Jan Ernst Matzeliger's Shoe Machine
Jan Ernst Matzeliger's Shoe Machine — a biography. 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder People.
Page 1
The gangplank swayed under Jan's boots as he hauled his brass-cornered toolbox up its sloping boards, rope handle biting into his palm. Behind him, royal palms rustled along the Waterkant and the brick walls of Fort Zeelandia glowed pink above the wide brown river. Halfway up, a stacked crate of green coconuts groaned, split, and burst, sending its round load bouncing and rolling across the planks toward the water's edge. Jan dropped his toolbox with a clatter and dove after the escaping coconuts, scrambling on his knees to scoop them up two at a time before they vanished over the side. Captain Theo lunged forward, planting one huge sea boot flat against the cracked crate to hold its bursting side shut while Jan crammed coconuts back inside, stacking them higher than the broken slats. Sweat beaded on Jan's forehead as he worked, wedging the last coconut firm. Captain Theo hauled the crate upright with one arm, grinning through his forked white beard, and clapped a tar-stained hand on Jan's shoulder, steadying him on the swaying plank before they both climbed the rest of the way aboard together.
Page 2
The squall came out of nowhere, slamming into the sail overhead with a crack like a whip. The loose canvas tore free of its binding and flapped wild above the deck, snapping hard enough to shake the mast. Jan dropped the rope coil he was carrying and grabbed the wet line beside the big captain, hauling with both hands as the ship tilted beneath his boots. Rain lashed sideways. The deck heaved, and his brass-cornered toolbox went skating across the wet planks toward the rail. Jan stomped one boot down on its lid just before it slid over the edge, pinning it flat while still gripping the straining rope with his other hand. The captain threw his whole weight back, bracing his sea boots wide, dragging the flapping sail down inch by inch until the canvas folded and went still. Both men stood gasping, soaked through, the ship righting itself slowly under the grey sky.
Page 3
Down the swaying gangplank Jan hauled his brass-cornered toolbox with one hand and dragged a borrowed cobbler's bench with the other, dodging crates stacked taller than his waist and rolling barrels that the dockhands shoved aside with grunts. His boots thumped on the worn wooden planks, careful not to slip on the wet boards. Behind him, Captain Theo's huge frame filled the gangway, his sea boots thudding heavy as he carried a thick coil of spare rope looped over one arm. At the bottom, the captain swung the coil up and settled it gently across Jan's thin shoulders, patting it down with his tar-blue fingers so it would not slide. Jan staggered slightly under the weight, shifting his toolbox to balance it, and looked up at the brick tower of Independence Hall rising beyond the warehouses. Sailors behind them were already hauling lines and shouting, and before Jan could say more than a word of thanks, the ship groaned, ropes slapped free, and De Zwaluw slid away down the wide brown river without him, leaving him standing alone among the masts and crates.
Page 4
The train hissed to a stop at Central Square, and Jan stepped down into snow that swallowed his boots to the ankle. He had one hand on his toolbox and the other still numb from the long ride when he heard a cart groan and tip beside him. A small girl in a mustard coat three sizes too big was hauling at its handle with both arms, but the wheel had jammed in a snow rut and the whole load of scrap leather leaned dangerously sideways. Jan dropped his toolbox in the snow, grabbed the other handle, and together they heaved the cart back level, leather scraps sliding but not spilling. Before either could catch their breath, a stumpy little bulldog shot past them chasing a single runaway boot that had bounced free, skidding and sliding across the icy platform until he clamped his teeth onto the laces and dragged it proudly back, tail stub wagging.
Page 5
Jan hauled two heavy buckets of leather offcuts between the long rows of hand-lasters, the wooden handles biting into his palms. Across the cutting floor, Foreman Dunne's shoulder-high tower of wooden lasts wobbled, then gave way, pieces clattering down like falling bowling pins. Jan dropped his buckets and lunged, catching two lasts against his chest before they hit the floor. Winnie darted under the toppling stack, scooping up fallen pieces into her scrap-sack, while Button scrambled on stubby legs, trapping a rolling last under his wide body before it skidded under a machine. Dunne thumped his brass-tipped yardstick on the boards, red-faced, directing the scramble to restack the tower straight and even. Jan stacked the last pieces back in careful rows, steadying the tower with both hands while Winnie wedged a scrap of leather underneath to stop it leaning again. Button sat proudly on the rescued last, tail stub wagging, as the tower stood tall once more above their heads.
Page 6
Jan hunched under the sloping beam, lamp flame bending as he breathed, and pressed a bent nail through a cigar-box wall to frame the little pleating arm. The arm was thin as a matchstick, whittled from scrap wood, and when he nudged it into place with his thumb it snapped clean off between his fingers. He slammed the broken piece onto the bench and dropped his head. Button, wagging his stub so hard his whole back end shook, knocked the glue pot flying with his rump; it rolled across the floorboards trailing a dark sticky river toward the dormer window. Winnie dove after it, grabbing a leather scrap from her sack and slapping it down to mop the puddle before it reached the rug. Silas Dunne stooped low under the beams, his bald head nearly brushing a rafter, peering down at the wreck of cigar boxes and nails with his spectacles pushed up his forehead, unimpressed and silent, tapping his yardstick once against the floor.
Page 7
At the top of High Rock the wind came in off the grey Atlantic like a slap, and it tore the roll of drawings clean out of Jan's arms. Sheets burst open and went skating and flipping over the bare boulders, racing toward the edge. Winnie yanked the brass whistle from her neck and blew it hard, then dropped her scrap-sack and ran, braids whipping sideways. Jan slammed both hands down on one sheet before it slid off a ledge, while Dunne planted his yardstick like a spear and stamped his boot onto another, grunting with the effort. Button tore across the rocks on his stubby legs, ears flapping, and flung his wide body down flat, pinning the last fluttering sheet under one white paw just as it reached the drop. Winnie scrambled over a boulder on her hands and knees, scooping up two more pages before they sailed away, laughing between gasps for breath as the whole hilltop city spread out silent and smoking far below them.
Page 8
The foundry roared with heat, the furnace door glowing orange as two workers heaved the freshly cast iron frame onto a waist-high wooden trestle. Sand crunched underfoot. As the frame settled with a clang, a loose gear wheel jumped from the workbench and spun away across the gritty floor. Button exploded into motion, barking and snapping at its heels as it wobbled between legs and barrels. Winnie dropped her scrap-sack and scrambled after it, skidding on the sand, calling out a warning about the pit ahead. Jan dove sideways, yanked a wooden wedge from his jacket pocket, and slammed it down in the gear's path. The wheel struck it, spun once, and dropped flat. Silas thumped his yardstick on the trestle, laughing with surprise at the quick save, while Jan scooped up the gear, blew the sand from its teeth, and held it high, grinning with relief as Button pranced proudly around his boots, tail stub wagging.
Page 9
Every bench in the lasting room was packed with workers craning to watch, and the shafts overhead spun the long leather belts in a steady hum. Jan fed the first shoe into the waiting pincers, and the iron arms swept round the last, pleating the leather smooth. Three shoes went through clean — then the drive belt jumped its pulley with a slap, and the machine shuddered to a stop. Gasps ran down the benches. Jan dropped to one knee, yanked his own bootlace free, and looped it fast around the pulley and belt, cinching it tight with both hands. Dunne grabbed the frame to steady it while Jan hauled the slack through. The belt bit, the shafts caught, and the pincers swung again. Shoe after shoe after shoe came off the last, stacking up on the bench taller than Winnie's waist. Winnie scrambled up on a stool, chalk in hand, scratching marks on the wall tally. Button trotted between legs, snatching stray offcuts before they tripped anyone, tail stub wagging hard.
Page 10
The patent model was heavy as a young pig, its wooden frame and iron fittings lashed together with twine, and it took both Jan and the mutton-chopped foreman hauling the rope handles to heave it up the broad marble steps. Each step was as wide as Jan's outstretched arms, and the flight climbed higher than a three-storey house. Winnie trotted alongside, counting every step aloud in a sing-song shout, while Button bounded ahead and barreled straight through a puddle of fat grey pigeons, sending them clattering upward in a startled cloud. At the top, arms shaking, the two men set the model down with a thud on the cool stone. A clerk in a stiff collar stepped out, took the papers from Dunne's outstretched hand, pressed a heavy stamp down with a satisfying slam, and lifted the model carefully onto a tall wooden shelf behind the counter, where a small brass plate already waited to be fitted with its number.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
- Format: 10 illustrated pages, narrated, on the kids shelf, free to read on Wonder People
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