It was late March 1897 as Cline Cameron stood with his hands behind his back, gazing out the second-floor bay window of his ware-house office overlooking Boston’s wharf area. He was waiting for one man to arrive, one who would tell him what he already knew: that he would need to order actions that would change the course of many lives, including his own, forever. He was determined not to stay on the sidelines this time. This time, he would take an active role in events only 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 law firm's management and high-society Boston life to his younger brother Alastair.
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.
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, frequently 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 which was 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 were 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 had a park built so the longshoremen and other wharf workers could have a peaceful respite either before work at the small coffee cart at the end nearest the wharves or during a brief, tranquil lunch during their otherwise physically demanding day.
He had Martin birdhouses placed on each of the park’s 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’s security teams ensured the entire community, from residences to the quayside, remained 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. On pleasant days, they would linger long into the afternoon, chatting with each other and keeping abreast of local events. Cline understood that efforts such as this 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 observed from his sanctuary well above the fray, knowing full well it was a rough existence filled 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 camaraderie few in this world ever find.
He envied their rough and tumble lifestyle, he envied their simplistic 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. The 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, two 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.
His unwavering bravery and demonstrated leadership in combat 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 admitting the visitor, 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 close to home that could interfere with our annual gathering. How are things down south?” Down south re-ferred 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. There were four events in the last year, three of which were on the island and one on the mainland just outside of town. The commu-nity 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 in 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 will decide what to do with my granddaughter and that disappointment of a son-in-law later.” At that, Roger Gilmore stood, nodded his head as he turned and left as unceremoniously as he arrived.
