A Heritage Not Forgotten

Phillip Eppard quietly let himself into the house, hung his coat on a hook in the hall, and turned to go down the steps to his quarters. Squeezed between the fruit cellar and the coal bin, a cot, a small chest, and some hooks on the wall were all he had to call his own. He chose this arrangement when his father remarried after his mother’s death, and one after another, six half sisters had been born, crowding Phillip out. His father worked hard to support his new family, but Phillip, born on October 26, 1832, now nearly twenty years old, had to fend for himself. The country was unsettled and jobs hard to come by. Seeing no future for a young man in Hessen Darmstadt, Wallersheim, Germany, Phillip was becoming shiftless. As Phillip turned the latch on the cellar door, he heard his father’s voice from the parlor. “Son, is it rainin’ out tonight?” Phillip was not in the mood for small talk with his father. “Ja, Vati, it’s rainin’ a little.” He started down the steps. “Phillip, did you have a good evening?” Still not wanting to linger, Phillip answered, “Ja, I was down at the Gasthaus.” He was hoping to let it pass at that, but he heard a chair creak and footsteps coming from the parlor. “Coffee’s hot in the kitchen, let’s have a cup.” Knowing he could not refuse, Phillip stepped toward the kitchen. “Ja, Vati that would be good.” The kitchen was a medium-sized room with an iron cookstove on one wall, a pump and sink in the corner, and a cabinet with work space to one side. The table with benches and two chairs was in the middle of the room. His father slid the coffeepot to the hot part of the stove and pulled out one of the chairs. Phillip took the other chair and sat with his elbows on the table feeling like a little boy waiting for his dinner. An awkward moment followed. His father ventured, “How are you doing, son? Have you found work?” “Naw, nothin’ available here in Wallersheim,” Phillip decided to go on. “Vati, the men down at the Gasthaus are talkin’ about unrest in our country and the possibility of men my age getting called into the army. I don’t know what to think.” “I wish we had work for you at our shop.” His father poured two cups of coffee. “My superior says they may be terminating some of the regulars. I’m concerned about Irmgard and the girls.” Phillip felt the familiar twinge of jealousy toward his father’s new family. It had been thirteen years since his mother died, but he still missed her terribly. “Ja, I know you have mouths to feed. I need to get out on my own and not add to your burden.” He took a sip of coffee and continued, “I talked to a man at the Gasthaus tonight. He said he could get me on a boat to Amsterdam and a job on the docks loading steamers bound for America.” Their eyes met. His father swallowed deeply to hold back the lump in his throat. “Oh, son, I hate to see you leave Germany.” He stopped, obviously trying to control his emotions. He held his cup to his lips but didn’t drink. “I’ve got to do somethin’,” Phillip mumbled. “What choice do I have in these hard times?” His father regained his composure. “I guess you have to find your way, son. Amsterdam Shipping is a rough place. Some have gone there and never returned.” “Alban said he could get me passage on a steamer to America. He has connections with the lumber mills in New York. He said the pay is good and I could earn enough to move west and have land of my own. In less than a year on the docks, I could save enough for the fare to America. Lots of men my age are doin’ it.” “Who’s Alban? Where’s he employed?” “I don’t know. He just came up the Rhine today. He offered me free passage to Amsterdam on Saturday. Alban said I could be a landowner in as little as five years. Sounds better than anything I can do here in Hessen.” The older man’s shoulders slumped at Phillip’s words. He took another sip of coffee and slowly lowered the cup to the table. “I wonder who this Alban is. Men at work talk about ‘Neulanders’ who get paid by steamship companies to get fares on their ships. Son, are you sure you can trust him?” “I don’t know, Vati, but I can’t live down in that cellar forever. Alban said in five years I could own land, have a wife, and start a family with income to spare.” “It sounds like your mind’s made up, son.” He pushed the coffeepot back on the stove and moved toward the door. Phillip knew the conversation was over. “Vati, you said I needed to find my own way. I guess I’ll be headin’ down to Amsterdam come Saturday. I’d like your blessing, Vati.” Tears welled up in his eyes, but he was able to hold them back. “Vati,” he croaked, “your blessing . . .”