The river was broad and silent and flowed slowly between stands of pines down to a distant sea. It was a great river, a river old in myth and legend, a river which knew what time could do.
It
was a river that had seen peoples come and go, life give way to death
give way to life again, a river whose waters had reflected moons long
gone by and would reflect moons long since yet to come.
It was a river that knew history, that was a part of history, a river that was seeing history being made now…
The ship sailed steadily up the river.
It was not a big ship, as ships go, but then it was only a river craft. It had no ocean going pretensions.
It
was not armed, except for a few old muzzle loading rifles on deck; it
had nothing fancy about it, its brass was tarnished, the wood of its
decks warped and scuffed. Its crew numbered only a few, but they were
picked men. They were picked men because they carried in their holds the
future of a nation.
No
gold, no spices, apes or peacocks from the Eastern Isles were as
precious as the cargo in the little ship’s holds; for the cargo was the
key to a dream beyond all imagining, a key to open the door to a future
that otherwise might never come.
Only
turn that key, and the vast forests would be felled and great cities
would spring up in their place; laughing children would swing in
playgrounds and throw balls through hoops; great black highways would
split the land and bring the world down to the size of a long car ride.
Only turn that key, and great riches would be drawn from the earth and
the air would vibrate with music.
Such
was the importance of the ship’s cargo. Yet the crew did not think
about it that way. They had been given a job to do, for which they were
being paid well, and they were doing it.
Silently,
sails set to catch the night breeze, the ship sailed upriver to bring
the smallpox-infected clothes to the Native Americans.
Copyright B Purkayastha 2007
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