It was late March 1897 as Cline Cameron stood with his hands behind his back, gazing
out the second-floor bay window of his warehouse office overlooking Boston’s wharf area. He
was waiting for one man to arrive who would tell him what he already knew. Tell him he would
have to order actions put in place that would change the course of lives, including his own,
forever. He was determined he would not stay on the sidelines this time. This time he would take
an active role in events only a few knew were about to unfold and the clock was already ticking.
Although he was the head of the most prestigious maritime law firm in Boston, Cameron
and Cameron, Cline preferred the low-profile wharf area where people strived to make an honest
living as opposed to the backstabbing, dog-eat-dog environment that permeated Boston’s
downtown legal, political and commercial world. His office was well appointed but not
ostentatious and included accommodation for him to sleep as he often did for extended periods.
In fact, he considered this his home. He gladly left the management of the law firm and the high
society Boston life to his younger brother Alastair.
Cline would often venture to the local eateries and pubs, mingling with what he viewed
as real people, the real heartbeat of the city. He was well respected among the residents and
workers who knew him, was often solicited for local dispute arbitration and invited to many
homes for family gatherings which he almost always accepted. Although he would deny it if
asked, he was the de facto head of a very extended family, all of whom were as protective of him
as he was of them. He made sure the lower harbor district, far away from Boston’s prominent
Long Wharf, maintained an out of sight out of mind profile, perfect for his operations. Any
errant inquisitor looking for Cline Cameron would not get a straightforward answer.
Just a quarter mile from Griffin’s Wharf where the famous Boston tea party took place,
Cline watched the cacophony of wharf operations through the gloom of the late winter day. Tiny
green buds beginning to show on the branches of still leafless trees in the small park nestled
between his warehouse office on India Street and the waterfront. He watched as people, carts,
and ships came and went, understanding each movement was not only an integral cog in an
immense commercial machine, but also essential to putting food on family tables and shoes on
children’s feet.
He built the park so the longshoremen and other wharf workers could have a peaceful
respite either before work at the small coffee cart at the north end of the park or a brief, peaceful
lunch in their otherwise physically demanding day. He had Martin bird houses placed on each of
the park’s four corners. In the spring, his assistant tended to hummingbird feeders strategically
located near benches under the various shade trees, some of which were arranged in sets of three
with interconnecting stone walkways and patios for group gatherings. Cameron security teams
ensured the entire community, from residences to quayside, were safe both day and night.
The workers’ wives would often join their husbands for their midday meal providing a
hot plate in lieu of a cold lunchbox sandwich and on pleasant days, they would linger long into
the afternoon chatting with each other keeping abreast of local events. Cline understood it was
efforts such as this that kept productivity high and loyalty strong. But more importantly, it was
the right thing to do. Jobs at Cameron Wharf were coveted positions and turnover was low.
He often envied the workers he watched from his sanctuary well above the fray knowing
full well it was a rough existence with frequent disagreements and fights. But there was never a
full out brawl, and in the evenings, the same workers could be found in the local pubs drinking
together and sharing comradery few in this world ever find. He envied their rough and tumble
lifestyle; he envied their simple existence but most of all he envied their ignorance. They did not
know what he knew, and what he knew was a burden he would carry for the rest of his life.
Knowledge that if disclosed, would destroy religious constructs and collapse the world’s social
order.
Cline was widowed from his wife Anna at an early age a few years after their only
daughter Alice was born and never re-married. He graduated from West Point at the top of his
class just before the American Civil War broke out and was commissioned as a first lieutenant in
the 32nd Regiment, 1st Battalion, Massachusetts Infantry commonly known as the “Fort Warren
Battalion”. He fought in numerous battles including the Battle of Bull Run, Antietam,
Fredericksburg and Gettysburg. He left the army after the war as a highly decorated Colonel
sustaining near mortal wounds in almost every skirmish he was in. It was his unwavering bravery
and demonstrated leadership in combat that caught the attention of The Sable Council, more
commonly referred to as just The Sable, the entity to which he now devoted his efforts.
The Cameron Wharf itself was currently vacant as the only ship he owned; the "Nannie Dee" was not due in port for another day. It would stay just long enough to replenish and brief the captain before being dispatched on what promised to be her most dangerous voyage yet.
A knock on the door interrupted Cline’s musings about events that brought him to where
he stood and was sure to take him once again into harm’s way. It was an expected interruption, a
visit from an old friend. As his assistant closed the door after letting the visitor in, Cline
remained with his back to the room, not wanting to see the desperation he knew was on his
friend’s face. Without turning around Cline began “I assume you filed all the necessary reports
on Cameron’s interests in Somerset with Alastair.” It was not a question, so no reply was given.
Without pause Cline continued “Our friends across the pond report significant increases in events
very close to home that could interfere with our annual gathering. How are things down south?”
Down south referred to a small shipyard community nestled along the Carolina coastline and like
the Cameron Wharf was not a well-known or frequented place. The visitor, used to Cline’s
directness took no offense in talking to his back, he knew he had Cline’s full attention “Not
good, four events in the last year, three of which were on the island, and one on the mainland just
outside of town. The community is unnerved.”
Cline reluctantly turned around leaving the view of his beloved quayside to continue the
discussion. He motioned for his friend to take a seat, not offering coffee or any refreshment. He
viewed such trivialities as a waste of time, serving no purpose to achieving a meeting’s objective
and as such was the main reason he did not fit into Boston’s upper social or business circles.
They sat across from each other separated by Cline’s modest desk as Cline continued “And the
boy? Is he ready?” “Not as ready as we would like but preparations are being made to engage
him with his uncle.” Cline winced at the mention of the boy’s uncle, “And my granddaughter?”
Looking down, the man offered a reluctant reply “We aren’t sure yet, but she has displayed a
strong connection with the boy.” Cline smiled “Make it happen. I will dispatch the Nannie Dee in
time to pick up the boy and be in place by the solstice. And this time both you and I will be there.
We’ll decide what to do with my granddaughter and that disappointment of a son-in-law later.”
At that Roger Gilmore stood, nodded his head, turned and left as unceremoniously as he arrived.
