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them as part of their jobs as “cooks” on the barges, they would send the genteel women of Palmyra scurrying just at the sight of them.
    “Low bridge! Everybody down.” The bawling cry of a canawler brought Joshua around. A large boat, hold filled with potash and salt pork, was approaching the bridge he had just crossed. The deck was already lined with the passengers, anxious to be off the boat for a time. This one, coming from the west, was almost certainly from Buffalo, which meant the women and their businessmen-husbands were headed for a visit to Philadelphia or on to New York City. Dressed in their finery, hooped skirts swishing, the women would come mincing down the gangplank, tippy-toeing so as not to step in any of the droppings along the wharf, holding their noses against the smell of the mule, horse, and ox teams backed up with their wagons to either load or unload freight.
    Joshua pulled on the reins lightly, turning the mules and the small wagon he was driving to move out of the way of one of the great Conestogas moving toward him, its canvas top looking like a ship’s sail. He let his eyes sweep the busy scene. Stevedores, in their sweaty shirts and smoking foul-smelling cigars, manhandled bales of cotton, sacks of grain, and boxes of dry goods on and off the barges. Young boys from the village darted here and there, bringing messages from businessmen in the city, carrying jugs of rum for the dockworkers, or just generally making pests of themselves. It was a constant bedlam of sounds—donkeys braying, dockworkers cursing, heavily laden wagons creaking across the planks, dogs snarling over some discarded scrap of food, wheat brokers shouting at each other for a better price.
    Joshua loved it. He loved being in the city, for that’s how he thought of Palmyra Village. He knew it was nothing compared to New York or Boston, but he had never been to those cities, and after the quiet hill country of Vermont, Palmyra seemed wonderful enough.
    Then, glancing up at the sun, Joshua snapped the reins, moving the mules into a little faster walk. If he was to meet the Smith boys by ten o’clock, he’d better get moving. He had one more stop to make, and there was no way he was going to miss that.
    Once on to Main Street, Joshua let his eyes scan both sides of the street, savoring the differences between this part of the village and Canal Street. For the most part, the log huts of earlier times were gone now. One- and two-story frame homes lined the street, with picket fences surrounding neatly tended yards and tall poplars shading the residential properties. In the heart of the village, business thrived. There were now thirteen dry goods stores, three apothecaries, the three-story Eagle Hotel and two other inns, two tailor shops, several saddler and harness shops, a law office, three blacksmith shops, and the print shop and bookstore where the Wayne Sentinel was printed each week. Local elementary schools around Palmyra and surrounding townships contributed students to the well-kept grammar school within the village itself. And the Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists all had churches in town, as well as the Roman Catholics, who had been one of the first to come west with the settlers.
    Joshua stopped in front of a two-story frame building. Over the door was a neatly lettered sign which read, “General Dry Goods Store—Josiah McBride, Proprietor.” He swung down, tied the mules to the hitching rail, then stopped. With one sweep of his hand, he took off his cap and jammed it in his back pocket, smoothing his hair back as best he could. With a final tuck of his shirt into his trousers and a quick intake of breath, he went inside. A bell nailed to the inside of the door tinkled softly.
    Even though the day was overcast and cold, coming out of its brightness into the dimness of the store left him momentarily blinded, and he stopped next to a large keg filled with nails. He absently ran his fingers through the