am a scientist. Very good.”
Bill smiles a little, easing up slightly. “I knew it. So, we have to get out to your camp and get your equipment, right?”
“Yes. Something like that.” Oskar turns to look behind them. Far in the distance, he can just make out the end of the City. Quickly doing some math, he guesses that they are around the area where Carrollton Avenue will one day cross Canal Street. This will become Mid-City in another 5 decades or so. Right now, it’s a few rough cabins and small farmhouses along the way. The area isn’t completely removed from people. They continue on along the rough-hewn path towards Metairie Ridge as the sky turns dark orange and indigo.
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After a few false starts, they finally found the tent and all of Oskar’s possessions. Bill turned out to not only be fast, but strong and a hard worker. Despite the heat of the still, humid night made hotter by the oil lamps scattered around, he managed to not only get everything loaded on the wagon within an hour of their arrival, he disassembled the tent and wrapped everything inside it. Oskar barely lifted a finger. Until Bill got a little too close to the carpetbag.
“NO!” Oskar barked, dropping a pile of notebooks and rushing to the bag. Bill backs away, saying “Sorry Mr. Hammar, I was just gonna put it up into the wagon for you.”
Oskar clutches the bag to his chest as he stares up at Bill. He realizes how crazy he looks, and says,
“It-it’s--my instruments. Very sensitive, very! They mustn’t be touched. If could ruin…er, ruin the…calibrations--yes! The calibrations. Very important, sensitive calibrations, you understand.” He’s put himself back into the character of scientist. He’ll have to watch that from now on.
Bill mumbles “Sorry, sir,” then picks up the last box of papers and walks it over to the wagon. Oskar fixes himself, releases the carpetbag from his chest and calmly walks back to the other side of the wagon, the bag casually at his side. After Bill helps him scramble up to the buckboard, he pulls himself ably up next to him, takes up the reins, and guides the horses back out of the woods towards the dirt road alongside the canal.
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The ride back is somehow longer and more tedious than the journey there. Despite a sudden cool breeze, the heat is overpowering. As they reach the creek where he had fallen in the previous day, Bill announces the horses need watering, and drives them down to the water’s edge. Bringing the wagon to a skidding stop, he jumps out of the wagon and begins to unharness the horses to lead them to the creek. In the light of the lamp, Oskar notices the foamy spittle around the horses’ mouths. Bill goes down to the water with the horses, taking the time to wash his face and hands in the cool water. Oskar looks down at the carpetbag between his feet. Once everything is moved up to his rooms above the Gem, he’ll give Bill an extra five dollars to bring him out this way again tomorrow. To tie up any loose ends…This is My New Orleans.
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