The Spirit is pleased to present a story of serialized fiction throughout the month of August. Each week, we’ll publish a new part in the developing story of William, a watchman in 19th century Northern Liberties, leading up to the dramatic conclusion.

 

“Eagle lager,” William said to the barkeep. His calloused hands were marked by a permanent layer of soot which dirtied the mug as he lifted it to his mouth. It was just after six o’clock.

“Winston is replacing us with rollers and we’re still working longer than ever just to keep the machines running,” Judd said.

The tavern was packed with tanners, millers, brewers, and other factory men here to spend their day’s pay.

“They’re just taking out the grunt work,” William said.

William and Judd worked to make iron castings in a foundry off Cohocksink Creek, the northern border of Northern Liberties.

“We’re grunts,” Judd said.

Normally this would be the end of his night but on Fridays William was just getting started.

“Still better than the old days,” William said.

“When did you come over?” Judd asked.

“Few years back. 1829.”

A man stumbled over to them, coming to rest on William’s shoulder.

“On watch tonight, Will?” the man slurred.

He nodded. “I’ll look the other way for another round though.”

After a few more he doubled back to his hostel. Cool air whipped off the Delaware as he walked to meet Callowhill Street and make his way up to Sixth. At the northwest corner of the block stood his sentry post, a three-legged stool. He sat, leaned back, and unfolded his paper.

Though the district was known for certain activities he was only to respond to direct disturbances of the peace, and so gave a blind eye to many comings and goings of the neighborhood. His duty was to keep watch from sundown to sunup, forbidden to sleep for even a moment.

At about 3am he woke to a woman’s screams. He startled upright and saw a young woman calling to him from across the street.

“Watchman!” she cried.

She was barefoot and clung only to a robe.

“You have to come quickly,” she said.

“I don’t get involved with disputes of your trade,” he mumbled, eyes still half closed.

“It’s not—just look.” She grabbed him by the collar and pointed to the building she appeared from. He now saw the smoke billowing from a third story window. Without another word he got to his feet and hurried to the front door. Women in nightgowns and men struggling to both cover their mouths and hold up their trousers filed from the many rooms. He tore through cupboards and closets before realizing the woman had followed him back in.

“I need all your pots,” he said to her. She ran to another room and returned with as many as she could carry.

“There’s water out back,” she said.

Pumping the cistern as fast as he could they filled the pots and carried them upstairs, pushing against the tide of people. William kicked down the door. He could only make out the blaze within the thick smoke. One by one he flung the water of each pot at the base of the flames. By the time the woman handed him the last one it was already reduced to smoldering. Relief set in as the final pot clanked to the floor. But it was short lived. As the smoky haze cleared the air a body came into focus on the bed. And among the spots of charred flesh were three gaping wounds.

“Make sure no one leaves,” William said.

She ran from the room. He walked to the back wall and opened the window to relieve the room of smoke. It was then he saw the man scaling the fence into the alleyway. He bolted to the back but the man was long gone. On the fence hung a cloak. The words, “Winston Steel”, embroidered above the breast pocket.